VOLUME | ONC 2023

7. Tell Me Again

Lizzie...

"You know how beautiful you look first thing in the morning?" Roosevelt snaked his arms around my waist, nuzzling his nose against the curve of my neck.

"Ro, stop it. I'm useless when you're bothering me," I recoiled, ticklish and shy.

His begging had finally worn me down.

While I'd agreed to join him at his grandparents' cabin that sat nestled in the woods at the edge of a lake, I was nervous; he made me jumpy.

"I like you useless," with gentle teeth, Roosevelt nipped the flesh at the juncture before pecking the spot.

"You must not want any biscuits then," I'd just arranged circles of dough in the cast iron dutch oven, preparing to set them atop the wood-burning stove.

"Okay, okay. A ceasefire – you have forty-five seconds to put those on," the dogged man backed away, hands in surrender as I watched his bare torso retreat.

I tried to hide my grin, smashing my lips between my teeth as I used oven mitts to sit the heavy dishware on the stove.

I added another piece of chopped wood to the fire, stoking it briefly before closing and locking the door.

He stood behind me again, untying the apron, whispering sweet nothings while I massaged flour off my hands in a basin of water.

Just as the dawn broke across a sleepy sky, I'd watched him through the window as he ratcheted the hand pump, well water springing forth with his exertion.

The day prior, I'd gotten an eyeful as he removed his shirt to chop wood, his core, and biceps flexing with the act.

My sickly sweet Roosevelt, he'd even cut some magnolias off the tree, setting them in an old jar.

"They aren't as beautiful as you, but I thought you might enjoy looking at them," he'd said.

He could wax political, and he could debate ethics. An academic at heart, he knew how to spout the philosophical ideologies of Voltaire and Aristotle – and he could live off the land.

"I'm so used to you bossing me around at the office, seeing you be all...domestic is making me..." Roosevelt tossed the apron over the back of a wooden chair, turning me to face him.

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny, "Making you what?"

He cradled my head, capturing my lips with a wide, hungry mouth. With no forewarning, he hiked up the hem of my simple cotton dress so that it didn't hinder him as he picked me up.

I yelped, and like a wordless apology, he kissed me again.

Transfixed, his gaze stayed fixed on mine. I wrapped my legs around his waist.

A coy smile played on my lips as he carried me to the rumpled bed in the corner of the one-room log cabin, "Making you what, Ro?"

Gently tossing me, the bed sprang while I laughed.

It was this side of Roosevelt that both thrilled and terrified me.

"Making me want to give you lots and lots of babies," he clasped onto my ankle, dragging me closer to his frame.

I sat up on my elbows, watching the smoldering, dark look in his eyes as his head dipped to my sternum.

My heart raced, and my eyebrows arched, "Is that right?"

"That's right," he kissed the bone, making a line down my stomach with his pecks.

"How many?"

He halted, looking at me pensively, "Five."