I know this because I feel them for Connor.
Add in the tortured dynamic of forbidden love and I’m your modern day Juliette.
“I’m still waiting,” Vick whispers as he softly brushes his lips against mine.
“Waiting for what?” I mumble against his mouth.
“For you to be ready. I’ll wait until you tell me you’re ready, okay?”
I kiss him quickly and pull away, turning to the sink and washing my hands. I don’t want to discuss sex right now. I don’t want to even think about it, so I don’t answer. Vick watches me for a long moment, waiting for my response, but to his credit lets it drop and starts teasing me about my painting skills. We turn on some music and share a bottle of wine in the living room before he heads home. But when I go to bed that night, I wonder if maybe I’m just scared. Is that why the thought of having sex with Vick feels so . . . foreign? Granted, I wasn’t scared with Connor the other night, but I was drunk, and alcohol can definitely take the edge off.
I roll on my side and punch my pillow a few times as if it’s the pillows fault I can’t sleep. The truth is, the Vick sex thing isn’t what’s keeping me up. It’s Connor. Of course, it is. He’s angry with me, and it bothers me so profoundly that my insides ache. I hate myself for playing dumb and acting like I was too drunk to remember what happened. After another hour, I jerk the blankets back and head downstairs to get a glass of water. Standing on my tiptoes, I peek out the kitchen window. Connor is cleaning up the garage, his shirt off, and all I can do is stare. His hands are tinted with grime and oil from working on the bike, and his face is scruffy with a few days old beard. I reach my hand up and rub my neck, feeling tension gripping my muscles. I gulp my water, my gaze never leaving him as he sweeps the floor, the muscles in his back flexing as he moves. I have no idea how long I watch him, but I can’t seem to look away, even when my hand drifts down and my thumb dances over my hardened nipple straining against the fabric of my shirt. He walks to the back of the garage, out of sight, and I close my eyes trying to remember the feel of him against me. Letting my hand drift down further, I slip it under the band of my shorts and panties until I reach my core. The moment I touch my clit a thrill so intense shoots through me it makes me lurch forward and moan. But it’s short lived as the glass in my hand slips and breaks in the sink. Cursing, I snap to and back away. Another glass lost to me fantasizing about Connor.
Shaking my head, I leave the glass and rush back upstairs. These feelings are insane. I shouldn’t want him this way. It’s wrong. I know it is. And I realize now, maybe I am in need of physical contact. Maybe I do need to feel a man intimately, and somehow in my desperation, I’ve warped thoughts into a fantasy that Connor is that man.
Lying back down, I take a deep breath. Vick is amazing. He’s incredibly handsome and funny. Maybe I’m not in love with him . . . yet, but that might come with time. And so what if it doesn’t? I’m not a mutant. We all need sex. Would it be so terrible to share that with Vick knowing he may not be my next great love? I don’t think so. And maybe, just maybe, he could sate me; scratch that itch.
Maybe if I make love to Vick, just maybe I will stop wishing I could make love to Connor.