I wanted him to go. The way I feel about him is so confusing . . .
Breathing deep, I rest my hands on my stomach, feeling my skin tremble beneath my fingers. The fire that raged hot earlier when Ethan had his hands on me has calmed but it’s still there, lurking just beneath the surface. I smooth my hands up, over my stomach and ribs, stopping just beneath my breasts. I recall the way his thumbs traced the underside of them, so lightly, like a tease, like a promise for more. I slowly cup them, their weight heavy against my palms, my nipples growing hard. A shuddery breath escapes me when I touch them, circling the hard points, feeling the bolt of sensation that shoots from my breasts and lands between my legs.
Never have I touched myself like this. My body is sexually numb. Completely inexperienced. I want to feel more, know more, learn more, and I want Ethan to show me. Touch me.
Teach me.
A sigh escapes as I slip my hands over my belly once more, skimming sensitive, rarely touched skin with my fingertips, trailing them down until they’re teasing the thin elastic waistband of my panties. Pausing, my heart races, and slowly I spread my legs, the soft comforter abrading my skin. I tilt my head back at the same exact moment I slip the tips of my fingers beneath my panties.
If I can’t be bold with Ethan, I can at least be bold by myself.
I bend my knees and plant my feet on the bed, keeping my shaky legs still spread. Hesitatingly, I push my fingers down, until I’m touching my pubic hair. I go farther, tracing my slit before I slip my fingers in between and encounter creamy, hot wetness. A hiss escapes me and I close my eyes tight, lifting my hips as my fingers go deeper.
It feels . . . good. I can only imagine how much better it would feel if it were Ethan’s fingers touching me between my legs. Just thinking of him sets off a pulse inside my core and I know without a doubt that I’m completely and totally aroused.
And it’s all because of him.
I allow my fingers to search further, learning myself, sucking in a breath when I touch a certain spot. I brush over it again, the tingly sensation so good a little murmur falls from my lips, and I wonder what it would feel like to have Ethan’s fingers touch me here. This particular spot that feels so incredibly wonderful.
The tingling grows at the image of his hand between my legs, his mouth locked with mine, our bodies pressed close. Never before have I wanted something like this. Have wanted a man to touch me, learn my body, kiss my lips, stir my soul.
I circle the spot with my thumb, going completely still when the pleasure builds. It’s so foreign, this feeling. That I’ve never allowed myself to experience this is such a shame, and I vow right then and there that I won’t hold back. That I want this, I want to explore this more. But not just by myself.
With Ethan.
A smile curves my lips as I turn my head, my cheek resting against the pillow. I’ve got Ethan in my head, my hand in my panties, and the ghost of his mouth still pressed against mine and I’ve never felt so . . .
Alive.
My name is Katherine Watts.
I study the text I received from Katie earlier this morning, before I woke up. The girl is an early riser, way earlier than me, and I scrub a hand over my face, staring at the words, my gaze dropping to the next text bubble.
Have you heard of me? I sound presumptuous but I have to ask.
Leaning back against my pillows, I slump into the mattress, wondering how I should handle this. I’m still half asleep but I can’t forget the way she felt in my arms last night, how she was so responsive. To acknowledge I know who she really is might ruin the tentative connection we’ve formed; I don’t know.
I don’t want to risk it.
Are you famous?
I’m an asshole. I toss my phone to the side and scrub both my hands over my face now, as if I can scrub the shitty feeling I have over lying to Katie away. The longer I keep this going, the deeper the hole I’m digging. I’m going to bury myself so deep I’m eventually never going to be able to get out of this unscathed.
Pretty certain I’ve already hit that point.
But hell. If she finds out who I really am, if I tell her now, she’ll be so fucking angry over my lie. I’ve deceived her. I’m still deceiving her and she’d view it as the ultimate betrayal. I can’t blame her. What started out as me watching over her and making sure she’s okay has turned into so much more. More than I ever bargained for. Not that I’d change what’s happened between us. The connection we share can’t be denied. It was formed years ago and the fact that I’m able to explore it, spend time with her, touch her and kiss her and hold her close, makes me a lucky bastard.
My phone dings and I grab it.
I don’t know if I’d say famous but I’ve been in the news off and on for years. It’s hard to explain.