Be My Valentine
A spicy yet romantic tale about a man loving his wife and putting her pleasures first.
Richard Cameron sat up in bed staring at Dina as she slept. He was thinking. Thinking was something he did a lot. He was very, very good at thinking. He was going over his plan for today - Valentine’s Day. His brain was in full review mode going over all the milestones in his Valentine’s Day project. Along with the usual, flowers and reservations for a restaurant she had mentioned once, he had written a program that at the start of the month automated sending her “countdown to Valentine’s day” e-mails and texts containing brief love poems, lines from her favorite songs and movies, original goofy notes and even the occasional naughty little sext. He did NOT tell her it was automated. The intent was to set the stage, prepare her, raise her expectations and let her know she was on his mind.
And she was always on his mind. Richie was like a stalker minus the creep factor.
When Dina followed one of the web links he sent it took her to a Dina “fan page” that Richie had built for her containing photos from her pageant days, her graduations from high school and college, the opening of her second and third coffee-delis. Looking over the work he had put into the tribute site Dina had texted him:
Dina: Yo, ahab wattup? What make this vday so special?
Richie: You.
Yes, he was going all out. Even he couldn’t say why. He just felt really in love and wanted her to know it. He’d planned for months. It was supposed to be a day seasoned with surprises. He’d pick her up mid-day having arranged for her to leave work (she did not know this), the restaurant was upstate, so there would be a surprise road trip (he’d packed a bag for her) and a surprise special hotel, the kind that had theme rooms (medieval castle, western town, science fiction star ship) that he thought were ridiculous (the science fiction star ship was grossly inaccurate) but that she loved. A happy Dina, pay per porn and room service was a winning equation in Richie’s math book. The two of them loved to watch bad movies and make fun of them. Porn was particularly amusing and they had seen enough that they recognized many of the actors by their physical attributes.
Dina: “Eww, it’s that guy whose left eye never moves. No way would I do it with some walleye. Why would they hire him?”
Richie: “Are you kidding? Check out the size of his...pecs. Man, the time he has to put in on the pec deck to keep those things.”
Dina: “Deck envy, Cameron?”
Richie leaned into her trying hard to twitch his right eye and not the other resulting in an insane face, “Sounds like you need some one-eyed Richie!”
She would push him away with feigned revulsion, “Not till I finish this sandwich!”
That was always how it went. The action on screen, their joking about dimensions, tattoos and money shots was also a kind of foreplay that inevitably oiled up off-screen action between the two of them.
He trembled as he recalled those times and felt it.
Arousal.
Dina laid with her back to him on her right side in a pool of silvery moonlight that poured through the window behind them; the beam gave her bare flesh a cool blue hue. He watched the covers rise and fall with her breathing. She was not snoring at the moment, that power tool sound she would emit from time to time. But it wouldn’t matter to him if she had been. There wasn’t much she could do that would rattle his affection for her. He could count his lovers on one hand but he knew clearly that no other woman compared favorably to her. He was aware that he did not see her like he saw other women. His logical mind knew that younger, hotter, just plain different women existed, that Dina could be viewed as abrasive, rude, outspoken, and even mean. How many people want to put the First Lady on hold to get a sandwich?
No, he was not logical when he looked at her. Dina took his logic away. That was one of her gifts to him.
What he felt for her was beyond his thinking mind, in fact, he had come to a point where he no longer used his mind exclusively in dealing with her. She taught him the value of working outside his brain, of stepping out on something unseen and trusting that there was a world beyond thought, that thought was limited, that going with something you don’t understand because it scares you is important. He smiled at the reverie. He had tried to tell her that very thing the night of their second kiss, but she ended up making him live it. She taught him the importance of taking a chance, of relying on his instincts at times.
The range of everything she had taught him was so vast it couldn’t even be catalogued. This woman had blessed his life with stress and effort and pain. She birthed him in a way, bringing him into a surprising reality he did not fully understand but that he trusted as surely as he believed there would be air to breathe. He thought about everything they had been through. High school drama, abusive tricks, international trips, brushes with the law, other lovers, break-ups, successes, failures, and more battles than the UFC. The only thing that outnumbered the battles was the laughter. The laughs and smiles were beyond calculation.
He curled his finger into her blond hair that spilled on the pillow; he drew it up watching it trail down then pressed the tresses between his thumbnail and cheek. It was soft and silky with a scent of cinnamon and brown sugar. Knowing Dina it might have been shampoo or the actual spices that got into her hair. His eyes followed the honey colored strand down and over her bewitchingly lovely face. He loved to look at her, not just her features but every pulse quickening inch of her. He never tired of it. His gaze roamed over her covered shape. The thought of what waited underneath caused his heart to race, his blood to descend.
Just like that the sensation was fully on him, banging in his veins. It might have started in his brain, but it lived deeper, fed from the lower parts of him. This was not part of his Valentine’s Day plan, not now, anyway. This was something else she gave by taking away. She disrupted his plans and planted him in the moment.
He knew what he was feeling and didn’t even pause to place what he was about to do in his formula for the day. He gave himself to the fire inside; he embraced the drums. He really should have known this would happen. Any time spent looking at her led to where he was now. It didn’t matter what she was wearing, what she was doing, if he looked at her long enough he simply wanted her. She was not a sexual object, she was far beyond something physical to him, she was a complete experience that he knew and could predict. Yet conversely, paradoxically she remained mysterious and challenging----somehow familiar and new at the same time--- sexual deja vu. Whether he thought about her, talked to her or listened to her in any intercourse she had some gravity that compelled him to reach for her, merge into her and find some kind of release.
He wanted her now. It wasn’t in his plan but the plan did not matter, he had to have her now. He needed her rolling across all of his senses like submerging himself in a carnal river.
Sight, touch, smell, sound, taste, they all combined at these moments holding him in some sweet prison he would not dream of escaping. Looking at her he wanted to caress her flesh, to clutch those sunshine yellow curls in his fingers, to stroke the tiny angel hairs on her face and neck. He loved to smell her, to breathe in the soaps and scents she used to mask herself, then to penetrate deeper behind the artificial to savor the aromas that life gave her. To hear her, her noises, her gasp, her soft moans and her pleading, ecstatic sounds electrified him. Finally, to taste her; he craved the salty tang of her skin and hidden places on his tongue.
He bent down and parted the golden locks at the back of her neck, his lips brushed the yellow V of hair at the base, kissed the muscles lightly, and nibbled at her, gently, sweetly, using only the barest suggestion of teeth, a rumor of tongue.
He whispered, “Dina” the name taking on an evocative, earthen quality. Somehow it said that he had been thinking of her.
Missing her.
Needing her.
“Mmm?” she responded from a sleepy fog.
“Dina,” he repeated, as his finger tipped her ear lobe into his mouth.
She stirred as he continued to nuzzle her, his fingers not so much touching as suggesting touch. He withdrew and lifted the blanket revealing her luscious bare back. The sight fed his swelling like backdraft in a burning room. He knew her body so well; he paused over a moon kissed blue vein that ran between her shoulder and neck. That spot was very sensitive so he drew his chin stubble over it conjuring a shiver. Instantly concerned for her comfort he positioned the blanket over them then slowly moved down her smooth expanse tracing the fine bones and sinew he felt; he listened to the air move inside her, the steady rhythm of her heart, the internal wet noises unheard in the daylight that seemed to fill the lagoon of moonlight they swam in now. As he nibbled and kissed his way lower, his fingers tenderly massaged naked skin. He felt her hand reaching back, her nails drawing across his shoulder. It was a dazed, automatic gesture from someone still embraced in sleep.
He guided her fingers to his mouth and licked them as if they were dipped in chocolate, then continued his descent along her anatomy. Lower, ever lower until he could smell her, her musk issuing forth in response to his attentions. As his hand whisper-touched her waist she shifted, still not awake yet but reacting to something primitive that was uncoiling in each of them.
He gave the lightest of bites and made forceful strokes along the warm skin of her blanketed hip, his thumbs sweetly circling erotically on her muscles. Beginning to waken she eased onto her back, exposing herself, welcoming him, enticing him with a night dimmed view and natural fragrance that made his mouth water. Despite the grip of her hypnotic femininity he thought to draw the plush covers more securely over both of them keeping her warm and safe as he lowered his head between her naked thighs.
Always her.
Only her.
As he softly kissed her special, veiled-during-the-day spaces, he savored the heat emanating from her--- erotic steam. He slowly, oh so slowly moved from side to side, leaving no zone unaccounted for, thorough and deliberate he continued his feathery attentions, tantalizing, exhorting some animal spirit to rise. He loved this, this contact, this communication, this sensual communion. Then he closed his eyes relishing her hushed, bedroom voice.
“Mmmmmmmh, baby.”
A low jungle prayer issued in a tone that stoked the scarlet flames in his blood.
He waited for her. She could not be rushed or hurried; he centered himself in her, in her pleasure, in her reaction.
Always her.
Only her.
Now he needed his mind. He joined his intellect to his lust, aiming his laser-like focus on her reaction; he was paying complete and total attention to her cues. His body wanted to give her everything in one overwhelming rush but that was him, and this moment in time was hers, he wanted most to meet her on this plane, to give her what she wanted by following the hints that came forth in the hot shadow. He treated her body as a mystery to solve, paying attention to the smallest trembling clues, moving moment to moment, second to second, patiently in control, ignoring the clawing demands inside his hips. He listened to her; felt her in the humid darkness, her direction. They had traveled to this pulsing place together so many times in so many locations, learning the landscape, finding the secret rooms that when correctly entered wetly or brazenly caused tingles to ripple and swell like waves, waves that burst into a writhing and jolting convulsion of needful thighs, arching back and climactic cries.
He would know success when her hands were on him, insisting, urging, demanding, he would know success when there were tears. The only time he ever wanted to make her cry was like this. And he could. He had done it so frequently he took gleaming masculine pride in this deeply private accomplishment. In this intimate posture he did think of himself. Of all the things he could do, of all the skills he had acquired in his life nothing gave him greater satisfaction than being her lover, her very capable lover.
When they were together like this there was a synergy, a oneness, a partnership of flesh that transcended his ability to understand but that fed some hungry space inside him. There was the sound of a heart beating but whether it was hers or his he could not tell. He smiled inside at the thought that those muscles would synchronize.
He needed her so much. It used to frighten and perplex him this set of sensations she detonated inside him, but now, he felt confident, strong.
Loved.
He was so far into her that time had no meaning. Her excitement shed mere words, her vocabulary melting down to pure sound:
“Ooooooooh.”
Her raw expressions nourished him, satisfied and teased him; her movement against his tongue, its urgency dared him, challenged him, made him bold yet inspired unparalleled tenderness.
“Ah, ah, ahhhhh.”
Impossibly fragile yet breathtakingly strong.
She was near; he felt the approach, the trembling that indicated a chain reaction had begun an erotic electrical storm inside her deepest uncivilized places. The thought of it galvanized him.
And then he heard it:
“Da Da?” the tiny voice said.
All movement stopped.
All movement stopped everywhere.
Traffic outside, the breeze, clock hands, nothing on the planet moved. He was under the covers, her hands on his head between her legs, the fearsome strength that was her birthright demanding complete, terrified stillness.
It was Parker, their youngest. Richie had not locked the door to their bedroom.
“Hey buddy,” he heard Dina’s raspy, vaguely tense morning voice, “Why are you up?”
“The werewolves are back,” the four-year-old responded. “Where’s daddy?”
Richie’s heart joined the motionless world, suspended in his chest. Parker often came in expecting to find daddy for potty, or tuck-in or drink. Why was daddy gone? What would she say? What could she say? She was the liar of the two of them, the creative one, the one that could get laughs with just a garbage bag full of yogurt.
“Daddy’s...uhm, downstairs.”
Richie smiled, trapped in his favorite place in the world; he was in awe of her. She was so quick, so special; he loved her mind, her fast, unorthodox thinking engine. He shook slightly but her hands held him firmly under the covers.
“Can you go get him?” the boy asked.
“Why don’t you?” she responded.
From his shadowy, wet location Richie mouthed the answer.
“It’s dark,” the boy said.
“Okay, mama needs some privacy, you go out in the hall and close the door, I’ll come out and we’ll deal with the werewolves.”
“Liken-throats,” the little boy said. Richie smiled, realizing that the term was a fun-house mirror of the real word, lycanthropes. He pictured the little boy who looked just like him standing in the moonlit room with his armload of stuffed puppies, dinosaurs and daddy’s sweatpants that accompanied him anytime the child exited bed.
“What?” Dina asked him.
“Daddy says they’re called liken...” he hesitated, halted at some verbal road block.
“Scoot out to the hall sweet slice,” she told him, “and close the door.”
From under the covers Richie heard muffled shuffling and the door click shut.
The next sound was her voice - a furious whisper.
“You didn’t lock the door?!”
He imagined the familiar gas flame blue of her eyes.
“Mmmm, frrrumph,” he said into her.
The covers flew back and heavenly cool air rushed in around him, Richie’s eyes panned up the moonlit gorgeousness of his nude wife. Her warm hands cupped his wet chin.
He smiled then whispered with a numb tongue, “Will you be my valentine, princess?”
She looked at him, turning her head to the side as if trying to look into his brain by finding a crack in his eyes. Then she pulled him onto her, kissing him deeply, exploring his mouth with a blistering passion. Dina was the best kisser, years of sampling and savoring meats gave her...skills.
He shuddered.
She broke the kiss, “Dork, you are so going to finish what you started,” she hissed it through her perfect white teeth.
“Now?” he teased, his eyebrow flicking up.
She could not contain her amused smile. She lightly batted his ear, “No, not now. Your werewolf bedtime story is the dumbest thing you have ever done.”
“Wolves have been a part of bedtime stories for hundreds of years. Probably thousands if you think about cave men fleeing...”
She pulled him into another moist kiss, he had only failed to return one of her kisses and that mistake would never be repeated so he leaned into her passionately his tongue meeting her thrusts.
“Mama?” the voice called from the other side of the door, “are you coming?”
Their faces parted both painted with the same frustrated smile, “almost,” she said in a low, wicked tone. Her hand found Richie and gave a single, luxuriant, sin laced stroke that forced him to groan.
“Hold on sweet slice, mommy still needs privacy,” then she added in a conspirator’s voice, “I have to go deal with your son, goon-bag.”
He sucked in a ragged breath then let it out, blinking, “So, you’re leaving me for another man?”
She slid off the bed and collected her robe from the floor, “Younger, cuter, smarter---mama’s no fool.”
“Will you ever stop being mean to me, Mrs. Cameron?”
She looked at him sincerely, “Nope, because you love it,” and her eyes blazed like the stars that hung in the window behind them.
“Yes, yes, I do,” he nodded, and then added, “I love you.”
Her face, the one rendered by some divine artist for the express purpose of agitating his mind softened, “I love you too.” Her expression, the light coming out of her, left no room for doubt.
She closed the big terry cloth robe but as she walked toward the door she paused, turned toward him and opened the garment again, she did a slow, vaguely comedic, completely immoral grind, a dirty, random dance that would scandalize the PTA. How was her body still perfect after all this time? His brain had no answer.
“You better have our Valentine’s Day planned and ready to rock,” she warned.
“No problema, guapa,” he replied. “I went low key this year,” he lied. His plan was complete, he had thought of everything. Sitters, the trip, surprises especially conceived for her. It would be perfect.
She deserved no less.
Always her.
Only her.
And she was gone through the door to the waiting arms of another. Richie Cameron swallowed loudly. He listened to their voices fade in the hall, to the furnace hum in the walls, to the rain drum the roof. He was the happiest man on the planet. His mind needed none of the abundant evidence to come to that logical conclusion.
He knew it in his heart. Where his best decisions always came from.