As far as I’m concerned, this cinches it. It’s just going to keep getting better.
Her inner muscles contract and squeeze. At last I start to move, dragging my dick out from her heavenly pussy, then thrusting back in. Groaning louder each time.
I lift up so I can watch. Nothing is more of a turn-on than watching my cock disappear into Kate. If I was going to go blind, that would be the last image I’d want to take into the darkness with me.
“Kiss me, Drew,” she begs.
I lower my head and Kate’s tongue runs across my lips, then plunges into my mouth-tangling with my own. Our hips move together, gaining speed and force. Our moans and whispered words mingle in our mouths and along the skin of our necks and shoulders.
This is more than magnificent screwing.
More than the physical expression of love.
It’s spiritual.
I don’t know if there’s a heaven. I sure as shit don’t know if I’ll ever get there. But if there is . . . it’s got to feel like this. Perfect harmony with another soul, surrounded by warmth and acceptance and rapture without end.
Amen.
Kate’s hips rise to meet mine as I thrust into her again and again. Searing pleasure courses up my legs, threatening to burst, but I hold it off-because there’s no way I’m going alone.
All I can pant out is “With me . . .”
Kate gasps, “Yes . . .”
I push in deep one last time and burst inside her in a forceful pulse. Spots dance behind my closed eyes, and exhilaration floods the motherfucking marrow of my bones. Kate constricts and throbs around me as her nails bite into my back.
After, neither of us moves for a few minutes. Not sure either of us can.
I finally manage to roll to the side, with my arms still around her-both of us breathing hard and slick with the best kind of sweat.
She brushes the damp hair off my forehead with a smile.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “That was incredible. We should’ve gotten married years ago.”
“You said it. I think I had a stroke.”
We laugh.
There are a few specific moments in my life that I consider as the greatest. That first night with Kate. The day she believed I loved her and told me she felt the same. The day James was born.
And this . . . this moment right here just made the list.
I pull her close and touch her face. My voice is rough, heavy with emotion, as the words are torn from my lungs. “I love you, Kate. I’m going to love you forever. And whatever comes after forever-I’m going to love you then too.”
My words bring tears to her eyes, She kisses me gently, softly. Then she traces my lips with her finger. “You can bet your ass that I’m going to hold you to that, Drew Evans.”
Images
So that’s it. The epic conclusion.
I think we’ve come a long away, don’t you? From that guy you first met with the “flu,” camped out on his living-room couch?
Boy, was he a fucking mess.
Thanks for sticking around, for not giving up on me. I know that at times you wanted to. But . . . it was great having you along for the ride.
If this were a fairy tale, now would be the time you’d read, “And they lived happily ever after . . .”
But that’s just too boring for us.
So instead, I’ll tell you this:
We lived . . . the same way we loved: with passion, tenderness, and laughter. And every day-every fucking day-to the very fullest.
Volume 6
chapter 1
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
‘Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Urban legends. We’ve all heard of them-eating pop rocks and soda will make your stomach explode; the tourist who gets his kidney stolen in a faraway land; alligators living in the sewers. By the time you reach adulthood, you realize they’re all crocks of shit. Stories that get passed on from generation to generation to scare the hell out of us and keep us on the straight and narrow.
Well . . . except for the alligator one-I’ve lived in New York City my whole life and that’s completely possible.
But the others, yeah, all lies.
In the latter part of the last century, new urban legends sprung up that society’s all too willing to fall for: action stars who die on movie sets doing stunts; rain-forest plants that cure obesity; and Justin Bieber actually having a set of balls.
Sometime in the late 1970s, after the city’s crime rate began to drop and New York became more tourist friendly, another urban legend was started-one that annually throws a fucking wrench into the otherwise smoothly operating machine that is my life.
That would be the myth that New York City is a prime place to go Christmas shopping.
I don’t know what moron started the rumor, but I will gladly stick my foot up his ass if I ever find out. Because now, scores of people from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and upstate clog our bridges, tunnels, and streets from Black Friday to Christmas Eve, scurrying to make their holiday purchases like rats going after a gourmet piece of cheese. To get little Timmy a train set from FAO Schwarz and grandma a brooch from Tiffany.
Sure, they’ve heard of the Internet. Of course they know it’d be easier-and less expensive-to order online and have packages delivered right to their front door.
But for them, it’s not about what’s easier. Christmas shopping in the city is now-say it with me-tradition.
They want to see the big tree, the lights. They want to stand in an endless line to skate in Rockefeller Center and take a picture with Santa at Macy’s in Herald Square. They want to watch the fucking Rockettes and eat a family dinner at a restaurant whose menu has been price-gouged to the gills.
You can forget about getting a cab-they’re all taken. And even walking down the sidewalk is an exercise in frustration, because every few feet a stroller-pushing, shopping-bag-carrying tourist will come to a complete frigging stop right in front of you to take a picture of the red-and-green-lit Empire State Building.
You think I sound pissed off? How very perceptive of you. The Christmas spirit and me? We’re not friends. Ebenezer Scrooge had the right idea: bah fucking humbug.
The reason for my current antiholiday rant is because I’m in line-the same line I’ve been in for forty-five minutes-trying to buy a last-minute gift for my perfect wife.
Please, take my money and just let me fucking leave.
When it comes to gifts, I’m usually way ahead; eleventh-hour purchases aren’t my style. But walking past Saks Fifth Avenue, I saw a pair of Valentino crystal and silk heels that would look amazing on Kate. She’ll enjoy wearing them, and I will definitely enjoy watching her wear them-especially naked-so it’s a win-win.
Except for the line.
I’m not used to waiting in lines. I’m used to personal shoppers and commission-seeking salespeople vying for my attention with phrases like, “Can I hold that for you, Mr. Evans?” “We have that in four other colors, Mr. Evans.” “Would you like that wrapped, Mr. Evans?”
But this is Christmas Eve. Which means stores don’t give a crap about the quality of the shopping experience. It’s all about quantity-getting as many shoppers through their doors as possible before closing time. Which brings me to my next point:
Most people in the world today are fucking idiots.
Don’t laugh-you may be one of the walking stupid and just not know it. But it’s true. Say what you want about income inequality or the inferior public school system-the harsh truth is, the majority of the population is simply not intelligent. And even more suck at their job. They don’t give a rat’s ass about doing it well or longevity; they’re only interested in performing the minimum required to get a check.
And there’s no better example of that than the temporary holiday employee.
Companies don’t hire them because of their skill or what they may contribute to the work force. They’re hired because they have a pulse. Spare bodies, decked out in holiday ensembles, whose main purpose is to corral consumers the same way a fence encages cattle. And they’re equally as helpful.
The twentysomething blonde behind the register is one such employee. You can tell by the slow, cautious way she pecks at the keys and her confused expression if someone-God forbid-asks her where an item can be found. She’s the reason for the sick amount of time I’ve wasted waiting to buy these shoes.
The good news is, I’m about to cross the finish line. I step up, with only one more customer left in front of me-a tall, regal-looking older lady in a pricey red coat and genuine pearl earrings. I take out my wallet so I can pay as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here.
See the blazing yule before us,
Fa la la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the harp and join the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la
But my hope of an imminent escape is crushed when the blond temp rings up the purple Burberry of London tie and tells the old lady, “That will be one hundred and ninety-five dollars and thirty cents.”
Pearl Earrings looks offended. “That can’t be correct. This tie is on sale for one hundred and fifty dollars-not one eighty.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.