Five Years

Ben looks so cute when he sleeps, and I contemplate for a moment curling back up against him as I am wont to do most mornings—he’s very warm and usually quite cuddle-able—but I know I don’t have time. He can always sense when I am awake and moving around and I just don’t have that much time before he wakes and realizes I’m not there. I need to do something important.

           

I slip pajama pants on as I climb out of bed, finding them where I discarded them last night—Ben never makes me put my pants away properly after sex, which is strange since usually he’s a major stickler for being neat and all. It’s probably because I fall asleep right away or maybe he’s getting soft in his old age, I don’t know. I give him one last glance, smiling to myself before I slip out of our bedroom.

Being quiet is not one of my strong suits, but I want this to be perfect, so I sneak down to the kitchen as silently as I know how. The cat meows at me as I come into the kitchen and I stoop to pull him up into my arms, kissing his furry head. He brushes his head against my chin, reminding me of Ben and I smile, releasing him so I can fill his bowls and get on with my plan. He rubs pleasantly against my leg as I take out ingredients and mixing bowls.

I haven’t made pancakes in a while, but Ben always reminds me to follow the instructions and I’ll be fine. I trust him—who wouldn’t, after nearly ten years? I’m humming to myself, quietly, the words to one of the songs I always play on my mixed CDs, the ones Ben never knows but he hums along to amusedly and I’ll later catch him singing the chorus while he cooks dinner. Like I said, so cute.

The cat is happily eating at my feet as I measure and mix and work carefully at making the perfect pancakes. This time it's not so difficult, but I can remember a time when it was. When I made a mess and threw a fit and swore at Ben because he was making me help him and it was entirely his fault that I had ruined breakfast. He’d matter-of-factly sent me to a corner, where I griped until he had no choice but to spank me.

And then he made me finish breakfast, I remember. And he had told me that the pancakes were delicious, too, but I think that was only because he knew how badly I felt. He knows a lot, my Ben.

But this morning, they really were gonna be delicious. I was already cooking the first couple when I set sausages on a pan in the oven. Ben would be so proud, watching me multi-tasking. I pour juice and set forks and knives and syrup on a tray, cooking sausages and pancakes with ease. Cooking wasn’t so bad, I guess. It doesn’t take me nearly as long as it used to, and I didn’t have a meltdown or make too much of a mess. I even cleaned up as I went along.

Finally, my task complete, I set one more thing on the tray and trek upstairs bearing my load. The cat is following me, meowing, and I shush it, wanting to surprise Ben. I don’t do this sort of thing often. Luckily, he’s still asleep, and I set the tray down on the coffee table on my side and crawl back into bed to wake him up. It’s still early, but not too early that he’ll be upset I’m waking him. He likes his sleep most mornings, my Ben. He used to be able to wake up with the alarm and shower, warning me to be up and ready to go by the time he was out, but these days he’s as bad as me about sticking it out a few minutes longer. (If I rub his back, he stays longer, I find. Chalk one up to Elijah Daniels, finding Ben’s soft spot).

My fingers dance up his spine and he wriggles under my touch ever-so-slightly, making a distinct noise of pleasure, somewhere between a moan and a contented purr. Like he’s outright telling me “Oh yeah, that’s /exactly/ where I want you to touch me.” I smile to myself and lean down to trail gentle, persistent kisses from the small of his back up to his neck, feeling him shiver with pleasure, and I plant kisses in his hair until he has enough and rolls over onto his back, knocking me against him and holding me close, one hand on my waist, our legs entwined.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he murmurs and I am ready for the kiss when it comes. Damn, but he’s a good kisser. I let it take me away for a moment before I pull back, reluctant as usual, and simply stare at him. He’s got this half-smile on his face, his eyes still glazed with sleep—well maybe a bit of lust, too—and his nose wrinkles up in that way he has when he feels like he’s being scrutinized.

I trail my fingers over the scar on his nose, tracing the crooked path across it with a little frown and he sighs, closing his eyes at the touch. I smile faintly—he still looks wonderful to me, despite his hatred of the stupid thing—and I kiss him there gently, affectionately. For someone so sure of himself, he can be so self-conscious sometimes. I wriggle against him teasingly, kissing his nose again and then I catch his lips because I cannot resist.

His hand on my waist tightens marginally, and when I pull back, I sit up, taking his free hand and playing with his fingers absently. He looks up, a confused smile directed at me, and I sort of shrug and make a motion so that he sits up as well. I kiss his jaw and shift off of him, which makes him frown regretfully, but I bring the tray over quickly and replace it on his lap.

His grin makes me flush red and I bow my head under his look of pleased appreciation. “I thought you’d like something good for breakfast before your meeting,” I mutter, though of course that’s not the only reason I’ve done it. He doesn’t say anything, only sets the tray between us and takes what he assumes is his plate. The card I had placed on the tray lands in his lap, and he sets the plate back and picks it up.

I made it the night before. For someone in design, it was probably the most ridiculous thing I’d ever made. I’d drawn a pair of cats on the front of it, their tails entwined; one was black and curly-furred—me!—and the other one was brown and it was rubbing against the black one under the chin—just like Ben always does. He takes a few minutes to admire my drawing—(it really wasn’t very good)—and then he opens it, that little smile still drawing the corners of his mouth up.

I wait while he reads it through and he laughs softly, in that quiet way of his. I used to think he was being condescending, and most people do if they don’t know him, but I knew it was an understanding, admiring laugh. He sets the card down and motions for me to come closer. I scoot over and he wastes no time in catching my lips against his.

It’s a good minute before he pulls away, planting kisses like signatures against my cheeks and nose and lips. I smile, knowing he understands, and I pull him against me for another searing kiss before he forces our mouths apart.

“I love you, you know that?” he announces, shaking his head. I touch his nose, nodding. I know he does. I’ve always known it. Since the first day we met, to the first day he spanked me for making a fuss over pancake batter and breakfast, all the way to today. I know. I can only nod; my words lost as I lean in and kiss him again, hard.

“I love you, too, Ben. Happy Spank-iversary,” I say, cheeks flushing once more. He touches the card and then his hand moves to my cheek, thumb running under my eye. He’s smiling again, that delicious smile that shouts: “there is nobody else but you, Eli,” and I return it ten-fold, collapsing in his arms with a contented sigh.

I know our breakfast is getting cold, but Ben doesn’t protest when I wind my arms around his neck and push him back into the blankets, nibbling his jaw. He manages to push the tray further away from us as he flips us, so he’s on top of me.

He weighs more than I do but I’m used to this, his weight, his possessiveness, his control. I try to kiss him but he pins my arms above my head and only leans close, so our foreheads and noses are touching but he refuses to kiss me again. I can feel his breath on my lips and I struggle momentarily against his grip.

“Ben…” there’s a whine at the edge of my voice, and he finally relents and kisses me deeply, releasing one of my arms to snake his fingers up my shirt, ghosting over the flat of my stomach. I shiver, dropping my hand to tangle my fingers in his hair.

When he pulls away for air I breathlessly whisper his name again and he laughs, kissing my temple before he settles against me fully, our bodies touching, letting me take his weight. He doesn’t stop me when I kiss him hungrily, only moans happily.

“Eli,” he murmurs, “I love you. So much.” I can feel his heartbeat, beating to the same tempo as my own. It’s a wonderful concept, I realize, and I take a moment to listen to it. All of a sudden, he’s speaking again, kissing my face and my hair, and I fall back into the conversation.

“—so adorable. I didn’t know you were keeping track, Eli. Five years, wow. I mean, I knew it was a long time, but I didn’t really think about it. I can’t believe that. And look at you, all mature; making me breakfast in bed all on your own without a fuss. I’m so proud of you, Eli. So proud. You’re amazing, you know that, don’t you?”

I flush, shrugging, and surrender to his kisses and his touch. He makes me so happy, and making him happy makes me happy. Even if that means getting my butt blistered occasionally. It’s worth it. He kisses me again, his body solid against mine, his heart beating with my own, his fingers tangled with my own, our legs entwined.

I smirk, thinking about the card I made him; its somewhere underneath me, being flattened. I feel it pressing into my butt; very fitting. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote in it, but the last lines make me laugh: Thank you for your loving attention to my backside. I know my brain appreciates the reminder. I only hope you’ll continue to administer the same care in the future, until your services are no longer necessary and my brain catches up to you. Love, Eli.

Ben’s hand on my stomach, perilously close to the waistband of my pants, brings me back and I moan, arching into his touch with a smile. I’m a goner; breakfast will have to wait.

And then maybe I’ll tell him about the parking ticket I forgot to pay…