A Sexy Valentine for M.E.
© 2017 L.B. Dunbar
“Aren’t you lucky, you can celebrate Valentine’s Day with a lover,” my best friend, Gia Carlucci said lapping at the last word like she licked an ice cream cone, rolling the r-sound deep in her throat as if she was Hispanic instead of Italian. We stood in my kitchen, Gia drinking red wine, while I peeled potatoes for dinner.
I hadn’t thought about it, actually. Valentine’s Day was just any other day to me. Once I commented about the carnation heavy, Jewel-bought flowers, my late husband Nate purchased as an afterthought on his way home from work, he stopped giving them to me. The last box of chocolate I received might have been in grade school, where we’d exchanged cards with Strawberry Shortcake or superheroes, and Brandon Slader had a crush on me. After years of not honoring Valentine’s day prior to Nate’s death, I hadn’t really thought of celebrating the Hallmark induced holiday even if I had a new lover—the title made me cringe. Merek was much more than that to me.
“I don’t think we’ll celebrate. Maybe do something casual.”
“There’s nothing casual about you and Merek. You’ll celebrate,” Gia offered confidently.
“What are you up to now?” I laughed. “What do you know?”
“Moi?” Gia’s French impression was even worse than her Spanish, as her hand pressed to her chest in innocence. I scoffed internally, knowing she had a habit of interfering with good intentions.
“Maybe he’s going to name your who-ha.” Her eyebrows wiggled for dramatic effect.
“Name my what?” I laughed, knowing full-well her meaning. Over forty, and I was still learning the new age of dating under the tutelage of my over-experienced friend. Its innuendos and, shall I say, interesting attitude on sexuality were still foreign to me.
“You know, name your va—.”
“I got it,” I said, raising a hand to stop her from speaking. “Do guys do that now-a-days?” I asked, speaking like the old woman I felt at times in the modern world of dating. Merek and I had been together for about six months, come Valentine’s, and while it seemed significant to me, I didn’t really want to seem like a love-sick teenager when it came to those things. But Merek Elliott Whittington did those things to me. He made me feel young, alive, and sexy.
“Yes, they do, if you’ve earned it. Has your vagina earned it, Emme?” Her wicked laugh and a dismissive wave at the lower region of my body brought me to embarrassed giggles.
“Maybe,” I sing-singed, knowing my privates had definitely earned a nickname. She’d had more of a work out in six months then I’d had in the last six years of Nate’s life. A sturdy hand came to my back, the pressure instantly recognized by my body. A kiss brushed my cheek as the firm presence of Merek warmed my skin.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he mumbled to me, before pulling back, and addressing Gia and I collectively. “What are we discussing today, ladies?”
“Naming Emme’s woo-ha,” Gia spoke candidly.
“Shit.” The potato peeler slipped and I sliced my finger. Instantly, Merek’s solid tattooed arms stretched around me, forcing my hand under cool water.
“It’s it nice to have a commander from the CFD at your rescue,” Gia snorted, but I wanted to kill her. Could a potato-peeler stab someone? Evidently, it could shave off skin.
“I’d always rescue, Emme, for as long as she needed me.” Merek kissed my neck, lingering longer than necessary, and I wanted to melt into him. As a commander for the Chicago Fire Department, he knew how to spark my flame. Maybe that should be my woo-ha’s name, I thought, then shook my head.
“I think this is my cue to leave,” Gia offered, swallowing the last of her wine, and heading for my front door. A shout-out “Call me,” was hardly heard as Merek spun me to face him. Potato peeler wound forgotten, another part of me wanted to be peeled open. His mouth crushed mine. Hands roamed to my waist and gripped the material of my shirt.
“Where are your girls?” He muttered against my lips. Between the two of us, we had four teenaged children and their social calendar complicated ours.
“Practice until five, volunteering till six.” His mouth remained angled on mine, but he twisted to look at the stove clock.
“Perfect,” he muttered, and tugged off my top. Firm hands palmed my breasts over my bra with a tight squeeze each before drifting down my stomach to my waist.
“I love that you wear skirts,” he said against my lips, his mouth hardly missing a beat before capturing them again. The material of my skirt rose, and fingers quickly found my unnamed…
“Who needs a name?” I whimpered with pleasure as a thick digit entered me.
“What?” He muttered, pulling back from my lips, but not missing a stroke as he massaged me.
“My…” My eyes drifted downward and I motioned in the general direction where Merek’s hand hid under my skirt. Withdrawing his pleasure producing fingers, he chuckled, and reached for his belt. I loved him in his blue uniform. Pants unzipped as I spoke.
“Gia says you should name my…” My face flamed with heat, and I could only imagine the bright red of my embarrassment. I couldn’t believe I brought this up. My skirt hitched higher, panties removed, Merek lifted me for the counter.
“Kitchen counter?” I gasped as he positioned himself at my entrance. Pushing forward, we both groaned in relief. I missed him during the days, when I taught at the university. My hands slipped over his biceps holding myself upright as he began a rhythm that made me forget my name.
“You want me to call it kitchen counter,” he breathed heavily before lips came to my neck, sucking at skin tingling with excitement.
“Are we really having this discussion with you inside me?” I gasped, as he hit me in a particular way to make my toes curl.
“Want me to stop?” Of course, I shook my head in the negative. He chuckled again, the vibration tickling my skin and traveling south.
“That’s what us old couples do,” he snorted. “We can converse during sex.”
“Why?” I laughed, knowing Merek did not consider himself old, while I felt ancient at forty-two.
“Because we’re familiar,” he answered, his voice dropping deeper. He was close, but he’d wait for me. He always did. His hand gripped my thigh, and his wicked thumb found the spot needing attention to push me over the edge.
“You really want a name for it?” He teased, and I laughed, then gasped as he hit me with a double whammy of thumb on target and a piston shot deep inside me.
“For Valentine’s,” I laughed, but my breath faltered. Conversation could not be maintained at the speed he worked me, and our silence fell to heaving breaths and gently slapping skin before I released my tell-tale moan of his name, and he stilled, pulsing deep inside me. His mouth found mine as it always did, sealing our connection whenever we finished. I always felt like he was thanking me, and I liked every opportunity I had to give myself to him.
“Be mine,” he said releasing my lips, our intimate connection still intact.
“I am,” I whispered.
“No, that’s what I’d name it. M.I.N.E. Merek Intimately Needs Emme.”
We stared at one another, the slight wrinkles around his eyes growing with his smile. My own lips curled in response.
“Emme intimately needs Merek, too.” His lips brushed mine too briefly.
“I like that but it doesn’t work as well,” he laughed, “But seriously, I want to be intimately yours all the time. I want you to be more than mine.” He removed from me slowly, and we sighed with the lost connection. He reached for a towel under the sink, and I smiled at his familiarity of my kitchen. Handing it to me, I remained stunned on the counter, my skirt lowering to my thighs.
“What do you mean?” My heart raced.
“Move in with me.”
“No, that was a serious statement, Emme. Move in with me.”