Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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"Well don't you look beautiful." I muse, grinning from ear to ear when I see Rosie approaching my truck. You might assume that because it's raining and Winter weather (in Portland), that I'm inside. But no, I've decided to step out of the warm nest that is my Dodge Ram and open the car door for my girlfriend, while holding an umbrella, if I may add.
People say romance is dead, but I like to think it's only dead if you kill it.
"You're crazy." She tells me, going from seeming like she's had a long day to the best one of her life. Okay, maybe I'm giving myself a little too much credit; though, she does smile so wide that her cheeks turn into little tomatoes - thanks to a serious case of blushing she does.
The involuntary reaction, not the makeup product. And yes, I do know the name of one of the many kinds of makeup products girls use. How many others do I know? Well, that's besides the question.
"How was work?" I ask her, holding the umbrella over her as I open the door. If I were some macho dude that drinks way too many protein shakes and wears a low-cut tank top, I might of someone acting like this, like a whipped bitch. Pussy-whipped, to be exact.
But honestly, I would rather do whatever I want and look like a dork or "uncool" - whatever that means; than spend my life worried about what other people think. I already do enough of that as it is, wanting to set a good example for little kids. And hey, if I can show guys that it's okay to be nice to your girlfriend, well, then I'll feel like I made a difference in the world.
She doesn't respond, watching me as I lean against the passenger door. I want to kiss her but I know she doesn't really like doing PDA at work. I'm trying really hard to be as a dog trainer might call "a good boy", but I really fucking want to kiss her. It's been like nine hours since the last time I got to.
"Are you coming in, or am I driving myself home?" She half-jokes, half-not, seeming to be nervous around the prospect, herself. I'm not sure if it's because she wants me to or because she's worried I will when she doesn't. Women are hard to understand sometimes, even when they're your girlfriend.
Sometimes they want you to do something but tell you they don't. Then they tell you they don't want something when they do. And say they're okay with something when they're not. If someone could crack that code, the one that is a woman on a hot summer's day, I think they would automatically become the smartest person in the world.
"It's really pouring, eh?" I comment, shaking the water out of the umbrella before tossing it into the backseat. When I move back into my own seat, Rosie grabs the back of my head and plants one on me. It's unexpected, and surprising, and really, really, fucking hot.
I love that she goes for what she wants, and that what she wants, is me.
"Damn. Guess I should open the door for you more often." I joke, after a few moments of innocent kissing. It's not the kind we have in bed when we're making love; but rather the kind that you would do when dropping a girl off at home. It's polite, kind, longing; it shows how much you want her, but that you're okay with waiting. You want her for her, and not because your dick is hard.
She shakes her head, laughing as well. "I'm mad at you." She informs me, crossing her arms over her chest like my tongue wasn't an inch away from just being in her mouth. This is what I mean about women though, they make no sense. She kisses me at work - which is usually off limits, red zone; then she tells me she's mad at me. Maybe this is one of those she wants me to work for it, things.
Or maybe she just wants to tease each other a bit so that when we get back home, she's feistier. Who am I kidding? She's always feisty.
"Oh yeah?" I respond, my mouth still lingering awfully close to hers; so close that I can taste the Wintergreen breath mints she has after every meal. "Why's that?" I wonder, reaching over and tucking a piece of hair that's fallen out of her bun, behind her ear. Her breath hitches, making me think she enjoys the physical touch just as much as I do.
"You distract me." She says, making it come out like she's accusing me of eating the last cupcake when she was saving it for later - or worse, drinking the last of her iced latte. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if to prove just how serious she is; though, that just makes her look even adorable.
I can't lie, she's cute as fuck when she's mad. Not mad as in there's something to legitimately be angry about, like men trying to take away abortion rights; but mad as in I'm hogging the covers and she doesn't like it. Or so she claims I'm hogging the covers. The truth is, I'm just bigger than her and take up more space.
Plus, the way I see it, if she's on top of me, then we're both getting the same amount of duvet coverage. Is it a duvet or a comforter? I'm not even sure I know the difference - or could tell if someone asked me to. All I know is Rosie made me help her put it on the bed one time and we ended up having sex right away. Or maybe that was the fitted sheet?
"Do I?" I ask, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat when he's talking to Alice. Anyone else think that dude was creepy as fuck, just hanging out in a tree, watching some lost blonde girl wander around? His voice creeped me the fuck out when I was a kid - and still does, if I'm being honest.
She shakes her head at me, as if getting distracted by me could be bad thing. Not to pump my own tires, but I think that's kind of what happens when you're with someone - and planning on spending the rest of your life with them.
You get obsessed with them, distracted. Every bad thing that happens to you, you want to tell them. Every funny video you see on YouTube, you want to show them. Every cute GIF of a puppy on Reddit you find, you want to send them. You want to share it all with them: the good, the bad, and the unfortunate.
When they're not around, you think about them. How they smell, how they fit in your arms, how your bodies fit together, how you fit inside of them. Every moment you've had together, all your favorite ones, play inside your head like a song you can't get out. And truth be told, I don't think anyone wants to.
Because love, is the most addictive thing in the world. And for me, that comes in the form of a 5'8 brunette that enjoys blueberry muffins and sleeps with a stuffed elephant (when I'm not around, when I'm around we share her - not in a sexual way. I don't share.)
"It's not funny." She scolds me, crossing her arms over chest in an effort to say she means business. Except the only thing it does is eventuate her tits. Which are very perky and my favorite place to put my mouth - maybe second favorite? I do like her mouth. Maybe we can have a tied 1st place in this contest. Seeing as I am the rule maker, I think I can make an exception.
That exception being anywhere on her body, is my favorite place for my mouth to be.
"You're pretty distracting as well, Rosie." I tell her, showing that two can play at whatever game it is we are playing. How long can I go without kissing her? How much drool can pour out of my mouth as I watch her chest rise and fall? How hard can I get without breaking the fly of my jeans, or impaling my dick with my zipper?
Hasbro watch out, you have some stiff competition. No pun intended.
"I am not." She immediately says, as if she alone is the judge and jury of that statement. When I give her a look as if to call her out on it, then look at her mouth, she straightens up, like she didn't realize she could be someone to distract another. When we both don't say anything and just keep staring at each other - me getting distracted by her mouth and thus proving the point, she moves on. "I messed something up at work."
I'm not computing. "And that's my fault?" I wonder, not making it sound accusatory but rather a wondering thought, of how on earth I could be impacting her work performance. Then again, I did almost cut off one of my fingers the other day, because she came into the kitchen wearing a bra when I was cutting a tomato.
"Yeah." She states, nodding as if this is as simple and straightforward as someone needing to renew their license at the DMV. But much like the DMV, I think she's going to make me jump through a few hoops to get the answer for this one. Or, maybe, just put my tongue in her mouth.
