Chapter Twenty-Three
Harley
Breathless.
I am breathless from running, from the night, from being kissed senseless on the cab ride downtown. From the anticipation that this is it.
Trey shuts the door behind him, and we are back where we were several nights ago. His apartment.
And now this is the unknown. This is all blind trust and faith. The leap off the dock into the dark waters, with the hope the current won’t pull you down.
I hope.
I have so much hope now, so much more than I had mere hours ago, and it’s amazing how hope can be replenished like a geyser, and you can be overflowing. I have hope for the future, for love, for happiness, for the end to my empty, aching need for a fix.
This is more than a fix. This is real.
Because he is not Twenty-Five for me. This is the other side, all the way on the other side. Trey is Number One on a list I will never keep again. And I am so in love with Trey I can barely stand it, I can barely hold the words inside myself any longer, I want to tell him, to shout it, to sing it. “I’m so in love with you,” I say, because I can.
All this honesty, all this openness, without guise, without tricks — it’s like the sky is expanding, spreading. As it stretches, I stretch. It feels good and it hurts at the same time.
We stumble into the entryway, all hands and arms tangled up together.
“I am so f*cking in love with you,” he says hungrily, and he loops his arms around my neck, tucks his face in my hair, and breathes me in as if I’m his oxygen. I’ve never known what it’s like to be cherished, but I’m starting to get a sense, and it’s a heady feeling. I’m no longer a prize, but a treasure. His treasure.
Somehow we manage to move to the futon because it’s clear this night is going horizontal.
“So what now?” I ask as he touches my arms, my hair, my waist. He can’t keep his hands off me, and I’m pretty sure I want them all over me.
“I guess that’s up to you.”
I run my finger along the waistband of his t-shirt, my thumb grazing the hard planes of his belly. He’s mine. This man is mine and I’m terrified, but certain at the same time. “I know what I want.”
“What do you want?” he asks, his lips quirking up.
“I want my first.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “So sure. I want to know what sex feels like. I want to know what it’s like with someone I’m in love with.”
He swallows, breathes hard. “Harley, you know this is going to be like a first time for me too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had sex with someone I love,” he says, running his hands through my hair, letting it fall through his fingers. All the while he never takes his eyes off mine. “Sex has always been separate. I’ve never been in love before, so this is like a first time for both of us in a way.”
The moment curls in on itself, and I am sure time and space have narrowed to only the two of us, here on his couch. There are no cars outside, no sounds, no noise, no buildings, no night, no day. It is Trey and me, only us, only now, only this. He takes the pad of his thumb, brings it to his tongue, and licks it. He presses his thumb against my shoulder and rubs off some of the tattoo concealer. “I’m giving you a new one soon. But I still like to see it on you because it reminds me of the night we met. And you were different than anyone I’d ever known, and I wanted to know you, and then you came back into my life. Like it was fate.”
I watch him rub his thumb across my shoulder, wetting and re-wetting it, like a restorer returning a work of art to its original glory. I don’t know that my red ribbon is glorious, and I don’t even know that it’s what I want anymore, but it’s a part of me, and it’s going to become a better part of me.
Then he’s done and with one finger he pushes off the strap of my dress, letting it fall to my elbow. He bends his head to kiss my shoulder blade and I shiver at the slightest touch. He reaches for my hands, pulls me up. Now I’m standing and his arms are around my back.
“I want to undress you,” he says in a hot, hoarse voice as his fingers reach the zipper of my dress, and he unhooks it.
He starts to slide down the zipper, but I can feel his hands shaking and he can’t undo it.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just nervous I guess.”
“You are? I never pictured you being nervous.”
“I am,” he says. “Because I want it to be perfect for you.”
“It doesn’t have to be perfect. We can keep practicing if it’s not,” I tell him, running my index finger softly against his cheek, tracing his scar.
“Sign me up for lots of practice then,” he says and returns to the zipper, easing it open, then gently pushing the dress past my shoulders, over my breasts, to my waist. He lets go and the fabric falls into a silky pile on the floor. I step out of it, still wearing my heels. His hands follow the dress, down my hips, over my thighs, brushing my skin, and I melt into his touch. It all feels so natural and so right. He kneels at my feet, then slips off one shoe, and I’m back in time, picturing the night on my stoop when he took off my socks after I’d seen Cam. So much is similar, but so much is different. Here he is again and we still want each other, but we want so much more, and we’ve let ourselves not only voice it, but feel it. We have finally given ourselves permission to let in that thing we barely understand.
He runs his hand along the arch of my foot. I don’t have a foot fetish, and I’m glad he doesn’t either, but there’s something so tender and caring about the way he’s undressing me as he removes my other pump and I stand barefoot now. Every move, every touch is like the sweetest caress. Every thing he does he does with care, and I feel like a new girl with him. Because I’m here with him, not for him. I haven’t been ordered, I haven’t been bought, and there are no step-by-step instructions given in advance. We are living each moment, seeing how each moment feels.
Picking up my dress and my shoes, he brings them over to a chair, laying them down neatly. It’s a small gesture, but the little things matter, and I kind of love that the dress isn’t wadded up.
When he returns, he looks me over, and there is something like reverence, like wonder, in his green eyes as if he can’t believe he’s here with me.
“Will you take off the rest of my clothes?” I ask in a nervous voice. I know he will, but I don’t want to take anything for granted, and I want to let him know what I want.
He groans, and it’s both an appreciative and terribly needy sound as he loops his arms around my back and unhooks my strapless bra. I grab it and toss it to the chair. In seconds his hands are on my breasts. “They’re so f*cking perfect. I can’t stop touching them,” he says as he cups my breasts. “I know I’m supposed to be fighting any kind of addiction, but f*ck that. I want to be addicted to your breasts. They deserve a shrine, Harley. I want to build a temple and dedicate it to your breasts.”
“What will you call your temple?” I ask, playing along, grateful for a moment of levity in the midst of this intensity.
“My favorite Ds.”
I laugh. “You wish. They’re not Ds. Cs though.”
“C, D, E, F, G. Whatever they are, I f*cking love –” he emphasizes that last word “–having my hands on them.” Then he squeezes them. Hard. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be gentle.”
“It’s okay. I like the way you touch me.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” I say. “You make me feel incredible.”
“You are incredible,” he says.
He kneads them roughly once more, brushing his thumbs over my nipples. He moans and I sigh at the same time, and we both laugh.
“You forgot one more item to take off,” I tease.
“I didn’t forget. I just want to savor it.” Then he slides his hand between my legs. His eyes widen when he feels the cotton panel of my panties. Touches me. Learns how turned on I am. I rock into his hand. “F*ck savoring. I need to get these off.”
Then he is no longer slow or lingering. He is frenzied and fevered as he pushes them over my hips and down my legs. I am naked before him and I love being naked with him.
He eyes me greedily, drinking me in as if he’s desperate for what’s next.
“I want you, Harley. I want to sleep with you. I want to make love to you,” he says, breathing out hard as he starts tugging off his own shirt. “And I’ve never f*cking said those words before. I have never said make love. I have never wanted to make love. And I think those words are cheesy and ridiculous, but they’re not cheesy and ridiculous with you. Because I’m so f*cking in love with you that I will say things I’ve never said. I’m dying for our first time.”
Sparks of electricity zoom through me, and every single inch of my skin, of my body, of my heart is reaching for him, needing him, wanting him. I am longing for something I’ve never had before and now I can’t imagine being without. I am hot all over and tingling everywhere. My veins, my blood, my bones, everything is singing out to be touched.
I grab at his waistband, fumble at the zipper, tug down his pants, all while he’s kicking off his shoes, trying not to trip over his clothes. Somehow, he manages to step out of his jeans and is now only in his boxer briefs, and we are both panting and frantic.
“Condom,” I say. “Do you have a condom?”
“Yeah.” He steps away from me to reach for a foil packet in the nightstand next to his futon.
Then he pushes off his underwear, and he’s naked and gorgeous and throbbing. I draw in a deep breath and bite my lip briefly. This is going to happen. This is real. I’m going to say goodbye to my virginity, and I’m going to have him inside of me, and I honestly don’t know how there’s room for him in me.
“Are you sure you’re going to fit?” I blurt out, a touch of nerves in my voice.
He laughs once, wraps his hand around my waist and tugs me gently down on the futon, laying me next to him. Skin to skin, flesh to flesh. I look in his eyes and I’m flooded with so many feelings – love, lust, anticipation, fear. It is staggering, but I am ready.
“I’m pretty sure the parts are all designed to fit.”
I gulp, bringing my hand to his belly, letting my fingers dance near his erection. “You’re just really big.”
“We’ll take it slow, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m scared. I don’t want my first time to hurt. I want it to be amazing, even if that’s asking for the moon. I don’t care. I want the moon and the sun and the stars with him.
“Do you want to put it on me?”
He hands me the packet. I look at it like it’ll bite. “Tell me how.”
He rips open the foil. “Pinch the top, then roll it on,” he says, and he moans in pleasure as I slide it on him. “See what you do to me? I get even more turned on just from you doing that. You can do anything to me, Harley. Anything.”
I lie on my back, propped on my elbows, and foreplay is over and that’s fine because the last several months have been foreplay, and now there is only this.
When he hovers over me, my shoulders shake once, twice.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No. I’m nervous as hell.”
“We don’t have to,” he says as if it pains him, but still I love that he offers an out.
“I don’t want an out.”
Then he teases me, rubbing the head against me through all my wetness, and it feels so good the way he’s touching me. I start to spread my legs wider for him. “You’re so wet it’s almost a sin for me not to go down on you. But I love that you’re so wet,” he says, then he pushes into me. Not far, maybe an inch. Hell, maybe even half an inch.
I tense up.
He meets my eyes, asks me with his if it’s okay.
“It’s okay,” I tell him as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “You can come in more,” I say, with a silly smile because the words sound silly.
He slides in deeper, and I clamp my legs against his. “Are you sure?”
I breathe out deeply, yoga breaths, deep calming exhalations. Then I spread my legs again, relax my body, and tell myself that it will feel amazing because it’s him. I close my eyes and nod into his shoulder, then run my hands down his strong back, to his ass, guiding him.
He sinks slowly into me, and the pain is intense. It’s like my stomach has been jammed up into my neck. I am being stretched in directions I didn’t know I had. This man is so big, and I don’t know how he’s fitting inside me. Oh wait, I do know. Because when he thrusts once, my spleen leaps into my chest.
I grit my teeth and try to tell myself it’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. He’s turned on, he’ll pump once, twice, three times, and he’ll come, and I can curl up and let the pain roll out to the night.
Then I feel his breath on my neck, his stubble on my cheek, his hand on my hip. “Harley, I don’t want to hurt you. I can tell you don’t like it,” he says, but he’s not mad, he’s not hurt. He’s simply being honest.
And I decide to do the same. I open my eyes, look up into his. They are so earnest, so heartfelt. “Yes, it hurts. But it’s okay. I can handle the hurt,” I say, and it’s strange, but true. Because maybe it hurts now, but it might not hurt the next time. Or in five minutes, or in five seconds. And with that, I start to relax, to let go, to give in. As I do I realize the pain is fading, and now I just feel full with him deep inside me. I let go of the tight grip I have on his ass, and of the way my strong thighs are holding him like a vise.
Then he slips his hand between my legs, and he slowly, softly rubs me with his finger while he moves inside me. I gasp in pleasure for the first time.
“Oh!”
I let my eyes roll back into my head, and I can feel him smile.
“That better?”
“Yes,” I say with a happy sigh. “More.”
He slides his finger across me, rubbing me, stroking me, all while sliding gently in and out, and the sweep of pleasure from his finger starts to consume me. And soon, I’m opening my legs farther, and I’m wrapping them around him, and I’m taking him in. And holy f*ck. He’s all the way in me and it no longer hurts. It starts to feel good, this feeling of being filled, of his hard length moving in and out of me, of his nimble finger rubbing me. Then the tingling sensation grows stronger, ripples through my veins like a wave, and I shudder.
“God, I f*cking love this, Harley,” he groans as he touches me. “I f*cking love being inside you. I love touching you. I love you so damn much.”
His words thrill me. His feelings shred me and soon, all the hurt washes away, and I am left with only the barest of essentials – this imperfect moment in time with this perfectly damaged man who is mine and who knows all of me, and still loves me, and still wants me, and doesn’t want to turn me into his fantasy, but he wants us to create a new reality together. I wrap my arms around him and he sinks deeper. The stretching is still bizarre but it’s delicious at the same time, and I want to feel every second of it as I start to rock with him, to move with him, and then his pants and groans aren’t solo anymore. They’re meshed with mine, with these sounds and noises I make as I gasp and moan from his finger working me over in the most delirious way all while he thrusts into me.
“Trey.”
“Oh f*ck, Harley. Is there any chance you’re going to come? Because I can’t hold back much longer. I am so f*cking turned on.”
“Yes,” I answer, and I dig my nails into his back, so deep I’m leaving marks, but I have to hold on, I have to mark him. My body tenses, then it’s like there are sparklers set off in my belly, lit up and burning brightly, and they become an explosion of color and light and sounds, and that sound is my sound, it’s my voice, it’s me, calling out his name, and then he’s doing the same, chasing me into this sweet release on the other side.
Here, where there is sex and love, and love and sex, and they don’t just spill over into each other.
They are one and the same with him.