“I’m not tired.”
“You’ve been down there for like five minutes?—”
“Four and a half. I’m counting.” I kiss her inner thigh. “And I could stay here all night.”
“But it’s not—I can’t—” Her voice cracks slightly. “It never works like this. I always have to—I mean, I can just do it myself. It’s fine. Faster.”
She’s trying to push me away, trying to sit up, she’s frustrated and holding back tears. “Marnie.”
“I’m sorry, I just—this doesn’t work for me. It’s not you, it’s me, I’m broken or something?—”
“You’re not broken.”
“Then why can’t I just—” She stops and drags her fingers through her hair. “Forget it.”
She’s shutting down. Retreating into that defensive space where she pretends it’s fine, she doesn’t need help, she can handle everything alone.
Absolutely not.
“Okay,” I say, sitting up beside her. “New tactic. Show me.”
She lowers her hands, eyebrows raised in a way that means she thinks I’m crazy. “What?”
“Show me how you do it. Teach me.” I settle beside her, proppedon one elbow. “You were bossy as hell during my PT sessions. Be bossy now.”
“That’s not—I can’t just?—”
“Why not? I’m a visual learner. I watch game tape for hours to figure out what works.” I brush hair back from her forehead. “So show me. Let me memorize exactly what you need. Then I’ll replicate it.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“Probably. But I’m not letting you shut down and handle it yourself when I’m right here wanting to learn.” I kiss her softly. “Show me, Moxie. Teach me how to make you fall apart.”
She closes her eyes for so long that I think she might actually be giving up, then slowly—almost defiantly—moves her hand between her legs.
I watch. Not in a performative way. In the same way I study opposing teams’ defensive patterns. Cataloging every detail.
The exact spot she touches. The pressure. The rhythm—steady circles, not too fast. The way her hips lift slightly when she gets the angle right.
“There,” I say when she gasps. “Right there. That’s the spot. Keep going. I’m still learning.”
She’s a little closer now, her free hand fists in the sheets. But there’s still that edge of frustration. In the way she’s squeezing her eyes shut and breathing with the movement, as if this is an exercise and not passion.
“Stop thinking,” I tell her. “I can see you overthinking. Just feel it.”
“I’m trying?—”
“No you’re not. You’re timing yourself. Analyzing it.” I put my hand over hers, feeling the movement. “Let me try.”
I replace her hand with mine, matching exactly what she was doing. Same spot. Same pressure. Same rhythm.
“Like this?”
“Yes—oh God?—”
I maintain the exact pattern, watching her face. The way her lips part. The flush spreading down her neck.
“Stop thinking, Moxie,” I say.
