Love's Awakening (13 page)

Celia attempted a playful smile in case Oliver could see it in the dark. “Yes.”

“Hey, Celia,” Oliver said. “When you smile, do you know one edge tugs up more than the other?”

Celia’s stomach became hot and tingly. “You like my smile?”

“It’s cute.”

Celia’s legs were wobbly. Unsteady. Never mind that she was in bed. Her legs had been goners since she realized she was going home with Oliver. Celia’s body was on fire. She felt eighteen again. She was nervous, horny, fearful, about to melt. She had a burning desire, an aching need for another meaningful kiss, for true sex, two-way, passionate, hair-pulling, panting, moaning, groaning, sweaty sex. For hours and hours. Not a sterile wham bam, thank you, ma’am. If only her pussy was in shape. If only her breasts were.

Celia’s stomach was a mess of somersaults.
Why
did
I
come
tonight?
Stupid,
stupid.

She and Oliver would fuck, and Celia needed to find a way to depersonalize their sex experience. Not just because of who Oliver was, but also because of Celia’s edginess about her baby-changed body. Blows David had delivered to her sexual self. Celia was a woman who had not had true sex in close to a year. Oliver was not the person to change that.

A wham bam ma’am was easy. Uncomplicated. Celia would find a way to make
that
happen. Not lovemaking. No kisses.

“Celia?”

“Yeah?”

Oliver kissed her, a brush of mouth against mouth, and then Celia reached for Oliver, for another kiss slightly longer. Their hips pressed into each other, their need pressed into each other.

Oliver’s neck tasted of sweat and of
OliverOliverOliver
, he was delicious, and Celia drew back. “Give me the lotion,” she said.

Oliver blinked. “What?”

“Hand job. Give me the lotion.”
A
hand
job
will
be
better
than
intercourse.
It’s
less
personal.

Once Celia satisfactorily lotioned up her hands, she reached into Oliver’s boxer shorts.

“Oh,” Oliver groaned as Celia wrapped her hand around the shaft of his penis. She stroked her hand up and down from the base of the penis to the tip. “Oh.” More groans. “Oh. Ohhh. Jesus, Celia.”

It was over quickly, and Celia turned away while Oliver got busy with tissues. When he reached for her, Celia murmured: “No, no. I’ll…let me do this.” She got on top of him and rubbed her pussy against his leg. Fastest orgasm Celia had in her life, especially with clothes on. Perfect degree of depersonalization too, but she was left with a deep void of dissatisfaction.

Oliver probably was, too.

That
was
horrible,
Celia thought.

As if he read her mind, Oliver gathered Celia into his arms. “Wow, that was…different,” he said.

Celia burrowed into him. “Are we still friends?”

Oliver chuckled. “Let’s go bowling tomorrow and see.”

*****

Azizi was mostly full when Celia walked in at seven-fifteen for bowling. Oliver had said to come by about seven-thirty. His shift ended at eight.

Celia locked in on Oliver, who was wiping off a table across the room. For a second, his profile was David’s, and Celia’s chest squeezed. Then Oliver looked up, met Celia’s eyes, and grinned shyly. Definitely not David now; their faces were very different.
Thank
goodness.

Celia thought she would be okay bowling. She and Oliver needed each other. They were in a unique situation and could help each other like no one else. They could be great friends. They were adults. They would not let silly crushes and physical stuff like the best kiss of Celia’s life get in the way.

Oliver waved hello and weaved around tables until he was with Celia. “Hey, Celia,” Oliver said, drawing out the name just a little.
Ceeeeelia.
Hey,
Ceeeeelia.
Or perhaps Celia imagined it. Oliver’s dark hair was fashionably messy, loose tendrils softening his face. He wore black pants and a tight shirt that brought out his eyes. Celia was a frump in her maternity jeans and blue top. On purpose, she had not shopped for clothes for this “date.” She had no need to impress Oliver. Right? They were not in a relationship nor possibly headed that way; they were passing ships, temporary friends with benefits. Passing ships not meant to end up together but who came together when the need was there.

“Thanks for letting me crimp your style,” Celia said. “Hope you don’t mind I’m a little early.”

“I’m furious. Come on, sit. What can I get you?”

“Vodka and Coke again. Trying to get me drunk so you can beat me at bowling?”

Oliver winked. “You know it.”

*****

The bowling alley was mostly full. “Let’s get your stuff,” Oliver said. Celia ended up with red and tan clown shoes, complete with thick laces. No fair. The shoes Oliver brought from home were black, sleek and attractive.

“If I lose, I’m blaming my shoes. That looks like mold growing on the left one,” Celia grumbled.

Oliver won the first game, 205 to 135. “You set me up,” Celia said accusingly.

Oliver laughed. “What?”

“What? What?” Celia mocked Oliver. “Two hundred and five? Who bowls that?”

“Someone’s competitive.”

Celia shook her head. “Two hundred and five! We’re going to a movie next time.”

Next
time.

Oliver scratched his cheek, catching the slip too. “Next time,” he repeated.

“Is that okay?”

“Sure, sure, whatever. I’d like that.”

Sometime during the second game, and after they’d had a couple of beers, Celia realized the warm glow inside her was not her mild buzz. It was a glow of pleasure.
This
is
what
it’s
like
to
be
out
and
have
fun.
I’d
almost
forgotten.
She had not thought about David. Or about herself. Or, amazingly enough, about who Oliver was. She lost herself in Oliver’s laugh, in his musky smell, in his brown-green eyes. Celia was merely someone out with a friend and having playful adult conversations. Perfectly ordinary. She liked feeling normal again. No one treating her with kid gloves because of her vegetative husband.

Oliver won the second game, 211 to 132. “Best of four,” he said with a wink.

Celia took Oliver’s hand. “Time for
me
to show off. Come on.” A jumble of stuffed animals crowded the display at a claw crane game. “See anything you like?”

“I’m a guy, Celia. I don’t do dolls.”

“Pick a manly doll out for me.”

Oliver grinned and squeezed Celia’s hand. “A manly doll. Okay.” He studied the display. “These machines are rip offs. Money vampires.”

“I’m pretty good at them.”

Oliver’s brows rose. “Really? Okay. Well…that bowling ball doll? I think you’d like it.”

“It
is
adorable,” Celia agreed. “That’s a perfect way to remember tonight.”

“211 to 132? I thought you wouldn’t want to remember.”

Celia swatted Oliver’s shoulder. “Ugh. You’re awful.”

Game three also went to Oliver, and he and Celia walked out together. Not quite holding hands, but close, hands brushing each other. Celia clutched her bowling ball doll prize in her free hand. The parking lot lights exposed a sky that was gray, smudgy, polluted. Not exactly beautiful. Celia barely noticed, thanks to the beer tumbling in her veins. The moon was moving. Or maybe that was her newfound heady sensation.

“Want to go somewhere else or call it a night?” Oliver asked.

Celia ran her hands over Oliver’s car, an orange old-style VW bug. Oliver had driven them to the alley. “I told your grandparents I’d be back by ten-thirty to give Caleb his bottle.” Celia had set the early deadline as a precaution to avoid getting
too
chummy with Oliver. But right now, she cursed herself.

“It’s ten o’clock,” Oliver said.

“I’ll call and see if one of them will do it. I’m sure they will.” If Celia went home, Caleb would cry, his wails rising and rising and his lips would pucker for her cow udders and Shirley would be
How
did
it
go
with
Oliver
so
glad
you’re
becoming
friends
Tell
me
everything
doesn’t
he
bowl
good,
that’s
my
grandson.
Celia could not wait to have the house to herself.

Celia realized one reason she had enjoyed her time with Oliver so much: Celia came of her own free will, on her own terms. No one pawed at her, needled her insistently, demanded she sacrifice herself for them. Even David hovered, silent, waiting. Demanding. But with Oliver, Celia found a few hours of peace. Oliver asked nothing of her. Oliver accepted Celia for who she was.

“Celia? Are you all right? I—I could come see the baby.”

Celia’s heart lurched.
Oliver
wants
to
see
the
baby?
It’s
a
miracle.
Celia grinned, her anxiety floating away. “Definitely.”

Chapter
Twelve

Celia and Oliver got her car at Azizi and drove separately to the townhouse. The lights were off as they approached the front door. “We’ll have to be quiet,” Celia said. “Remember your grandfather sleeps downstairs.”

“Got it.”

Celia inserted her key into the lock. She slipped her hand into Oliver’s and entwined their fingers. To guide Oliver across the darkened living room, to keep him from bumping into something. No other reason.
Riiight.
She loved their hands together. Had kept their hands together as much as possible while they’d been at the claw crane game. Oliver certainly had not seemed to mind.

Guilt snaked through Celia. She’d left her newly won doll in her car. Didn’t feel like having to explain its provenance to Richard and Shirley in case they woke up.

Celia led Oliver around a table and to the staircase. She heard a click, and light illuminated the room. “Celia?” Richard, from the pull-out couch. He had turned on a lamp.

Oliver dropped his hand from Celia’s. He and Celia were behind the couch, so Richard didn’t catch them holding hands. “Hey, Granddad.” Oliver went over to greet Richard. “Now I can see.”

“Did you have fun?”

Celia joined them. “Did you know your grandson is a professional bowler?”

They made small talk for a few minutes. “Caleb was good tonight,” Richard said.

“He never cries with you or Shirley,” Celia agreed. She shifted her gaze to Oliver. “Now, me…” She laughed. “My face is a trigger for him to turn on the waterworks.”

*****

In the kitchen, Oliver watched Celia retrieve a pot and fill it with hot water. Celia also got a full baby bottle from the refrigerator. She put the bottle into the pot and swirled the bottle around—”To make sure the heat distributes evenly”—and tested a few drops on her forearm. “Warm,” she said. “Good.”

“Let me feel.”

Celia squeezed milk on Oliver’s arm. The warmth was like soup that had a minute to cool off. “That’s a lot of work for a bottle,” Oliver observed.

“It’s not too bad. But serves me right for getting a cheap warmer. So, uh…” Celia shot him a meaningful glance. “You didn’t feed your children?”

Oliver ignored the pinprick at his heart. “I didn’t. And please don’t call them my children. I’m not their father.”

“You love them.”

“I guess. But I don’t know them where it counts.” Oliver sighed. “Anyway, I’ve never seen Granddad smile like that.”

A shadow stole into Celia’s eyes. “He loves that baby. He could talk about Caleb all day.”

“Do you love him?”

“Caleb?”

“Yeah. Caleb.”

Celia furrowed her brows. “He’s my son,” she said. “Okay, let’s go up.”

On the way up, Oliver weighed what would happen if he kissed Celia good night, kissed her goodbye. What kind of lover was Celia? Playful? Dominant? Insecure? Attentive? A combination? What kind of lover was his father? What kind of kisser? Would Celia compare the two of them? Yes, of course. It was inevitable, and Oliver would try not to think about it.

It did not really matter, anyway. Oliver doubted he would find out what kind of lover Celia was. Her true lover self. He and Celia would divert to Plan B.

Plan A: Lovemaking. Taking their time. Gazing into each other’s eyes. Exploring. Whispering. Laughing. Like Oliver had with Shannon. With Lori, with quite a few women in between Shannon and Lori. Definitely doable between good friends, people who had a high attraction to each other and who were looking for a good time and to forget their realities. Would likely not work for him and Celia because of that perfect kiss and because of their connection.

Plan B: Precious little foreplay, if any. Selfish fucking. Getting off as quickly as possible. Not much touching. Orgasm-oriented. Every man and woman for himself and herself. Lots of business talk. Talk about work, or shopping, or the nice weather, or the hair appointment tomorrow, like Celia had touched on in front of Chili’s.

Plenty of other plans too—all the way to Z. But, yeah, Plan B was where Oliver and Celia were headed.

For the best, really.

Oliver had enjoyed last night in its own way. Celia was skilled at hand jobs, that was for sure. And her atop him, her pumping away on him…a woman had never done that with him. Not like that, not with his leg.

It’d been hot. Celia was forceful, determined. Guarded. In charge.

It went unsaid that he and Celia would tell no one, absolutely no one, what was happening between them.