“Because this woman that took my fucking breath away, this beautiful, perfect woman? She understood me. She knew ASL. She could have a fucking conversation with me. Do you know how long it’s been since I could actually talk to a woman?”
I let the tears spill over, not wiping them away. “How long?” I ask, my throat tight.
“Never…only…you.” He slaps his hands on his thighs, head bowed as he breathes. Finally, his head rises. “You want to call your horrible marriage ‘baggage’ then fine. But even with all the baggage in the world, shit, even if we could never have sex, I still thank God every day that you’re in my life. That’s not going to end. Because if it felt like a thunderbolt when we met, my feelings for you now are a fucking comet. So you walk away, Holly? There’s no other woman waiting in the wings. You’re it for me.”He’s glaring, pinning me with his gaze. Finally, seemingly satisfied with what he finds on my face, he grunts, “Touch…me…woman,” and flops onto his back on the carpet, arms spread wide.
Giggling through my surprised laughter, I shift until our hips are pressed together and I’m looking up his body to that striking face of his. “So you’re telling me that God gave me you?”
“Yep. And…you…me.” He says, running a relaxed hand up and down his stomach. It’s such an unconscious, manly thing to do. Brent did the same thing. But he never drew my attention the way Micah does. Because with Micah, I want.
So maybe he is right. Maybe God did have a hand in it.
When I was little, people always told me that God had a plan. And maybe it’s true. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand why Brent had to be part of it, but I do know that escaping him is what brought me to Chicago. Wanting to learn to protect myself is what brought me to Becca’s self defense class. If Brent had been an average husband, or if I had never married him to begin with, would I have ever met Micah?
Would I change any of it? Knowing I’d have to give up Micah?
“Touch…me,” Micah demands playfully, but I see a hint of the shadows I put in his eyes. I want them gone, so I smile at him and do exactly what I’ve wanted to do for weeks. Putting my fingers at the waistband of his black sweats, I thread my fingers through the trail of dark hair, traveling up as it turns lighter, until my palm is resting over his heart. My other hand joins it, then I run my palms over his sculpted pecs, stopping because I’ve run out of arm span.
I pull my hands back, studying the problem. I could just touch one side of his body. But that idea doesn’t appeal. I want access to all of him. That means getting a lot closer.
I sneak a peek at him, then away as I explain. “My assignment is to touch you, respecting your limits, any way I would like. While still avoiding the um…sexual organs, I mean. You’re not supposed to touch me. I’m in charge of all the sensation this time. She also told me to follow my instincts and enjoy touching with no expectations. Is that ok? Is there anything I shouldn’t do?”
I peek back at him, and see Micah’s eyes are shut tight. Lines of strain on his face. “I’m yours,”He signs, locking those brown eyes on me. “So anything you want. Touch me however you want…but you should know I’m already on the verge. I’ll warn you if I’m about to come.”
I swear my cheeks feel as hot as they did in that burning apartment building. But I’m not going to question him. I’ll trust him to tell me…that.
As I study the acres of golden skin and warm muscle laid out in front of me, I come to a decision. Thankful I’d already changed into my pyjama pants, I scoot forward, then carefully put my leg over his stomach, moving to sit on his lower abdomen. If I pressed back the tiniest bit, his dick would push against the seam of my bum. I let my weight settle on his stomach, watching as his eyes slam shut, a little worried about how quickly he’s breathing. Sitting on him like this, my knees aren’t touching the ground so I’m forced to rest all my weight on him. “Is this ok?” I ask, throat tight.
His eyes fly open. “Yes,” he mutters through gritted teeth. Reaching out with both arms, his hands grip the plush carpet. He’s strung tight, eyes somehow darker, making more of my shyness fall away. The sensation of having him under me is…indescribable. I can feel his heat through my pants. I can’t decide if it was lucky to have skipped the panties, or if I’ve just made this harder for myself.
Unable to resist, I rock forward, enjoying the way his stomach muscles press against my clit. I like it so much; I do it again, revelling in his frantic mumbling. Returning my hands to his chest, I run them back over his pecs, leaning forward to reach his shoulders. I let my fingers trace the tendons and muscles of his shoulders and biceps. Laid out like this, arms stretched out and hands clenching the carpet, I can’t reach all of him.
I don’t like it.
I lean forward more, letting my heavy breasts rest on this chest as I tuck my mouth next to his cheek. “Let go of the rug.”
“Can’t,” he gasps, wild eyes jumping around my face.
“You promised you’d never make me beg.”
He chokes, letting go of the rug like it’s a live wire. I sit up, moving to take one hand, then the other in mine. My counselor said he wasn’t supposed to touch me, but I’m tired of letting everyone else tell me what to do. I move his hands to just above my knees. “Hold here. Don’t move”
He nods frantically, tightening his fingers until he has a firm grip. I can feel each individual finger pressing into me, but not hard enough to bruise. It’s nothing like the grip he had on the carpet. Even as affected as he is by me, as big as his feelings are, he’s still so careful not to hurt me. Emboldened by this knowledge, I run my fingers from the backs of his hands, up his arms achingly slowly. Stopping to tickle with my nails, or rub at any spots that make him twitch or groan.
There’s a lot of groaning.
As still as he’s trying to stay for me, his body is in constant motion. Muscles tightening and flexing. The ones in his stomach are rubbing against me in a way that’s completely distracting, shooting heat through my center.
I rock my hips again.
26
MICAH
I’m dying.
My heart is about to fucking explode. That saying, ‘he died a happy man’, is total bullshit. If I die right now, while Holly is riding my stomach, I will gut a motherfucker. I don’t want to miss a second of this.
She’s so beautiful, her blonde hair a wavy halo around her face, her cheeks flushed, gleaming with a sheen of sweat. She’s so fucking turned on, and the surprise and shock in her face, the way she can’t help but rock her hips, nearly pushes me over the edge. I’m going to come in my pants, guaran-damn-teed.
