He moves down my body, his mouth blazing a trail over my skin. Along my neck, my throat, my collarbone, my chest, the tops of my breasts. The valley between my breasts, his lips lingering, his hot tongue darting out for a lick, making me gasp and hold him close. When his mouth rains kisses on my left breast, then my right, I bury my fingers in his hair. When he draws a nipple into his mouth and sucks, his tongue swirling, I pull his hair and cry out.
The attention he lavishes on my breasts leaves me mindless with pleasure. My entire body shakes, my stomach clenches, and between my legs, I’m wet. Incredibly wet. I want him to touch me there. I want his mouth on mine again. I love the almost forceful way he uses his tongue. His gentle approach drives me wild, too, and I pull on his shoulders. I want him closer. I want more.
Ethan gets the hint and he’s there, touching my face, his mouth fused with mine. He shifts so he’s directly on top of me, his erection between my legs, his chest hot against mine. I stroke him everywhere I can reach, our mouths open, our tongues wild. His hand wanders across my belly and lower, and I tense beneath his touch. I can’t help it. My fears still drive me and though I trust Ethan, it’s hard to break those old habits.
“Let me,” he whispers, his fingers barely grazing my pubic hair. “I want to make you feel good, Katie. I want to make you come.”
I melt at his coaxing words. Slowly I nod and his hand moves lower so he’s cupping me, his hand covering the entirety of me. I pulse beneath his palm, my breath lodged in my throat. One long finger presses against me, gains entry, and then he’s searching my delicate folds, his touch feather light.
“You’re so fucking wet.” He sounds as if he’s in agony, and a matching pain pulses in my blood. “God, Katie what you do to me.”
More like what he does to me. He shifts to the side, gaining a better angle so he can stroke me, and I rise up against his hand, my legs spreading wider, and moan. He leans over me and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking it deep as he slips one finger inside my body, and I stifle the cry rising in my throat.
I’m . . . overwhelmed. And the slightest bit ashamed. It shouldn’t feel so good, should it? My worry, my guilt, is such a burden, unable to let me go, seeming to dig its claws deeper inside me every time I think I’ve shed it for good. I hate it. I hate it so much and I don’t want my issues to ruin this night with Ethan.
But here they come. Engulfing me. Reminding me of who I am and what happened to me.
“Relax, baby,” he whispers against my breast, his breath blowing across my nipple and making me shiver. “Let go.”
“I-I can’t,” I admit, my voice practically strangled with frustration.
“Don’t think about the past,” Ethan urges as he lifts up to watch me. “Don’t let any of that shit hold you back. Just focus on me. Focus on my touch. Focus on how I can make you feel.”
I try my best but it’s no use. The pleasure that had zipped through my veins only moments ago feels like a distant memory now. His mouth returns to my skin, his fingers shift and move between my legs, but I can feel only a small measure of excitement. It’s faded to almost nothing and I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears away.
But they fall despite my wishing them gone.
By the time I was sixteen, my expectations of romance had turned into complete Fantasy Land. I was a walking, talking Disney princess, alone in my castle.
I awaited my mysterious, handsome prince to come and rescue me from my lonely tower. I read romance books, sweet young adult stories with plenty of longing and covert glances and enough dreaming of kissing to fill an entire teenage girl’s secret diary. All that wishing and hoping and praying was my favorite part. Once the kiss happened, once the confirmation of boyfriend/girlfriend status was in place, I was totally over the story.
The unrequited love was what spoke to me. I could understand that. That was me. Actually having a boyfriend, dealing with the issues that came with a relationship, talking and hugging and kissing a boy on a regular basis?
I could barely wrap my head around it. I was sixteen and completely isolated. Completely alone.
I hated it.
Boys never paid attention to me before everything happened, and they sure as heck didn’t pay attention once I returned to school. I think I scared them.
I know they scared me.
Everyone scared me. That was half the reason Mom decided to homeschool me despite the protests from my guidance counselor and my teachers. They wanted me in school; they wanted me experiencing a normal life.
But I couldn’t deal. Neither could Mom.
My therapist was desperate for me to have a breakthrough. She wanted me to realize who my fantasy boy was. My hero. My rescuer. I was in denial. I knew, deep down inside, who he was. But so much time had passed. Almost four years. I should’ve been over him, right? No way was he coming to rescue me ever again. He’d done it once. He’d met his obligation.
Our moment together was done.
I brushed my fingers across the guardian angel charm, then slowly withdrew the bracelet from my wrist. Went to my dresser and grabbed the old jewelry box I received from my grandma the Christmas I was seven. Opening the top, I set the bracelet inside, then slowly closed it.