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Warm hands roam my body as I sit vulnerable and naked in front of him. The way he’s looking at me and the sweet things he’s telling me gives me the confidence to hold my chin up and not slink away under his intense observation. Instead, I let it fuel me. I want this, and I’m going after it.
My hands find his hips, and I reach slowly inside his pants. His wet lips come down on my shoulder, and I shudder, the cool air bringing goosebumps to my arms, but fire is brewing below. My core clenches with need as I feel the girth of Dane’s hard cock in my palm. I squeeze my fingers around him, surprised when his teeth bite into my shoulder but moan because it feels so damn good. As if he’s claiming me, or at least eating me. Both scenarios sound amazing to me.
“I need inside you,” Dane whispers.
Oh no. Fuck. Of course, that’s where this was going. That’s where I want him too, but there’s something I have to tell him.
“Condom?” I ask like a coward instead of spilling my secret to a guy that will probably regret me in the morning.
“No, but I’m clean. Would you consider me without one? Are you on birth control?”
His respectful question is so fucking hot, but a reality check whether I want to face it or not.
“No, actually, I’m on the opposite. I’m trying to get pregnant.”
Ok, it’s out. Not gracefully, but no one has ever accused me of being good at this sort of discussion. How do you tell a guy whose career you’ve been known to fangirl over that you can’t have sex without a condom, or you’ll get knocked up because your internal clock is ticking, so you’ve been taking hormones without coming off as a stage five clinger?
As I should have expected, he rears back in shock.
“I’m sorry,” he utters, visibly shaken.
His frown is different than any I’ve seen him make. Like he instantly regrets touching me.
The earlier brave feelings are fading, and I subconsciously cover myself with my arms.
“I didn’t know,” he says, shaking his head.
“I know you didn’t; how could you?” I try to say it with a laugh I don’t feel. “It would still be fine if we found a condom. I mean, you wouldn’t be responsible for any child you didn’t know about.” I try to make light of it, but I come off awkward, and he actually looks mad.
“How could you say that? The father doesn’t deserve that. I didn’t know you were with anyone.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m just going to leave. I’m sorry.”
And then he does just that. Leaving me sitting bare-assed and unsatisfied on my new stainless-steel counter, flushed from embarrassment.
