I Always Will

Southern Gothic

Rowan, Ten Minute Rewind

Our bedroom is awash in candles. My eyes are closed, but I can see the warm red flicker through my lids. I sit between Riley's legs on the bed. His breath is hot on the back of my neck while he massages my shoulders.

"Oh fuck, baby, yes," I whisper.

He pulls the silk robe from my shoulders and presses a little deeper with his thumbs at the back of my neck. The pressure feels so good. My neck and shoulders are killing me from constant playing.

I whimper as his lips skim the cap of my shoulder. I hear him breathe in slowly as he scents me. His lips climb past my bra strap to the base of my neck. He tugs my braid, and I yield the side of my throat. There's a momentary thrill because I don't know if he will suck tenderly or bite swiftly.

I hiss in anticipation. I feel him grin against my neck as he does neither. He keeps skating my skin—up, up, up my neck to my ear.

"There's no hurry is there, darling?" he murmurs.

I whimper in response.

One of his hands leaves its massage and finds its way to my bare stomach, trailing lazily around my belly button just as his mouth teases my earlobe.

I reach back to fist his messy black hair, but he grabs my left wrist tightly.

"That could be a mess."

I swallow. "Right. I forgot."

He crosses my captured hand across my chest. His lips leave my ear to blow on my fingertips, because he's employed a rather dubious guitarist's trick of supergluing the bleeding cracks. They are in terrible shape. I've been playing for hours on end, days upon days, but my out-of-practice finger tips can't take it.

He tests the dried glue tentatively against his lips. "Hmmm. Actually they're dry, but one more coat, I think."

"Okay," I whisper. I twist from my position to face him, offering my fingers up for doctoring.

Just like every night for the last two weeks, my heart begins to race as I drink him in. Riley is barechested, in soft black sleeppants. About a month ago, he was overdue for a haircut. Now for the first time since I've known him, he's sporting a sexy, longish mop that's curling against all the fine bones of his face. He's not wearing his glasses right now. And he's halfway to drunk. The heavy lidded, relaxed look he wears at night is now my new favorite Riley expression.For once, his face and lean, taught torso have bit of color. We've been spending lazy afternoons by the pool. Resting up for this.

Our guitar boudoir nights.

Every night after dinner, I light the candles and Riley brings the booze with the help of a basket we sit on his walker. I take my clothes off and put on a robe while he tunes the guitars. He adjusts his bed for back support. He plays sitting there, and I play all over the room. Sometimes crosslegged from him on the bed, or walking, or perched on the dresser. Sometimes I sit between his legs and play. Best of all, we do this thing where we both play one guitar—my left hand changing cords, my right hand on his knee as he strums or picks. I love that the most.

We play everything.

Alt rock. Blues. Country. Folk. Top 40. Classic rock.

We don't just play it. We reinterpret it. We comb through it, separate the elements, and reconstruct it. Both of us completely ethralled by the process. Both of us learning more as we go. Riley about music theory and his natural style, me about the new limits of my hand, the versatility of my musical training and my musical preferences.