Page 87 of His Turn

It’s a mind fuck. Conditioning. I know this. I’ve done it before. I’ve shaped the minds of men myself.

Bric is rinsing my hair so I close my eyes and let the water run over my head. Relish the feeling of the hot water across my face.

Then his hands are soft with foamy bubbles and he’s rubbing my arms. My waist. My stomach. My pussy. I wait for him to begin playing with me, but he moves on—much to my dismay—and crouches down to take the soap to my aching legs.

I almost moan as he massages the long, thick muscles of my thighs, his hands kneading the fatigue right out of them. I am shaking again. But this time it’s not from the adrenaline of exertion. It’s the drop that comes after.

“You need to rest tonight, Nadia. Your muscles are fatigued.”

I nod my head, too wrapped up in the way he’s making me feel.

He rinses me off and turns me around, then shuts off the water, grabs a towel from a stack of them on a shelf just outside the shower, wraps it around his waist, and then grabs another one and holds it open for me. “Come on,” he says, shaking the towel.

I brace myself on the glass surround as I step out and let him wrap me up in softness.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” he says. I do. He dries me off. One square inch of skin at a time. Paying meticulous attention to every part of my body. When he bends down to dry my legs his face is so close to my pussy, I can feel his breath.

I want him to lick me. I want to come again. I want more, I realize.

But he doesn’t give me more. He just continues his job until he’s done and then stands up. “We’re going to eat now. The food should be here soon. Get dressed. Can you do that by yourself?” he asks with a worried expression.

I huff out a laugh. “Sure,” I say.

He leaves me, walking out of the bathroom, then the bedroom, and I can hear him talking on his phone in another part of the apartment.

I put on sleep clothes. Light pink terrycloth shorts and a white tank top. I’m done for tonight. When I glance at the clock I realize it’s only five-thirty. I’m getting old, I think. I’m spent.

He’s dressed in his suit when I meet him in the living room. Minus his jacket, which is lying neatly across a dining room chair. And he’s relaxing on the couch. He pats the cushion next to him—indicating that I should sit. So I cross the room and sit, my body automatically melding into his.

“Opposites,” Bric says as he puts his arm around me. “We’re opposites. Do you know why people are so attracted to opposites, Nadia?”

I shrug. “It completes them, I guess.”

“Nice answer,” he says, chuckling a little. “Yes and no. People are attracted to their opposite because it excites them. We’re having a power struggle, you and I. You like to be in control. I like to be in control. So we have to give a little.”

“But that just means we’re the same,” I say, thinking it through.

“No,” he says. “You and I are not the same at all. You’re female, I’m male. You’re creative, I’m logical. You want to be taken care of. I want to take care of someone. Opposites do complete each other, but the underlying reason they feel that way is what really matters.”

“I don’t think I want to be taken care of,” I say.

“Everyone wants to be taken care of, Nadia.”

“Then we’re the same,” I say. “You’re included in everyone.”

“True,” he says. “I am. But you make me feel taken care of when you submit to me. When you trust me. When you let me take care of you.”

“Hmm,” I say, huffing out a tired breath of air. This might be more conversation than I need right now.

“The power struggle is necessary. It breaks us down into little pieces of nothing. And from that nothing we create something brand new. That’s why opposites attract. People want to remake themselves and they use their opposite to do that.”

“Or,” I say, turning my head to look him in the eyes, “we’re just playing a stupid game and you won this time.”

He tries to hide his smile but doesn’t succeed.

“We’re still playing, right? I mean, you bought that house tonight to prove a point.”

“What point?” he asks.