Complicated (Alex Gaskarth)

I Don't Have To Try

Despite her morals telling her not to take Alex in a public changing room, Elizabeth can't help but give in to her baby fever urges.

Companion chapter to The Complicated Project

Like any bookworm, I've been in this situation before.

Where I'm too distracted by diverse circumstances to continue reading my book.

But never has such a situation been like this one.

As in, never for this reason.

That is, my shirtless husband sitting crossed legged on the sun bed next to mine, adorned in a simple smile, sunglasses, red swim trunks and a snapback, with the backdrop of our resort's outdoor pool behind him.

Which makes him looks downright savoury.

More savoury than he did on our wedding day, heck, even after our first trysts of many in our Roman hotel room.

The most savoury, really, in all the years I've been with him.

Yet, in that four-year period, never has his appearance made me feel this torrid; never has it had my inside yearning as they are now to be filled up by him; never has it made me want to lose all forms of public decorum.

Like it has me doing now.

That is, closing my book shut in a huff to place it on the sun bed, before standing up to face Alex, a stern command on my tongue.

"Get up, Gaskarth. We're leaving."

"Liz," he starts, tone stern and eyes dark behind his spectacles, "We just got here."

Instantly realizing that getting him going won't be as easy as I initially thought, panic settles in my body, until I conjure a solution, as tentative as it may be.

"It's my bathing suit." I blurt, "I think there's something with the straps."

"The straps?" he questions, his eyes raking up the sky blue two piece, "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with them."

"No, there is." I insist hurriedly, "They're not tightened enough and keep falling. So, could you please come to the changing room and help fix them for me?"

"And you can't this yourself because..." he trails off with furrowed eyebrows, yet another refusal on his part.

Now frustrated at being denied on not one, but two occasions, I think up yet another solution to my demanding core, only this time more potent, more evocative, more likely for him to finally understand.

"I just don't want to, you know," I hesitate, as I widen my eyes and turn my head to the side "hurt myself."

Referencing the night when we tried a dildo gag ball, more so, when perhaps a bit too eager to get him going, I accidentally tied the strap too tight around his head, the implication has his eyes widening in realization. At the fear, I'm not sure, of something similar occurring or what I'm further implying, but nonetheless he finally, finally, agrees.

"Yeah, okay, sure, yeah, let's go fix your straps."

At that, he's standing up from the sun bed, while I hastily shove everything of what we brought for our sun day in my beach bag, the braided straps finding their way unto my shoulder.

Determined, I place a strong grip on his wrist, the perfect leverage for us to then pace towards the changing room, with absolutely no care for the vacationers relaxing just a few feet away from there.