It turns me on so much that I’m to blame for that.
The couch isn’t the only place we murder with our horniness. The kitchen counter where I have slapped many a pound of dough is now slapped with my bare ass as Tannerdrops me onto it, then returns the favor I so generously gave him. I lean back so far, my elbow knocks about four things off the counter. My chef pants are down to my ankles and he’s going to town on my cock with his reprehensibly talented mouth, one hand pressing me down to the counter, the other stroking me each time his head comes up.
And now it’smyloud ass who’s filling the house whether I try to or not.
Is this what we needed?
Permission to be ourselves again?
To be as loud as we want again?
To be free?
The floor of the living room is the last place we defile, as I lie atop my husband, both of us naked and sweaty now, and we make love with a passion I’m not sure even our original wedding night could compare to. In so many ways, I’m floating in the stars and can’t imagine ever coming down again. But I’m alsoliterallyon the floor with my husband, as grounded as one can get without having sex in the grass (which I’ve tried and don’t recommend during the hot-as-balls summer). And the closer we get to the edge together, the more my thoughts race away from me. How good Tanner has been lately. How I can’t even remember the last argument we had. How it feels like all the problems I thought were big seem so small and faraway now—like that marshmallow nightstand we use as a reading table, still missing a drawer, staring back at me like an ill-timed thought—as I fly over the edge and empty myself in Tanner with jolts of pleasure shock-waving through my sweaty body.
He finishes, too, just after me, and then there we lie, two men on the floor of our house, a naked pastry chef and zombie football player with half his makeup smeared across his face and the other half probably somewhere on me or the floor.
The world comes back to us one breath at a time.
Our kids in the main house, hopefully still playing and having fun with the others around their ages.
Our parents, drinking cups of spiked punch.
Everything that was so far away while we were having sex, now gently growing closer again.
“You’re so beautiful, Billy,” says my husband.
Crying.
I sit up and peer down at him with a start. “Tanner?” His tears draw black, wiggly zombie lines down his cheeks. He never cries. “I didn’t realize you were upset. Did I—?”
“I’m n-not. Th-These are …” He wipes his eyes. The messy smudges grow messier. “…h-h-happytears, babe. Really happy.”
“Crying after sex is never a happy thing.”
“It is tonight.” His wet, sparkling eyes meet mine in the warm semidarkness. He reaches for my face, caressing it. “I love you so much, I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“Even in our bad times. Even when we’re not right. I always,alwayslove you. For better or worse, right?”
“Sickness and in health, yeah, yeah, babe, I know. You’re …” Suddenly I’m stifling a laugh, coming out of nowhere. “You’re such an ugly crier. It’s so adorable.”
“What? No, I’m not!”
“You totally are.” I can’t hold back, the chuckles taking ahold of me, and now I’m crying with laughter. “I hope this isn’t our new thing, crying after sex.”
“I’m a hot crier! I look beautiful when I cry, dang it!”
I shut him up with a kiss.
Which ends abruptly upon hearing the heavy footfalls of our kids approaching on the front porch.
I don’t think Tanner or I have moved so fast in our lives. The second that front door opens, our bedroom door shuts withour naked asses behind it, and the next instant, the living room lights are on and bright, and our boys are in front of their video games, laughing and keeping their Halloween party going, completely oblivious to us.
And behind this closed bedroom door, Tanner and I stare at each other, out of breath.
Just like two teenagers who were almost caught making out and hid in the janitor closet, a teacher walking by on the hunt for a suspicious sound they heard.