Quite

"Fuck me..." she whispered in my ear. My hand went down to her tight ass and grasped her cheeks as I thrusted my hips upwards, pushing it as far into her as I could. I knew that we both could hear the sounds that was being made every time by cock pushed into her squishy and wet pussy that was still leaking out her orgasm juices that I could feel around the base of my cock. Her arms were wrapped around my neck, holding on tightly as she was forced upwards with every thrust of my hips. And just as fast as she was drained from her orgasm, she was back at it, slowly and smoothly thrusting her hips down as I pushed myself up into her. My fingers were running up and down her ass and between her firm cheeks, being coated with her wet cum that was slowly dripping out of her pussy.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise and amazement as my lubricated finger rubbed against the asshole. She lifted her head and bent down to kiss me as my other hand wandered down, to rub the top of her slit and the folds of skin covering her clit, between our sweating bodies. Carla stifled a yelp as I pushed up hard against her, my hips bumping against her own. As my regenerated energy caused me to trust into her pussy harder than before tonight, her breathing became ragged and short, her lips breaking contact with mine to let out a long and low moan. Even before her moan died, she forced her mouth back upon my own, forcing her tongue into my mouth.

"Oh fuck!" she moaned, a low rumble escaped her lips as another crashing orgasm hit her. Her nails clawed at the back of my neck as her body shook before loosening her grip just a little.

"Oh God, Carla," I moaned as my pace quickened, pushing an almost lifeless Carla up and down my shaft. I could feel the need for release growing and that wonderful sensation in my loins sending tingles throughout my body and I knew that I would not be able to hold out any longer. With a short, deep grunt, I pushed myself upwards once more before cumming, shooting my cum up my shaft, aimed deep into her vagina, ere splashing against the walls of the condom.

She rolled off of me after that and immediately wrapped her arms around me, pulling me tightly against her. My breathing gradually slowed after my intense cum, all the while wrapping my arm under and across her shoulders and bringing my head down to kiss her forehead. Softly kissing her cheek and neck, my lips trailed over to her lips, kissing them lightly.

"Carla..." I whispered.

"Hmm..." softly escaped her lips. I quietly slipped away from between her arms and tiptoed to the bathroom, tossing the used rubber in the trash before looking at myself in the mirror. I could not help but smile, realizing what just took place in the bedroom, starting less than two hours ago. Flicking the switch, the house was once again darkened, but the shimmer of the moon and the faint glow of the falling snow dimly illuminated the bedroom where Carla lay, fast asleep.

If I was forced to name a fault of Carla's, it would be the fact that she would fall asleep straight after sex. No sooner than we would finished and our bodies were disjoined, than she would curl up in an almost fetal position and drift off into a deep slumber. It still brings a smile to my face whenever I think about "quickies" that have occurred between us during our time together; it was short, simple, and to the point, but in the end, she would be too exhausted to do much. She would have to catch her breath for several minutes before even attempting to move again. I guess that even orgasm had its price, no matter how ironic, on the body. Yet, I loved to watch her sleep. She looked so innocent and lovely, at rest and at peace, without any worries of life surrounding her. I quietly slipped back into the bed and pulled the covers up and over our bodies. I would lay awaken that night, looking out through the window and at the falling snow, that was once fierce and blowing, gently falling and drifting from the darkened clouds above.

I don't know when I drifted off to sleep that night, but when I awoke in the morning, the sun already mid way up in the sky, I would learn some more things about my precious Carla. I remember awakening with a sudden shiver and looking around me, I would have seen a sight that is all to familiar to me: Carla, her cherubic face nestled by my shoulder, her body curled tightly together, hugging me and that some time during the night, she had rolled her still nude self into a tight ball will all of the covers wrapped around her, from head to toe. I had gotten use to that unconscious habit of hers quickly and even today, I would wake up in the dead of night, and toss the covers to the floor before being able to drift back off into a dreamless sleep.

I can distinctly remember that it was sometime after ten in the morning when I lifted up Carla's limp arm off my chest and slipped out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Even after the noises of the shower, my angel, as she loved to be called, slept soundlessly. Had it not been for the fact that her chest was slowly rising and falling, one could mistaken her as being lifeless. The Christmas tree was still glowing its red, green, and yellow colors downstairs in the livingroom. Presents for her family were still tucked under her tree; their flight had been delayed two days earlier due to the snow conditions, both here and where they resided.

Even the frying of breakfast and the smell of a Post-Christmas breakfast fit for Saint Nick himself, did nothing to raise the slightest acknowledgment from Carla. After the half hour or so of preparation, the meal was set and I sat idle at the kitchen table. Now, call it what you may, but I always thought that the girl was suppose to have awaken already on this first morning together. Of course, I was still a bit new at this and there was nothing to do but live and learn.

"Morning," a voice yawned. I turned around to see Carla letting out a long yawn, stretching her arms out over her head. She wore a cotton red bathrobe tied together with long sashes around the waist.

"Hey, there. You sleep well?" I asked.

"Wonderful," she said, smiling as she bent down to peck my cheek and wrap her arms around my neck. The smells of a fairly warm breakfast floated around her nostrils, bringing life back into her almost immediately.

"Hey, Steve, when you'd get up?" she asked, already looking more animated.

"Not long ago. I just got up and decided to make some breakfast," was my reply.

"'Just got up,' huh?" she asked, amused. "Don't tell me. I hogged the covers again, right?"

"Just so long as you know," I said, laughing along with her.

"Sorry," she said, sweetly. "It's just that, you know, living alone for so long, I just figured that if no one's next to me, why waste all that warmth?"

"I can't blame you," I said as she sat down at the table, already piling some breakfast on the plate in front of her.

"Mmm... lukewarm," she mumbled after her first bite. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I wanted to," I said, "but you looked so pretty in bed, it would have been a sin to wake you."

"You're so sweet. Besides, this is the first time I've had a real breakfast in a long time. So much better than a cold bagel on the run," she said, stuffing a fork full of eggs into her mouth and chewing slowly. Returning to my seat with two cups of coffee, Carla had already piled some breakfast onto my plate as well and we began eating silently together and I couldn't help but smile as we ate; we're having breakfast together, I told myself. Yeah, I knew what that meant.

Ah yes, among several other moments, that morning together will be something unforgettable. I still smile at the thought of her feel rubbing against my leg under the table as we ate. I still feel the sensations as she gave me a loving and premier blow job at the kitchen table. I still laugh at the panic that flowed through our systems as the doorbell rang and we scrambled from the couch where my head was nestled between her legs. I still feel the awkwardness of meeting her parents and two sisters as she opened the front door in a bathrobe and me having just zipped back up. And I still blush at the first meeting of the family, the confused, but all too knowing of our status, greetings and pleasantries. I would stay for the day and we did enjoy a joyous time of our post-Christmas family celebration, filled with eating, drinking, and catching up on things, as well as getting to know the guy that they knew, obviously not having a doubt, was "having relations with our daughter," as said by Carla's father, who pulled me aside during the opening of gifts to give a father-to-new-boyfriend talk with me.

I still have a picture of her on my desk. It is my favorite photo, though it does not do justice to her true inner beauty. It was taken shortly after that special Christmas of ours; I can still see her Christmas tree in the background. It is a simple picture, showing nothing more than her angelic face, smiling as always, her inviting stare piercing right at you. Her silky hair surrounds her face and there is even a strand of hair that falls in just to the outer side of her eyes, with a slight curl at the end. Her hands are under her chin, fingers entangled together; her chin more or less resting on her hands. She is wearing the sweater that her mother bought her for Christmas. I can make out the black wool c around her shoulders and the ends of the sleeves at her wrists. I remember because I had knocked over a glass of orange juice that spilled over and off the table and onto her sweater sometime after that picture was taken. Naturally, the stain did come out, but I remember Carla breaking into a fit of laughter, shrieking and leaping to her feet as the cold orange juice started to seep through the material, clinging to her skin.

Whenever people are over, they are silent when they are in my office and looking at the picture on my desk. They know not what to say or how to act. How am I faring? Is the pain gone? What am I feeling? Those questions race through their minds. They know the story between us, and I don't hide anything from them. All I do when they realize that I still have a picture of her on my desk is simple. I sit down, lightly grasp the frame with one hand, but not move it, just to hold it, and smile at them.

"Isn't she the most beautiful person you've ever seen?"

There are many stories and tales I could tell about Carla, though half of them would only be of interest to myself. An example of that would be the time when she had awaken one of those rare mornings before ten and slipped into the shower to accompany me. We had been soaping ourselves up under the running water when she suddenly slipped on the suds on the floor. She fell into my arms and I grabbed hold of her and helped her back up before we burst into a fit of laughter. We left the shower quickly after and jumped on the bed, still wet, for a quick display of emotions, barely finishing in time for Carla to take a quick shower, get dressed and head off to the doctor's. I don't know why I remember that particular moment from any other random incidents that we've had. Maybe its because I knew she had infected me with her love to laugh. Maybe it was because it was just so damn funny seeing Carla jump out of bed and into the shower straight after orgasm when she realized that we were short on time for such lewd procreation we had come to enjoy.

Carla had made me who I am today. No matter what happens, she has affected some part of my life and that is sometime I must live with. I tell myself that her affect on my life was a positive one. In my heart, I know that it was indeed a positive effect of hers upon myself and I will take that belief of mine to the grave and beyond. But as I look at my reflection in the window pane, sitting on an old rocking chair that belonged to my grandfather, I see something else that what I tell myself. I see an old man staring back at me, despite the fact that thirty-six is far from old. No, old is not the correct word for what I see. Scarred may work better. Yes, scarred as a man that has endured much in his life, learning that the absolute good means accepting the absolute bad as well. To anyone else, they would not see it, but in my eyes, and the eyes staring back at me, I am old and scarred, though there is no physical evidence of such. Maybe it's that I see everything that has happened to me, things that I've felt and are feeling, that no one could possibly understand.

Outside, the storm has picked up once again. The snow is falling heavier than it was an hour ago. Reports estimate at least seven inches before the storm ends sometime in the early evening. People would see the snow and think of the damage it could cause, the shoveling that would be needed to be done, the trouble that it would cause for plans this Christmas Eve, or perhaps the commute to do some last minute Christmas shopping. Ah, yes, the Christmas shopping. It has now become something which I had gotten in the habit of doing and finishing about three weeks prior to the holiday.

Carla would have looked at the snow and thought of the beauty of it falling and the perfect, white landscape left after the storm passes. She would have thought about the brisk breeze that tingles the skin, the coming holiday celebration, and many other things. I was once among the general people of the snow and what it brought and represented. Then I saw the beauty of the snow alongside Carla. Maybe it wasn't necessarily the snow that I found beautiful and enticing, but the one by my side to inspire me to believe so. Now, I'm not sure what to believe. Right now, it's just snow.

"Daddy!" a childish, but excited voice cried out.

My attention was drawn away from the window to the little bundle of joy in front of me, wrapped in layers of clothing, even in the middle of the afternoon, standing between myself and the roaring fire that was set to warm the living room and perhaps brighten my spirits in this seemingly bleak spirit.

"What is it, Rachael?" I asked, smiling pleasantly, knowing that the mail had arrived just an hour earlier, through rain, snow, or dead of night.

"I got a letter from Mommy!" she cried, excitedly, waving an envelope wildly.

"You did?" I asked, to which she nodded her head.

"Well, then, should we open it up now, or later?"

"Daddy!" cried an impatient little girl in front of me.

"Oh, alright. Here, let's read it," I said as my little angel climbed up onto my knee, holding the letter in her hand with great interest in what was inside. My little angel. That's what I call her and that's who she is to me. She reminds me so much of her mother. As fate may have it, most of her delicate features came indeed from Carla, her angelic face, her long, light brown hair, her playful nature, and her eyes. Yes, when I look into her eyes, I see such softness, innocence, everything that is pure in the world.

"Look here, my little angel." I said, pointing to the return address.

"Mar-sel," Rachel pronounced slowly. "Where's that?"

"It's Marseille, Rachael. She's in France right now, right by the sea," I replied, opening the letter in front of us as Rachael leaned back onto my chest, my arms wrapping themselves around her.

"Look, Daddy!" she exclaimed as I pulled out the letter folding within. Something else in the envelope fell out as well and onto her lap. She reached down and delicate lifted it up and held it in front of her. It was a thin silver chain with a pendant attached. Memories flooded my mind upon seeing it. Indeed, it was my Christmas gift to Carla that special Christmas of ours, so many years ago.

"It's the necklace Mommy always wears!" she said, excitedly, immediately fumbling with the clasp.

"Here, let me put it on you," I offered, unclasping it and draping it around her neck. The tiny crystal snowflake reflected the red and orange of the fire in front of us as well as the reds, greens, yellows, and whites of the Christmas tree nearby, under which were numerous gifts of all sizes, nearly all of which were for Rachael, of course.

Yes, as my daughter put it, it was the necklace that she always wore. When I proposed to her on New Year's Eve after four years of knowing her, she wore that necklace of hers. When we got married nearly two years later in the middle of December, the best gift she ever gave me, even better than that wedding night of ours, she wore that necklace. I never saw her take that necklace of in the time I knew her. Even during her pregnancy of Rachael, a year after our marriage, she would hold on to that pendant, run her fingers across the tiny snowflake, even without realizing it.

"It's pretty," Rachael mused.

"Yes, it is."

"What does Mommy say in the letter?" she asked, curious.

"Let's see, I said," unfolding the letter. If I were to name something that Rachael did inherit from me, it would be her sharp mind, her love to learn, yet I could never get her out of bed in the morning without much effort, something else she must have gotten from her mother. Even at the young age of six, her mind was quick, and she well knew that she could simply take her letter to her room and read it to herself. But she insisted that I read it to her, knowing that at some level, it was a comfort for me to read Carla's letter to our daughter. I considered these moments golden, never wanting them to end. I suspected that Rachael knew what joy this ritual of ours brought to me. I told no lies to her, made up no stories, but even with the sharp mind of hers, she could never fully understand the reason why "Mommy" left. Oh, she knew the basics, perhaps felt a bit lonely these past couple months without a mother around, but there was no lashing out or hatred; I could not see any in her eyes.

"Dear Rachael," I read, as she looked on. "Merry Christmas! I'm sorry that I could not be there for Christmas this year. I know that this is the first Christmas that we haven't been together as a family, but things have changed, my little princess."

I paused as Rachael giggled at the mention of "little princess." That was Carla's pet name for her little daughter, always claiming that someday, she would grow up into a beautiful queen that everyone would love.

"I know that you must be sad that I can't be there and I know that you understand why Mommy isn't there, but when I visit in March, we're going to do all the things that we used to do, so don't you worry. I'm giving you my necklace for Christmas this year because you know how much I love you and that necklace and I want you to know that I'll always be thinking of you. I can't wait until I can see you in that necklace. You'll be the most beautiful girl in the world!

"I'll be here in Marseille for a while longer so you can write me. It's a beautiful city by the sea. The water is very pretty and there is many things to do and to see. Maybe someday you can see how pretty it is down here. We're going to go to the Alps for the next month where it is very white with snow. I've always wanted to go there where it is snowy all the time. I just can't wait!"

I squirmed at the word "we." I knew that Carla could never write or say "Brian," to her Rachael. Sure, when they would visit, he'd join them for activities whenever they finished their mother-daughter bonding and they'd have such a good time together. And I would look on at them. I don't think that we avoided each other. Nay, her visits were for the purpose of bringing her new life into her old, to which I happened to be a par of and then there was Rachael. She was Carla's whole life. The last thing she wanted to do to Rachael was to mention her new husband and possibly make her think that he stole "Mommy" from her life and possibly reject him, but I would never believe that my little angel could ever hate someone in her entire life.