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Fully dressed in an expensive, perfectly tailored suit, Calvin is imposing. Somehow, kneeling on his bed in the dark with his toned, muscular body completely bare makes him look even more powerful.
I haven’t encountered that before. I remember the first time I saw Jackson in a suit—my own personal catnip—how attractive I found him. Then I remember the end of our fifth date when we went back to his place. I remember feeling a bit letdown—not that I would ever express that to him, of course—when he hopped across the floor toward the bed, tangled up in the leg of his pants. I remember he looked pale and scrawny and awkwardly hairy. I didn’t expect him to look like an athlete or anything, but as much as he bragged about the time he spent in the gym and how he did rowing in college, I guess I expected something… different.
I remember how impatient he seemed before he even got naked. The clumsy way he grabbed at my clothing to remove it, the brief, sloppy kiss I got before he hauled me to the bed.
It makes me wish I’d been awake when Calvin undressed me. He didn’t let me experience it for myself, but instinctively, I envision him as a firm, decisive undresser. I picture him patient, too, knowing how to draw out anticipation and knowing the journey is half the fun. If I close my eyes, I can imagine his sure grip as he gently tugs down the zipper on the back of the dress. I envision him gripping my shoulders to keep me exactly where he wants me, then tugging the expensive dress down and letting it pool on the floor at my feet.
My body feels more alive than it usually does. I keep my eyes closed, keep myself immersed in my imaginary world with a Calvin who is maybe a little charming, maybe someone I spend time with because I want to and not because I’m forced to.
The panic subsides as I reassure myself with the pretty lies in my imagination. It feels a little twisted to trick myself that way, and especially to use him in the fantasy, but I needed to do something to keep my chest from caving in. I needed to buy myself at least a little time before I asked him to stop.
I don’t want to stop now. Not yet. Without the panic clawing at my chest, I can focus on how nice it feels as he strokes my clit. Pleasure starts at my core and spreads outward.
The pure, uncomplicated feeling of receiving pleasure can’t last long, though. The guilt catches up to me. Reality pierces my bubble and reminds me how sordid this is.
Discomfort seeps in and ruins everything.
I want him to stop touching me, but I don’t want totellhim to stop and trigger… whatever will happen if I tell him to stop.
Sensing gentleness is the best way to approach him, I reach down and wrap my fingers around his wrist. He stops, but only for a second to see what I want.
My heart flutters at the knowledge that for just this moment, I have a bit of power here. If I don’t do anything with it, I have little doubt he’ll go back to disregarding my wants, but when I actually express myself… I don’t know, it seems like he’s more responsive. It’s a twisted thing to consider a favor or an allowance, but when I asked him not to hurt me, he didn’t.
Taking advantage of this fleeting opportunity to guide what happens next, I reach for him and pull gently. His eyes narrow in consideration, but he’s curious enough to see what I want. He takes his hand from between my legs and lets me guide him closer. When he’s on top of me, our bodies skin against skin, his face mere inches away, I wonder if I’ve made the wrong choice.
The problem is, there are norightchoices here.
I swallow and summon what’s left of my courage. I reach up and tentatively caress his hard jaw, then I lean up just a little, and he leans down.
Our lips meet and a thrill shoots through me. It’s not the good kind of thrill, the kind you get when something amazing happens. It’s the kind you get when you’re standing on the edge of a mountain and the earth gives beneath your feet. The feeling you only get for a split second before the ground beneath you crumbles and you plunge to your death.
Terrifying. Consuming.
He’s not patient like I imagined when he kisses me. He sweeps in and sucks the breath from my lungs, invading my mouth, demanding more than I want to give him.
I should have known he’d do that.
I shouldn’t be kissing him.
This was a bad idea.
Panic creeps back in. As his tongue sweeps into my mouth and leaves my thoughts a windblown mess, my chest seems to shrink. It gets harder and harder to breathe.
I stop kissing him and try to pull back, but I’m already pinned to the mattress beneath his weight. “Wait,” I murmur against his mouth. He still kisses my lips like the taste he got was just a tease and he intends to take more. “Please,” I say, turning my head away to create distance in the only way I can.
“We’ve only just begun,” he tells me.
“I know.” The panic gets heavier. I’m tapping too early. He won’t be satisfied. He won’t stop here. “I know, I’m sorry.”
My apology softens him, I can see it. I’m too panicked to entirely process it, though. I’m preoccupied envisioning a bad response. Him flipping me over and holding my face in the pillow as he forces himself between my thighs. It was fun to play at romance, but I wasn’t a fun enough playmate; now he’ll just take what he wants and be done with it.
After all, I still have to come back one more time to let him do it again.
My stomach is so upset, it rocks. This future feels absolutely inevitable given what he did to me in the dungeon, so when I look up at him, tears glint on the surface of my eyes and I’m not above begging. “Please. I’m sorry.”
A shock of warmth takes me off guard when his hand touches my face. He cups it in his hand almost tenderly, then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead.
“Calm down,” he commands.
