Shifting beneath him somehow sends him farther and we both moan at the sensation. I bend my legs, my thighs on either side of his hips, and he thrusts again. Withdraw and return. Withdraw and return. Slowly, so slowly, my body accommodating his, his mouth on mine once more, his hand on my breast, squeezing before he lets go.
“Lift your hands up,” he demands, and I obey, raising my hands above my head, resting them on the pillow. He reaches for them, entwines our fingers and holds me there. Holds us there, bound together. Making the moment somehow even more intimate.
“Move with me, baby,” he whispers and I do, my hips rising, my legs clamped at his sides. With his whispered encouragement I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring my body to his and sending him as deep as he can possibly get.
It feels . . . amazing. So full. I’m completely connected to him, engaged and in the moment, lost to the sensation of his body moving above mine, within mine. Our hands tightly clasped, our fingers clenched around each other’s, he bends down and kisses me, his voice cracking as he admits, “I’m going to come. Are you close?”
No, but that doesn’t matter. I squeeze his hands, lift my head as much as I can to touch my mouth to his, and he increases his pace. His hips slap against mine, our damp-with-sweat skin loud in the otherwise quiet of the house, and then he stiffens above me, his fingers clamped so tight around mine it hurts a little. A hoarse cry sounds from deep within his chest and then he thrusts hard, just once, my name filling the air as his body is consumed with shudders.
I lie beneath him, reveling in his surrender, fascinated that we just did this. That we just had sex and I let him lie on top of me, let him inside my body. That he made me come with the touch of his fingers and I loved it. Only one hitch in the otherwise perfect evening and I somehow overcame it.
He collapses on top of me, his hands still wrapped in mine, his body heavy, his breathing labored. I disentangle one hand from his and stroke his damp hair, his back, feeling him shiver beneath my fingertips. I kiss his neck, his jaw, his chin, wherever I can reach, and he shifts away so he can look at me, his heavy-lidded gaze filled with satisfaction.
“Stay the night with me?” he asks and I nod, trying to bite back the smile that threatens to overtake me.
“Hungry?” When I nod again he rolls to his side, taking me with him and gathering me close. “Let me get rid of this condom and we’ll take a nap. Then we’ll fix something for dinner. Or order takeout. Whatever you want.” He kisses my forehead and then exits the bed, padding into the connecting bathroom with a nonchalance I can only envy.
Maybe someday I’ll feel confident enough to walk around naked in front of him. Maybe someday I’ll be rid of my hang-ups once and for all . . .
I’m already halfway asleep by the time he returns to the bed and pulls me into his arms. I end up sleeping like the dead, like I haven’t slept in years, which I really haven’t.
And for once, I don’t dream.
I’ve learned a lot in my short life. Had a lot of terrible things happen to me. I’ve known tragedy, pain, loss, unspeakable violence.
Now I’ve known tenderness. Passion. Desire. Romance. I’ve known what it feels like to be held and kissed by someone you care about.
I also know what it feels like to be betrayed. I’ve experienced that particular feeling again and again.
Betrayed by my best friend Sarah, who didn’t know how to continue our friendship after what happened to me. Betrayed by the media when a small fraction of them vilified me during the trial, made me out to be a slut who asked to be kidnapped.
My father betrayed me, and that hurt the most of all. How he couldn’t deal with the guilt and the shame over what happened to me. His treatment of me filled me with so much of my own guilt and shame I didn’t know how to cope. He hurt me beyond anyone else on this planet, maybe even more than Aaron William Monroe, and that will forever make me sad and filled with regret.
But this morning, when I wake up in Ethan’s bed, my body naked and sore from his gentle abuse all last night, I feel on top of the world.
He’s in the shower. I can hear the water running and I rub my hands over my face, trying to wake up. We stayed up late, talking and making love. Eating and laughing and touching and kissing each other until we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. I’m tender between my legs, my muscles ache, and my lips and cheeks are suffering from a serious case of stubble burn.
The shower shuts off and I hear the curtain being torn back. I imagine Ethan naked and wet, and my entire body aches with wanting him. He should’ve invited me to take a shower with him.
Oh well, there’s always next time.
“Did you just get up?” I ask him, raising my voice.
He peeks his head around the cracked bathroom door. “Hey.” His smile is wide, his handsome face and broad chest covered in drops of water, and I want to go to him but I keep myself rooted to the bed. I can see there’s a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, fueling my newfound imagination. “You’re awake.”
“What time did you wake up?” I ask.