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Or more accurately, I’m floating on Nate’s shoulder. His broad shoulder that I’ve always looked at and might have dreamt about touching it, but not with my stomach. I wasn’t that crazy.
Apparently, I am now, though, because that’s all I can think about—my stomach on his shoulder. Okay, that’s a lie. I’m thinking about a lot of things, like how his strong arm is looped around my calves and the way my head is hitting his powerful back with each step up the stairs.
He’s carrying me like I’m a weightless feather. The effortlessness of the act does things to me. His strength. His brutishness. His domination.
All of it.
And I soak it in, allow it to tear me open and seep inside me. Isn’t that what masochists do? Not only do we seek the pain, but we also wallow in it and allow it to grow roots so deep, it’s impossible to dissociate from it.
I don’t even stop to think about the blood that’s rushing to my head or how my eyes feel like they’ll pop out of my skull. I should probably close them, but if I do, I’ll miss what’s happening. No, thanks.
Before long, however, I’m forced out of the brief phase of hanging between the loss of gravity and sanity.
And he’s the one who yanks me out.
Just like he did earlier when he pulled the ground from beneath my feet.
He returns it now by throwing me on the bed not so gently, because he doesn’t do gentle. Actually, Nate is the furthest thing from gentle. He’s coarse and harsh and strict.
So damn strict that my thighs clench in remembrance of his authoritarian, lusty questions from when he trapped me against the wall.
He’s trapping me again now, but not with his body. It’s his eyes that do the job and they’re even more severe than earlier.
They’re dark now.
So dark that I think they’ll turn into a black hole and suck me in.
I should be scared at the thought of being stuck in a bottomless well, especially since my empty brain pulls that move on me sometimes. But I’m a bit crazy, just like Chris said, and all I can think about is how it’ll look in there. In Nate’s eyes that are as strict as he is. As authoritative as his voice without him having to use it.
I wonder how it would feel, too. Maybe it will be not-so-gentle, like when he threw me on the bed, or maybe it’ll be effortless and sudden, like when he carried me over his shoulder.
And I think he’ll do just that when he moves his hand. I think he’ll reach for me and suck me into his darkness. But he doesn’t. He just places a hand in his pocket and leans against the wall. My vanilla-orchid-and-roses wallpaper looks so girly when his broad shoulders rest against it.
My whole room with its fluffy bedsheets and endless pillows is suddenly so small and suffocating. It’s the first time he’s been in here and he’s managed to steal the entire atmosphere.
Just like he’s stolen everything else.
“Show me.”
“W-what?”
“What you mentioned earlier, Gwyneth. I want to see what it’s like when you have sexual urges.”
My cheeks must be flushed a deep shade of red, or maybe my entire body is. Talking about it is one thing, but action is something else completely.
Besides, this is Nate. I…I’ve never been remotely naked or in such a position around Nate.
I’m leaning back on my elbows with my legs outstretched in front of me—in his direct view—and it feels so different, new, and wrong.
Yet it’s right at the same time.
It’s the rightest thing I’ve felt in a while.
“Didn’t you say you have urges, plural, and that you need fingers inside you to feel full?”
I gulp. Shit.
I think hearing Nate’s dirty talk is going to cause me to have a heart attack and then they’ll write his name as the cause of death on my tombstone.
