never seen me do something doesn’t mean I’m incapable of doing it. Can I get a little trust here?”
Hugo lifts his hands in a conceding fashion.
“Thank you.” After a beat, I let a teasing grin grow on my face. “Now, what does garlic look like? I’m only used to the shit you get in the shaker.”
Horror hops onto his expression that’s hard not to laugh loudly at.
He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, lightly chuckles. “You’re fucking with me, again.”
“And, if you chill out,” I step closer and suggestively coo, “I’ll let you fuck me, again, while dinner marinates.”
There’s an unmistakable growl that has me shooting him a cocky wink and turning on my neon yellow sneaker heels to resume shopping.
It’s been a little over a month since the first time we had sex, and to say that my boyfriend – something he insisted I call him almost immediately – has an appetite for me that is comparable to his size would be an understatement. I honestly don’t think he’ll ever get enough of me. And, I don’t just mean fucking me. I mean enough of me period. Does he love when we’re physically together? Uh…yeah. Doesn’t seem to matter who is on their knees or who finishes first or last or how many times in one session. He treats every sexual moment like it is the best sexual moment of his fucking life. In fairness, I feel the same way. Every time we’re together I swear it can’t and won’t be better than the fucking last and then it is and then I’m gob smacked about the shit all over again. However, Hugo doesn’t just want me around when his dick’s hard and his time’s short. No. He wants me around all the fucking time. Before class. After. Weeknights. Whole weekends. His door, which has always possessed an open policy for me, has, basically, been taken off the hinges. I am welcomed to come over whenever – announced or not – and the only complaint he has is when I choose to leave. He wants me in his arms, in his bed, every night and I…have never been that person.
I’ve never really had the opportunity to be that person.
I don’t know how to be that person.
I don’t know how to just leave my shit at his place.
I don’t know how to adjust to having my own fucking toothbrush, a drawer for face products in his bathroom, and a space in his closet for shoes that are to never be left by the front door.
I damn sure don’t know how to deal with someone going out of their way by buying an expensive new speaker system so my practice music doesn’t have to play through the one on my phone.
Like, what the hell am I supposed to do to repay him for that?!
Drop to my knees and suck his dick?
I did that.
But, it wasn’t fucking enough.
And, watching him install it with a big, goofy grin only amplified that feeling.
Having him joyfully watch me show him what I was working on for my next immersive video afterwards was the final bow that broke my back about needing to show him I give a real shit about him, too.
It’s how I ended up declaring I would be making us a romantic dinner of his favorite dish from my family. My mom’s chicken adobo was something I would always call him to come over to have because I knew he loved it that much. I don’t know the last time she made it since I went away to college, but I do know calling to get the recipe and the rundown on how to make it brought out a different type of happiness than I’m used to hearing from her. She’s always been proud of her heritage and encouraged me to embrace it despite how my grandmother was. I’ve always struggled a little more than she likes. It’s been hard for me to accept that side of myself that so blatantly refused to accept me for who I am. Mom used to play famous Filipino artists for me to warm up stretch to during home workouts she’d join me for. She would often translate what they were saying. Attempt to get me to learn phrases and words that way. Sometimes she’d tell me stories about how she grew up while making snacks like Lumpia. We’d munch on them, and she’d do her best to remind me of what a rich and wonderful culture