All of Me

twenty one • something in the air

• • •

It's been a month since we buried Dad. Well. Planted him, I guess. Every time I think of him growing underground, the roots his legs and the branches his arms, I smile. I used to cry. God, I have cried a lot, the past month, but now it's been a full four weeks and the beauty of Dad's burial has finally overwhelmed the grief that wrecked me.

In my mind's eye, I see Dad cracking jokes about his leafy fingers and his muddy feet; I see my future children climbing up into his branches to hug their grandpa. I can't help but smile to myself, a happy warmth flushing my cheeks. I'm content. I feel good. Finally.

Liam nudges me. He turns down the volume of the movie we're watching and smiles at me, his arm draped around my shoulders like a heavy blanket. "What're you thinking?" he asks. He asks that a lot, whenever he senses me slipping off into my own world.

I don't always give him an honest answer. It's hard to admit out loud that I still spend too much time wondering why he chose me, why he wanted to talk to me. Sometimes my mind slips into neutral and I wonder how on earth I got to this point, lying with my boyfriend – my crazy hot boyfriend, that is - in his bed, watching movies and maybe spending more time making out.

"I'm just feeling good," I say, turning my smile to him. It would probably bring the mood down if I said that I'd been thinking about my dad as a tree. Liam knows everything now. Probably more than I ever meant to unload on him, but when I get on a roll, I can't stop the words flowing and he's turned out to be a pretty great listener.

He grins and squeezes my shoulder, his hand slipping down. "You sure do feel good," he says, his accent slipping just a bit. He may be from Cincinnati but his mom's from Alabama and he says she's as southern as they come. I haven't met her, or even seen a photo, but for some reason I'm intimidated by the idea of her.

"Looking good too, beautiful," Liam says, pressing his lips to my cheek. I still blush when he calls me that, no matter how often we end up in this position. At least a couple times a week, we'll find ourselves here in his bed with his laptop in front of us but movie time is rarely dedicated to a movie.

Sometimes we just talk. Sometimes we cuddle. I love those times, when I feel like there's just the two of us in the world and all that matters is our words. Sometimes things get a little more hands on, but never more than that.

When I turn my cheek, Liam kisses my lips and pulls me closer, his legs over mine. His tongue is hot and soft, a strange and slippery sensation that I'm still getting used to; his hand is exploring south of my shoulder. His fingers are warm on my waist, grazing over dimpled skin to my bra. He cups my breast over the lace, his other hand in my hair, then pushes the material aside.

A thrilling tingle pulses though me when his palm grazes my nipple. My hands are under his shirt, feeling my way around the muscles I know so well, my heart thudding as Liam presses himself closer. His stomach hard and tanned and smooth to the touch, and he smells insanely good. God, I could inhale him.

He throws his pillow out of the way, still kissing me with such a hunger that you'd have thought his life depended on my lips. When I lie down, he looms over me, his knees either side of mine, and gives me that irresistible grin. I loop my arms around his neck, pulling in again, and I hear the familiar snap when he shuts his laptop.

Another movie forgotten. I can't count how many times we've loaded up Netflix only to push it away before the movie's over, but we've never gone much further than this. I know the feel of his hands all over me, in me; I know how he feels when I wrap my hand around him; I know the pattern of his breaths and he knows the arch of my back. But nothing more.