Sister Monica Ch. 06

As the end of the semester neared, as their weekend vacation drew closer, he was a bundle of energy—anticipation for the love they would make by the sea; agony over the good-byes that would have to be said upon leaving the hotel, as he headed back home to California for the summer; fear over what she would say when he presented her with the ring, and the question. He longed for the time with her, at the seaside, away from prying eyes and surreptitious ears. But he dreaded it, too.

♣

The day she moved into her new apartment, he helped her unpack and get settled. Then he spent the night, and they made long, slow love in her new bed. He thought ahead, to the fall. The weekends, when he'd spend Friday and Saturday night here with her. That was something to look forward to.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, sometime after midnight, lying beside her.

"Hmm?" She snuggled up against him, her head on his chest.

"I mean, being here, in your new place. Do you like it?"

She lifted her head up, her long red hair falling away, still in contact with his chest, tickling it. "I feel good," she said. "At peace."

"You don't miss the Sister House?"

"I do miss it," she said. "And I miss them. And I know I'll probably cry again sometimes, and think about everything I've given up. A part of me will always be back there, I think. But, you know, it's okay. I'm okay. This is where I belong now. I know that."

He kissed her, with plenty of tongue, and she eagerly reciprocated. Then they made love again, her on top, riding him softly, softly, her breasts heaving, her eyes closed, her hair a fire in the dark. She had really come to grips with the huge changes in her life. She had apparently come to embrace them.

But his thoughts were interrupted by her moans and sighs of pleasure, and then her screams as she came on his penis.

She lay beside him again, her beautiful face flushed with arousal. He kissed her, wrapped his arms around her, and they fell asleep, their limbs entwined, their dreams and goals for the future also entwined. Or so he hoped.

♣

"Have a good summer, man," Steve Dightmann said. He was packing his things, getting ready to go back home, which, for him, was the farm country of central Ohio.

"You, too," Josh said. He would pick up Monica at her apartment in just an hour, and they would drive for the coast.

"I can't believe you haven't asked that Monique chick to marry you yet, Josh," Steve said. "I'm working on it," Josh said.

"Yeah, at the hotel. How romantic of you. I never realized you're such a sap. You cry at chick flicks?"

Josh smiled. It was good to know he wasn't going to see his pudgy roommate again until late August. "Get lost."

"My thoughts exactly," Steve said. "But take my advice. Ask her to marry you after you bring her to an earth-shattering orgasm, okay? I mean, like, right after. Before she has a chance to think."

"I'll keep that in mind," Josh said. And he would, too. That was the pathetic thing.

"Don't know why the hell you want to get hitched," Steve said, heading for the door, dragging his luggage. "But I gotta hand it to ya. You got yourself a grade-A super-hottie. Wish I had a chance at her."

"Get lost," Josh said again.

This time, Steve did.

♣

The hotel was spectacular, better than he had even hoped, and their room was a deluxe suite, complete with a Jacuzzi and queen-sized bed and a balcony with a perfect view of the sea. It was chilly—early May on the shores of southern Maine. But the sky was clear, and now, as evening approached, the sun arcing low on the western horizon, the sea sparkled in the mellow twilight, as if touched by diamonds.

They checked into the hotel, went to dinner down in the restaurant next to the lobby. Monica (he still was getting used to thinking of her as just "Monica"—sometimes he would insert the "Sister" in his mind, then have to remind himself that that was no longer the case) raved over the marinara sauce she had ordered with her pasta, but Josh thought the steak that he had ordered was only just okay—nothing special. He watched her as she chewed, the high, sculpted cheekbones, the dark brown eyes that were full of spirit and passion, the sexy overbite that drove him wild, the white teeth, still without a dentist's filling. She was wearing a sleeveless, ankle-length dress that hugged her hips and accentuated her perfect breasts. He wanted her right then and there, at that dinner table in the hotel restaurant. She seemed to grow sexier, more beautiful, every day.

"Let me try a bite," he said, eyeing her pasta.

"Hey, no fair," she said. "You can try mine, but I can't try yours."

He shook his head. "Aw, c'mon, one bite of steak won't kill you. How long have you been a vegetarian anyway?" It seemed absurd that he didn't know, but he didn't. He'd never asked her.

She bit her lower lip, that little tick she had that made him want to undress her and kiss every beautiful inch of her.

"Hmm . . . let's see. It was ninety-two . . . so, seventeen years!"

Seventeen years. Without one bite of steak, without one hamburger. He couldn't imagine that.

"Don't you get tempted?" he asked.

Their waiter, a graying, thin man with a long, narrow face and a hawklike nose came to their table.

"Are you enjoying your meal?" he asked in a clipped British accent. "Mmm, it's wonderful," Monica said with a smile, and the waiter actually blushed. Satisfied, he walked away, not even bothering to ask Josh.

"You been noticing the effect you have on guys, sexy lady?" Josh asked, taking a bite of steak. It was tough, chewy, and well done. Maybe a little too well done. And he'd have told the waiter that had the guy stayed around to listen.

She giggled, wrapped her fingers around her glass, took a sip of water. Then she said, "No. I don't get tempted."

"Well, I am tempted," he said. "I want to try your pasta. Besides, you can have a bite of my baked potato."

"Oh wow," she said, laughing. "Be still, my heart."

He cut a piece of his potato, speared it with his fork, and reached across the table, the fork now in front of her lips. She bit onto it, slowly, taking the potato piece. Then she did the same, wrapping some of her angel hair pasta around her fork, thrusting it in front of Josh, allowing him to take a bite. Somehow, this struck him as incredibly erotic, and his dick sprang to life in his pants.

"That is good sauce," he said.

She winked at him, and took a bite. He watched the graceful way she ate, the way she moved her arms. Nothing was put on or artificial—she just had a way about her. She was so feminine, so attractive in every way. He wanted her. Now. They wouldn't order dessert. She would be dessert.

He told her he wanted to leave as soon as possible, go walk along the beach, which was deserted in the evening chill. She just smiled, knowingly, a twinkle in her eye, a touch of red coloring her cheeks.

♣

They walked along the water's edge, hand in hand, fingers laced together. It was windy, and bordering on cold, temperatures hovering in the mid-50s. Monica had thrown a sweater over her dress, but Josh hadn't put a jacket on. They didn't speak for a while, they just took in the enormity of the sea, the fading light of the day, the sound of the waves as they reached the shore, row on row, unceasing, eternal. A seagull soared overhead, perhaps scanning the shallows for an evening meal. And under foot, the sand caught between their toes, and lodged in under their toenails, as if seeking refuge from the elements.

"Are you cold?" he asked her. They had walked to the edge of the beach. Behind them, grasses on a windswept dune blew in the breeze.

She shook her head. "I'm okay." He felt her hand squeeze his just a little harder.

He turned her toward him, looked in her eyes (should he ask her now? he had the ring in his pocket), kissed her. The kiss started innocently enough, but it quickly escalated, and now their tongues danced together, as if in rhythm with the surf. He thought about Steve Dightmann's piece of advice—only ask her to marry you after she's orgasmed. But no. He wouldn't ask her in the heat of lovemaking. He wanted to wait for a quiet moment, a still interlude. First thing in the morning, when the sun was rising over the water, when a new day was dawning on the continent. He would ask her then. Not now. Not this evening. Right now, he just wanted her, wanted to hold her naked body next to his. . . .

He took off her sweater, then hugged her. "I'll keep you warm, Monica, don't worry." She responded with a kiss. He turned her around, pulled the zipper slowly down her back, and her dress fell away, sliding to the sand. She was only in her black lace bra and G-string now. He quickly undressed, and his penis stood, high and ready, pointing toward the darkening sky. She unfastened her bra, let it fall off her arms. Then she slid her G-string down her legs, kicked it off.

Naked now, silent, they came together, kissed, sank down to the sandy beach. The wind blew though her hair, billowing it out like a shower of autumn leaves. He laid her down, on her back, and climbed on top of her.

"I can't believe how much I love you," he said, and she smiled, kissed him. The seagull overhead sqwuaked again, as if complaining that the fish weren't plentiful this evening.

He slid himself into her, slowly, and she was already moist, fully aroused.

"Mmmmm," she purred as he started to thrust. She brought her hips up, in sync with his movements. He was going slow, soft, relishing the vice-tight grip of her vaginal walls on his manhood, not wanting to rush.

He leaned in close, kissed her forehead, her bangs, her ears, her chin. Then he teased her upper lip. She tried to meet his lips with a full kiss, but he wouldn't let her. He just feather-kissed her all over—her neck, shoulders, nose—breathing her in, licking the salty pores of her skin. The whole time, he continued to move in and out, slowly, soft like silk, his pelvis brushing against her clitoris, rubbing it, the friction causing her to writhe and squirm with pleasure.

As he made love to her, he thought of the timeless cycles, rhythms, truths of the sea. He thought of the fish under the water, miles offshore, swimming in the dark. He thought of the sharks chasing their prey, of whales slicing through the water like living, breathing battleships, of blind, glowing creatures, undiscovered by science, perhaps, who roamed the ocean floor, where it was perpetually night—another world, another universe. And somehow, someway, he felt united with the world, with everything in it. He thought about the continent across the sea. What were people doing in London right now? In Paris? Madrid? Prague? Warsaw? Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, across the great expanse of ocean, other lovers were joined together, too. Right now, at this very moment, some woman in Rome was climaxing. A baby was being born. Someone was losing her virginity. A couple, a nameless couple, perhaps in Marseilles or Edinburgh or Moscow was making love so good and so loud, their bed creaked, and maybe an old man in the apartment across the hall was listening, listening, remembering his youth, wishing he could go back, yearning for the days that were irretrievably lost.

So much life, so much energy, all over, everywhere in the world. And here he was, by the water's edge—just a speck, a single microscopic atom in a gigantic organism. And yet, he was something important, too. Monica was important. Their lives mattered, the path they would take, the decisions they would make. The proposal. The ring. It all mattered. To him, it mattered more than everything else put together.

"Mmmmm," she said, and she began to grind her hips at a quicker pace. He took the hint and really began to go after it. He upped the tempo, banging into her with abandon now, seeking release, sweet release.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," she said, and he knew she was close. Her breathing had quickened, she was sweating despite the chill.

He pushed in, deep, and came out. In and out, in and out. With one hand, he grabbed hold of her right nipple and pinched. She squealed, and told him to fuck her. He smiled, and obliged, picking up the pace even more.

So close now, he felt the explosion nearing. Just then, she threw her head back against the sandy floor of the beach and screamed. Her body shuddered, her juices coated his penis, and then she went limp. But her orgasm pushed him over the edge, and he was squirting now, shooting rivers of his own juices deep into her. She moaned as he came, her arms holding him close, wrapped tightly around his back.

When he was through, he lay down beside her. "Oh my God," she said. "That was wonderful, Josh."

"We're far from done, beautiful," he said. "Think you can go another round?"

"Hmm, I think I can manage," she said, and she kissed him, climbed on top of him, and before he knew it, his penis was in her mouth. It took only a half-minute for him to get hard again. Then she slid herself down onto him, and with her back to him, she rode him. She was facing the sea, the waves, the endless symphony of the surf. He just rested on his back, letting her pick the pace, enjoying the view of her naked back, her long hair flowing freely, a beacon of heat, a cascading waterfall of burning embers in the twilight. The sun had set, moments ago, and now the first stars were visible in the sky, along with the moon, nearly full, shining down at them like a voyeur.

She threw her head back, moaned, her hair spilling farther down, almost reaching his abdomen. She leaned back, placed her hands on his chest for support, and continued to make love to him.

He reached around, grabbed her breasts, gave them a squeeze. Then he massaged them, fondled them, kneading the soft, womanly flesh, causing her moans to intensify.

She rose and fell, rose and fell, and he could tell she was approaching another orgasm. So her pinched her nipples, gave her breasts a good, hard squeeze, and then attacked her nipples again. That always pushed her over the edge, and this time was no different. She came with a yell, and then she fell to the ground, beside him, flailing her arms in the sand, as if allowing the night itself to take her.

"You cold at all, kinky girl?" he asked her.

"Mmmm, how could I be cold after that?" she said, inching closer to him, caressing his chest with her fingertips.

"You are so incredible," he said. "Damn, I'm lucky to have you in my life."

She leaned in to kiss him. "I'm the lucky one."

And then, out of nowhere, it seemed, he felt a sadness rush through him. He would be with her tonight, and tomorrow, but then he would leave for the summer. The thought of being without her made him feel so alone, the summer looming up before him like a barren granite cliff, devoid of life.

"You mind if we go back to our room, beautiful?" he asked her. He wanted to hold her in the bed, all night long, to make slow, sensual love to her in the Jacuzzi—just to be with her, in the warm confines of their suite.

"Okay," she said.

They got dressed, went back to their room, and did indeed make love again. Three times. It was only just after two o'clock in the morning that they finally drifted off to sleep.

♣

She was on the balcony when he woke up, the morning sun striking her, making her dark red hair look almost blonde. He turned to look at the digital clock on the stand beside the bed. 7:07 AM. Was that all it was? No wonder he felt tired still. What time had she got up, anyway? She was looking out at the sea, her hands gripping the railing, her hair blowing in the wind. She had fallen asleep naked, and now she had a long robe on, surely still naked underneath—no bra, no panties. Just that thought alone sent a shudder of arousal through his penis, and he felt himself stiffen. But no. Now wasn't the time for that. Now was the time for his proposal.

He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, splashed cold water onto his face. He put on a nice shirt, dress pants. He wanted to look the part. He had no intention of asking her to marry him in a pair of jeans.

He looked at his reflection.

"What do I say?" he asked the face in the mirror. "How do I ask?"

But he didn't want to rehearse. He wanted it to come out naturally, to flow in the moment.

When he left the bathroom, he saw that she was still staring out over the water. The cries of hungry, scavenging gulls filled the air. On the beach, a little girl walked beside a young man, her little hand in his. That was it. No one else on the beach. Tourist season was still over a month away.

He had the ring in his hand, clutching it tightly, as if hoping to draw strength from it. He pushed open the glass doors that led out to the balcony, and joined her there. She still didn't see him.

He reached for her shoulder, gave her a tap.

She turned, startled, then she smiled at the sight of him.

"You scared me," she said. "I didn't hear you."

"Sorry." And he was. Looking up, he saw the flock of gulls, their shrill voices cutting through the quiet of the morning. But with the way his heart was pounding, with trip-hammer force, he wondered how he could hear anything above its ear-splitting rattle. Did Monica hear his heart beating? Could she tell how nervous he was?

"Josh . . . what's the matter? You don't look like yourself this morning."

So much for that question.

He didn't want to stall. He couldn't wait a second longer.

He opened his hand, exposing, at long last, the ring. The diamond glittered in the morning sunlight.

All Monica could do was gasp. She placed her right hand over her heart.

He looked her in the eye, hoping to find comfort there, reassurance. He only found surprise. But he pressed on.

"Monica," he said, dropping to one knee, "I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will . . . will you do me the honor of becoming . . . my wife?"

He took her left hand, placed the ring on her finger.

"Josh, I . . ." She looked so shocked, almost horrified. And suddenly he knew. She wasn't going to say yes. She wasn't going to accept. . . .

He turned around, ready to head back into the room. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want to put her, or him, through the agony of it. But what was the problem? He thought she loved him too! Why wasn't she saying yes?

She grabbed him, not letting him go.

"Josh . . ."

"Forget it," he said. "I can see it in your eyes. Just forget it."

She shook her head. "No. No, you have it all wrong."

Hope, reawakened, pricked his skin, causing goose bumps to form on his forearms and at the nape of his neck. "You mean . . .?"

She shook her head again, and his heart sank. "I can't accept this ring, Josh. Not yet, anyway." She took it off, gave it back to him.

Now it was rage he felt. Why had she stopped him just to tell him that? Why had she said he had it all wrong? Was she trying to humiliate him? Rub it in?

"I can't believe you," he said, barely able to get the words out. "I thought you gave a damn about me. I thought we shared something special. What the hell? What have I been to you, Monica? Just a fuckbuddy?"

She looked as though she had been slapped. Clearly his words hurt her, stuck an arrow into her heart. Good. It's what she deserved.

"Josh . . . how can you say that to me? You know I wouldn't . . . ."

"Then what's the problem, Monica? Huh?" The back of his throat felt hot, acidic, as though a virus were being unleashed there.

"I'm not saying I won't marry you!" she said. "Will you please listen to me?"

"You . . . you're not?"

"No." She went to him, hugged him. And he cried. Her arms around him, her body pressed up against his. He didn't want to lose her. He couldn't live without her.

"You . . ."