Lisa Desrochers - A Little Too Much

And it scares me.

Because with Brett and everyone before him, sex was mechanical. Predictable. I was in control and it felt good, physically, but that’s all it felt. The purpose was to ground me and remind me I existed. Sex with Brett didn’t reach into my soul and tug at my heart. It didn’t move me to tears. But Alessandro took me there with no pain. No props. I’ve never been able to come like that for anyone else.

But as Alessandro crawls up the couch, and I feel his knees press into the cushions between my legs, I realize this is different. I open my eyes, and see him working the button of his jeans. I reach up to help him and he looks down at me with a question burning in his raw, animal gaze. The same question that was there eight years ago, the first time we did this. In response, I drag his zipper down.

He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet and rips the condom out of it, chucking the wallet on the floor. I slip it out of his hand, and he sucks in a sharp breath as I roll it over his length. I lay back and open myself up to him, guiding him to me with my hands on his hips.

He hesitates and lets out an agonized groan, but I don’t want him to think. I just want him inside me. I roll my hips and take him deep.

He moans my name as he sinks into me, and a seriously intense sex rush seizes my body. All the muscles in my belly, my groin, down my legs contract hard around him and my breath catches in my throat.

“Am I hurting you?” he breathes into my hair, concern edging the roughness of his need.

For a second I can’t speak. “God, no,” I finally manage. Nothing has ever felt this good.

He begins to rock, and the feel of him moving inside me, filling me, sets my blood on fire. His pace is slower than I’m used to, so it takes me a minute to catch his rhythm, but when I do, and we move together, hot, aching pressure starts to build in my belly again, like lava roiling under the volcano, preparing to erupt.

He drops kisses over my shoulders and neck as he moves on top of me, picking up his pace as our breathing does the same. With every thrust, I give a little moan, unable to stop myself. I catch his earlobe in my teeth and tug gently and am rewarded with an animal growl from Alessandro’s core.

Something changes with that growl, like he was holding back but now he’s set the beast free. He trails a hand from my left hip down to my knee and lifts it higher, spreading me wide, then groans deep in his chest and plunges deeper, burying himself to the root.

I spin with the sensation of him moving inside me, doing everything I need him to do—bringing me just where I need to go. And the only pain is the ache in my heart for not being able to get close enough.

As he pumps faster and deeper, I feel myself start to spin out of control. I gasp for air as he brings me right to edge of the cliff again, and arch into his body with his last thrust. As I come hard for the second time in ten minutes, I cry out, “Alessandro!”

And his name falling from my lips sounds like a prayer.

I’m ready, I realize just in that second. I’m ready to open up and tell him everything. I want him, and more than that, I need him. I think I always have, on some level, even when I thought I’d never see him again.

“Hilary?” Alessandro pants, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, my eyes screwed shut and my insides in knots. I open my mouth to say it . . . to tell him Henri is his. But then I close it again. Now isn’t the time. It’s too much too soon.

When we’ve caught our breath, he kisses my lips then rolls off me.

I pull myself to my feet and hold out my hand. “Come on.” I tow him up the hall on shaky legs, past Henri’s room, to my old bedroom. We slip under the sheets and I curl into his side, and this time, when he loves me, it’s slow and easy and so tender that it hurts.

And I know without a doubt, this is where I’ve always belonged.

IT’S THURSDAY AND it’s my turn.

And I’m petrified.

Last Thursday, I slept with Alessandro. This Thursday, I’m going to tell him he has a son. We’ve been together every night for the last week, and so many times I’ve opened my mouth to tell him, but I can’t decide how.

What if everything Mallory is afraid of comes true?

She’s been the only constant in my life. Everyone has left me. Mallory is the only person who’s ever come back. I know we fight, and I know I disappoint her, but I can’t risk losing her. If Alessandro finds out about Henri . . . if he wants to tell him—or worse, tries for custody—not only will I lose Mallory, but maybe Henri as well.

But when I search deep inside, I realize I’m much more afraid of Alessandro turning his back on me. Somehow, he’s torn down my walls, and the feeling of being totally vulnerable and exposed to him both terrifies and thrills me. It’s like the rush of free-falling, and knowing I can take the risk because Alessandro will catch me.

Except, what if he doesn’t? What if I tell him this and he lets me fall on my face?

I’m wound so tight trying to sort through this that, when my phone rings, I jump a mile, sure it’s him. But then I realize the ringtone isn’t Creed. I pick my phone up off the nightstand and look at the screen.

Bedford Hills Correctional.

My heart leaps. I went yesterday, on New Year’s, and Mom refused my visit again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. I stab the connect button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. McIntyre? Hilary McIntyre?” a woman’s voice that’s not Mom’s asks.

“Yes.”

“Ms. McIntyre, this is Sylvia Reingold at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility. Your mother is asking for you.”

For a full minute, I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.

“She’s being transported to Northern Westchester Hospital as we speak. The doctor says it’s close. You might want to hurry.”

“I will,” I say, numb.

“And she’s also asked for your sister, if you can reach her. We don’t have her number on file.”

My pounding heart flips in my chest. “Okay.”

I disconnect and dial Mallory.

“Hey,” she says, and through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear the boys yelling in the background. It sounds like Max is getting back to himself.

“Mal, we have to go to see Mom. She’s—”

“Stop, Hilary,” she interrupts, her voice a blade. “I told you why I can’t go. Please respect that.”

“They’re taking her to the hospital. They said she’s asking for us and that we should hurry. This is it, Mallory. She’s really dying.”

“Good,” she spits, but then there’s a long pause where all I hear is the TV blaring and the boys fighting. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I want you to come.”

“Which hospital?” she asks after a beat.

“Northern Westchester.”

She blows out a breath. “I’ll be there in an hour to pick you up.”

I’M ON THE curb when Mallory’s silver Volvo SUV rolls to a stop next to the parked cars in front of my building. The car behind her honks as I race over and hop in. And when I look at her as she pulls away, I’m surprised to see she’s been crying.

She glances over and sees the surprise on my face. “Don’t even say it,” she warns, holding up a hand.

I sink into the seat and neither of us says anything as she navigates us through the city to the West Side Highway.

“What else did they say?” she finally asks just as we’re crossing the bridge into the Bronx.

“Nothing really.” I look at her. “But she asked for both of us.”

Her jaw grinds tight and she keeps her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I’ll never forgive her. I don’t care if she’s dying or not.”

“I don’t blame you.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, I lean my forehead into the window and close my eyes.

It’s an hour and a half later that Mallory’s GPS informs us we’re “arriving at destination.” She pulls into the parking lot and we go to the information desk.

“Where is Roseanne McIntyre’s room?” I ask the old woman at the computer.

She pecks at the keys for a minute and I want to scream at her to move her ancient bones faster, but I bite my tongue.

“I don’t see any MacEntire,” she finally says.

“No. McIntyre. M, C, I. She was probably just brought in from Bedford Correctional.”

She types some more and smiles as she hits pay dirt. “Oh! Here she is. She’s in a secured room on the third floor.” She looks up at us. “Are you family?”

But I’m already sprinting toward the elevator. Mallory steps up behind me as the doors open. I wait for everyone coming out to get the hell out of our way, then step in and push three. When the doors open again, it’s into a long corridor. Just down from us is the nurses’ station, and across the hall, sitting in a molded plastic chair, is a corrections guard. I hurry toward him, Mallory lagging behind.

“We’re Roseanne McIntyre’s daughters. She was asking for us,” I pant.

“ID,” he says, standing from his chair and towering over us. He’s huge, like they think Mom’s a flight risk and they might need a mountain of a guard to wrestle her into submission when we try to break her out.

I hand him my ID, and I see Mallory’s hand shake when she holds hers out to him.

“You can see her one at a time. Fifteen minutes each.” He pushes the door open. “Who’s first?”

“Her,” Mallory shoots before I have a chance to respond.

I look at her hard. “Don’t you disappear.”

Her terrified eyes flick toward the door then back to me. “I can’t do this, Hilary.”