Best of Joy

Chapter 7: Punta Cana

I cracked my eyes open slightly as the early California sun peeked in through the tall windows.

I yawned a bit; I was still exhausted from the long, amazing night.

I felt so warm and peaceful. I felt Michael’s arms around me as he spooned me from behind.

I looked over my shoulder at him; he so looked worn out. His head rested by mine and his mouth hung open slightly as he snored quietly. His beautiful long hair framed his face and neck.

As quietly as possible, I tried to turn over in his arms, careful not to wake him.

I lay there just looking at him. He had to be the most beautiful person in the entire world.

The look on his sleeping face was a mixture of fatigue and satisfaction. I watched him as he steadily inhaled and exhaled. Memories of the night began to pile in my mind…

I shivered a little, and Michael cracked his eyes a bit.

A big, sleepy smile spread across his face.

“Goodmorning, beautiful,” He said, tightening his arms around me and yawning.

“Goodmorning,” I said, brushing his hair from his face. I let my palm rest on his cheek.

I felt his hands begin to rub my back.

“How do you feel?” He said, glancing at my lips then back at my eyes.

“A bit sore, actually,” I said.

His eyes became worried. “Did I hurt you?” His voice was so small and innocent, I had to smile.

“Well, a little. But that’s okay. I was expecting it,” I said. It was my first time, after all. My amazing first time…

“I’m really sorry, baby,” Michael said, smooching my neck. “But you did enjoy it…?” His smile indicated he already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear me say it.

I grinned. “I very much did… You are so good…”

Michael blushed a little.

“So are you…” He kissed me tenderly.

“I love you so much,” I said, kissing him back.

His hand came up to stroke my forehead.

“I love you too, babe,” He leaned in to kiss it.

He raised himself up against the frame of the bed, the covers just above his hips.

I looked his beautiful chest over. Gosh, he was so perfectly toned; not ripped, he was just right.

“Michael, you’re so beautiful,” It just came out of my mouth.

“Please. I’m a freaking Dalmatian.” Michael’s voice became extremely disgusted as he traced the outline of one of the lighter patches of skin on his stomach.

He had been diagnosed with Vitiligo in 1986, and ever since, he had been extremely sensitive about it. And it didn’t help that the nasty press was capitalizing on it like they’d never seen such a thing before; accusing him of having skin peels and not wanting to be black. It angered me, and I know it angered him twice as much. But he would rarely ever talk about it.

“You’re not a Dalmation. You’re beautiful. Just the way you are.” I moved so that I was sitting on top of him. I felt him stiffen a bit.

“You’re my wife. You have to say that,” He said, half-smiling. “But seriously, I hate it. I wish it would just go away.”