But I’m not a virgin anymore. I’ve played the only ace in my hand. I’m not an innocent virgin down on her luck. I’m a homeless ex-stripper trading sexual favors for a place to live.
Now that I’m on my feet, I can feel Warrick’s cum dripping from my ass. Did I let him take what he wanted because I knew he wanted it and that if I let him, he’d continue to want to look after me?
Since the moment we met, he’s pursued me. He told me I was his. He told me he wanted me. He told me this was my home. He told me he’d take care of me. He told me I should eat his food and sleep in his bed. Then he told me my firsts were his, so I gave them to him.
But did I do it because I wanted him to have them or because it was easier to let him tell me what I wanted, rather than make the decision for myself?
“Amore mio?” he questions, curling his hand around my waist from behind and dragging me backward and into his warm, broad chest. “Talk to me. Are you in pain?”
“No,” I force out.
“Then eat and rest, you’re tired,” he soothes, turning me then scooping me into his arms bridal style.
Placing me back down into the bed in his lap, he holds the bite of waffle to my lips, and I take it this time, eating because I have no idea what else to do. He feeds me, occasionally taking a bite for himself while he holds me tight, his dick once again hard and pressing into my thigh.
Once the food has gone, Warrick places the tray on the floor then carries me into the bathroom. Holding me in his arms, he reaches over the tub and turns on the shower, then guides me beneath the stream of water and covers us both in soap.
After we’re clean, he lifts me out of the tub and wraps me in a towel. I stand still and let him take care of me, too lost to take care of myself right now. Taking my hand, he leads me back into the bedroom, changing the sheets for a third time before he guides me to crawl into the middle of the bed.
Climbing in after me, he reaches for the TV remote, finding a hockey game and selecting it until the sounds of the skates on ice, the commentators, and muted cheers of the crowd fill my ears.
When he tries to position me on his chest, I wiggle free, then scoot down his body, taking his hard dick between my lips and letting my tears fall while I suck him deep. Once he’s filled my mouth with his cum, he pulls my face up, and I part my lips and show him his release before I swallow him down.
Resting my cheek against his thigh, I sigh quietly. Melancholy and exhaustion weigh down my limbs until it feels like I meld with the mattress, my body too heavy to move. His still semi-hard dick is only inches from my face with my saliva still coating it, but I can’t find the energy to care.
“Amore mio,” he rasps, and I can hear the concern in his voice.
“Tired,” I admit weakly.
His hand lands on my head, softly stroking through my tangled wet hair. “Sleep then,” he says, curling his fingers beneath my arms and dragging me up his body until I’m cradled against his chest, my cheek pressed against his beating heart.
I don’t understand why he both soothes and scares me. I don’t know why I want to be close to him, but I immediately feel like I’m doing something wrong too. He told me he loved me, but that can’t be true. He can’t love me when I have nothing to offer him in return, not even my love, because I don’t know if I know how to love someone.
The niggling voice in the back of my mind keeps telling me that I should leave, that I should end this before allowing either of us to become any more invested in this lie. But I don’t seem to be able to move. He’s too warm, too comfortable, too safe, and I don’t remember anything ever feeling the way it does to be held in his arms.
Since the day my dad left, leaving behind a pile of debt and obligation, I’ve lived in a perpetual state of catch-up. Struggling to pay off the money he owed. Struggling to pay rent and bills. Struggling to find a job. Struggling to keep myself safe.
Then after I came to Rockhead Peak, my struggle changed to finding a safe place to sleep. Struggling to find enough food to eat and worry about what I’d do when the weather turned cold and if I’d eventually freeze to death.
Only now I’m sleeping in a comfortable bed and eating food from a fully stocked refrigerator. This man. This beautiful, sweet, wonderful man is offering me the world, and I can’t accept it because I’m honestly not sure if I want him or if I just want what he’s willing to give me.
The brutally honest thought makes more tears flood my eyes, but I don’t let them fall, because if I am just using Warrick for the safety that he represents, then I don’t get to feel bad about it, because it makes me the absolute worst kind of person.
He’s sweet and kind and caring, and I’m scum.
The rhythmic stroking of his fingers through my hair makes my muscles turn to mush as I melt into him, hating myself, but not hating what’s happening right now in equal measure.
Minutes, or hours, pass in oddly comfortable silence, while I try to figure out what I’m doing here with this beautiful man. I like the way he touches me. I like the way he cares for me. I like him. But does any of that matter if at my core, I’m only here because I don’t have anywhere else to go?
If I hadn’t been homeless and sleeping in a tent a week ago, would I have said yes if he’d asked me out?
The problem is, I don’t know.
I’ve never been on a real date. I’ve never wanted to go on one. Before him, neither men nor women held any interest for me. But I am attracted to Warrick, and that has to mean something. If I really was just using him, my body wouldn’t set on fire for him…right?
If all I was interested in was his home and refrigerator, then I’d have fucked him without feeling anything. It would have just been a performance. Being with him would have felt like it did when I stripped—an act, fake. But it didn’t feel like that, and that’s good…right?
Even now when I’m questioning my moral value, I like being here in his arms, and that’s got nothing to do with howcomfortable his bed is and everything to do withhim. I likehim. I feel safe withhim. I am sexually attracted tohim. I want…him.
