Page 46 of Living at 40

I giggle as I lean closer to him. “Men believe in love, too. It’s why when we think we’ve found it, we’re so comfortable with it. We want to be taken care of but don’t want to be mothered. We want to appear strong but realize we can be weakened by the right woman. There’s a desire to be wanted as if a woman feels she can’t live without us. We dream of being the center of her world, but deep down, we know it’s the other way around. We can’t live without her.”

Slowly, I smile at his teasing voice. I’ve done my part to center someone else inside my world, but then again, I’ve been headstrong enough to know a man isn’t ever going to take care of me like I need, so I do things for myself. Like the café. Like wanting a baby.

“Well,” Logan states, double-tapping his fingers on the table. “Now that we’ve imparted all the wisdom we have as experts in relationships, it appears the magnitude of impossible between men and women leaves us with the only thing men and women find of value in one another, and that’s sex.”

I snort. “And even that can be questionable. Present company excluded, of course.” I wink at him.

Logan laughs as well, and just like that, our serious conversation ends. We talk about safer topics instead. Logan tells me how he likes his job, but he’s been longing for a change. I tell him about the café and how I’m living my dream. He tells me more about Lorna, and it’s clear how much he loves his daughter. For a moment, I’m saddened that my child won’t have the fatherly figure every kid needs. My father is deceased. Ben has his own children to parent, and whoever does get me pregnant won’t be present to be a dad. I’ve told myself I’m strong enough to be both mother and father but listening to Logan discuss his child, it hits me that a valuable piece of my child’s upbringing will be missing if I don’t have a man in my life. It’s the contradictory line between mother and father.

We finish our meal with a second bottle of wine, and to say we are tipsy might be an understatement. We sway as we walk, bumping into one another as we exit the restaurant. Logan loops his arm lazily over my shoulder, tugging me into his side, and instead of leading me to his car, he steers us toward the beach.

“I want to make out with you,” he blurts, and I giggle like a teen. “No sex. Just kissing.”

“You already made up for the lost kiss,” I remind him, recalling his mouth on mine on the landing less than two weeks ago. How did we get to only a few days from the end so quickly?

“This is . . . different,” he says without more explanation. We step off the boardwalk leading to the public beach and cross the cool sand. It’s late and dark, and technically, the beach is closed. Before us, a lifeguard hut stands on pillars a few yards from the shoreline and faces the black lake.

“Let’s go up,” Logan whispers.

“I don’t think that’s legal,” I warn him, noting the sign listing all the things not allowed at the beach, which probably includes climbing up the short ladder and standing on the landing around the square structure. I don’t know for certain as the letters blur together a bit. Logan doesn’t reply to my concern, but he places his hands on my hips, guiding me to the ladder and hoisting me upward. I squeal.

“Shh,” he warns with a chuckle. “We don’t want to get caught.”

This makes me giggle more as though I’m a rule-breaking teenager once more. The thrill of getting caught ripples through me as I climb the short distance, and Logan follows. We aren’t exactly hidden, but it isn’t obvious we’re up here when Logan sits with his back to the building and drags my legs over his lap so my shoulder rests near his. We only sit like this for a minute before he’s scooting me over one leg, and my backside falls between his spread thighs, draping both my legs over his left thigh. His hand coasts up my spine, and I shiver in the cool evening breeze coming off the lake.

“Make out with me.” It’s such a strange request yet another shiver slips over my skin, making the fine hairs stand erect. Logan’s palm cups the back of my neck as his mouth crushes mine. We both taste like wine and the sweetness of comfort and familiarity. He doesn’t need to discover me because he’s known me most of his life. He’s circled around me enough to know the basics of who I am and what I do, and in some cases, why I do those things. On a deeper level now, he knows me intimately, also understanding how I like things, what my body can do to his, and why I want what I want.

Our kissing grows deeper, but his hand doesn’t leave my neck. His other arm wraps around my waist, but he isn’t turning me, isn’t shifting us, isn’t making me straddle him. I remain between his thighs while his mouth savors mine as if getting drunk on the wine flavor coating my tongue.

Eventually, the hand at my waist coasts slowly up my side, like a hesitant adolescent, eager to fondle me yet nervous at the same time. Slowly, slowly, slowly, his fingers seek until he cups the underside of my breast, gently nudging the swell upward.

“I thought you said only making out,” I mutter to his mouth, teasing him.

“Wouldn’t be the real thing if I didn’t try to cop a feel,” he teases back, returning his attention to both my lips and the weight of my breast in his hand. His palm presses upward, massaging before squeezing the globe tighter and pinching at my nipple.

“Let me touch you,” he whispers, and I giggle again. I don’t recall make-out sessions like this as a teen, but perhaps that’s the point of our position. He’s building a memory. The way he’s kissing me tells me he’s taking this moment very seriously. He’s intent on absorbing every movement, every touch.

“Only third base,” I mutter to his lips as if questioning him. His fingers release my breast and move to my kneecap. Slowly, he begins his descent. He bunches up the edge of my skirt, and shaky fingers coast up my inner thigh. His anxiety makes me giddy and a bit confused. We’ve been together for almost two weeks, having sex in numerous positions and speeds, but this has him uneasy and almost shy. I lift my hand for his cheek, and his fingers complete their cautious journey up my inner leg until his knuckles brush over the wet plait of my underwear. He hisses against my mouth, and I echo the sound. While I anticipated his touch, I’m startled by the tender brush and sudden rush of desire. Something is happening here, and I can’t get a read on it because I’m drowning in his kiss and his slow-stroking knuckles. Moving back and forth over the damp cotton, he’s teasing me in a way tears prickle my eyes. I need more from him.

“Logan,” I whimper before his fingers curl around the barrier and gently stroke my sensitive folds.

“Want to be needed but not needy,” he whispers. It takes me a moment to register what he’s saying. “Too bad I’m a greedy fuck when it comes to you.”

With that, two fingers dive into me, and I respond with a quick gasp despite my desperation for his touch.

“Capable of taking care of herself,” he mutters, once again quoting me as his fingers deliciously drag back and forth inside me. “But I want to be the one to take care of you. My fingers are the only ones that can touch you like this. Yours do not do it half as well as mine.” He increases the pressure while remaining torturously slow in the drag and dash of entering me. He also isn’t lying. While I can get myself off, his fingers do it so much better.

“And you are more than a fleeting moment because I do not know how I am supposed to live without you after all this ends.” His words almost ache as they leave his lips and fall against mine, but his fingers have me dizzy, and his mouth has me spinning. I’m circling him in a sense. He’s the center of everything right now, and I don’t want to fall out of the orbit he’s created of himself.

“Logan,” I cry softly to his mouth, on the cusp of something bigger than me. He’s brought me to orgasm so many times in the past few days, but whatever is happening right now is going to shatter me. As I crest, I balance on the edge, holding on to the thrill before the rush of release.

“I will never be a prince, but I’d treat you like a queen.”

With another gasp, I break from his mouth and fall apart, but he chases me, seeking to keep the connection as best he can with his fingers buried inside me and his tongue in my mouth. I’m drowning under him as wave after wave of release coasts over me. My legs tremble. My heart races, and all the while, he’s kissing me, thrilling me with his fingers and his tongue and his beautiful heart.

My God, I love him. Tears prickle my eyes once again, and I don’t know how I can let this end. How can I walk away from him? How can I live without him?

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