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“Yes.”
“Does it feel good?” he whispers in my ear, placing a tender kiss on my earlobe.
“Yes.”
He slips his finger inside me, coating himself with my arousal, then traces his finger lightly back and forth over my clit. His slick finger slides effortlessly over my swollen flesh as I gasp for air. “How about now? Does this feel good?”
“God, yes.”
“Do you like it better when my finger is wet?” I spread my legs, giving him better access. “Yes?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Why?” He dips two fingers inside me, thrusting gently, then withdraws and lets them settle over my sensitive flesh. But his teasing only fuels my need to move. I roll my hips beneath his hand, urging his fingers to slide over my growing need.
“Why?” he asks again.
“Your fingers are so smooth when they’re wet,” I breathe, angling my hips so his fingers dip into my opening. I’m positively dripping. “I like how they slip over me, like silk.”
“You feel more friction when they’re wet?” he asks as his fingers skirt my plump desire.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“That’s what it’s like for me without the condom.” His fingers slide effortlessly over me. “When I’m inside you with a condom on, I feel the pressure of your body surrounding mine. I feel it along my length as I move, and I know you’re wet because I can move so easily inside you, but I can’t feel that against my skin.” He rolls over me and thrusts inside, pausing briefly to savor my slippery heat. “Without the condom, I feel everything.” He leisurely rocks back and forth as he puts what he’s feeling into words. “I can feel your heat. I can feel your need. I can feel your touch along the entire length of my cock.”
“Friction,” I breathe.
The slow pace of our movement builds up such tension that I can’t speak without losing control. He hooks an arm under my knee, sinking deeper inside, and rocks his hips. I grip him tighter, briefly, before my spasms overtake me, and he follows me over the edge.
We lay together, sweaty and sated, gasping for breath. “I think maybe we need to forego the condoms from now on.” I trace my fingers down his back.
“Repeated, uninhibited sex? I like the sound of that,” he growls against my lips.
Five days after the most incredible, intensely intimate, and all-around best sex I’ve ever had in my life, and I still can’t focus on the task at hand. I’m supposed to be making the final edits to the monthly blog, which are due to be posted tomorrow, so it’s online in case any investors from the upcoming pitch event check out the website. But I’ve been staring at the same sentence for at least ten minutes without any real notion of what I need to do with it. No, the only thought running through my mind isn’t about work. It’s about Chris. And how I’m pretty sure he’d made love to me on Saturday.
The way he looked at me, the way he moved so gently inside me, the way he kissed me afterward, like nothing else existed except me and him, in that moment. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and the implications of that have me reeling.
I’ve always thought our intimacy ran deeper than just sex. That we connect on both a physical and emotional level, and that those connections are what make the sex so unbelievably good. But now, after Saturday night, I don’t just feel like we have a connection. I feel like we’re fused together. Like we’re one.
My feelings mirror what I imagine for my characters. In fact, my life at this moment could be taken straight out of the pages of one of my books. The part where someone, usually the guy, realizes he’s in love and it’s no longer about sex but the emotion of connecting to someone else. I try to write scenes about making love instead of simply fucking because it makes for a good, emotional connection, one that seals the relationship between two people. A happy ending, so to speak. I don’t write those scenes because I think it happens like that in real life. I write them because it completes the story. But now, I think I’m living it, although I can’t be sure since he hasn’t come out and said anything.
Yes, I’m being a bit of a hypocrite, obsessing over how he feels when I myself haven’t copped to my feelings yet, either. I’m really not trying to hold him to a double standard. I am, however, trying not to scare him off by saying the three little words I know for a fact he’s never said before. And then there’s the issue of my secret.
I know that telling Chris how I feel is only part of what I’ll ultimately have to reveal, and honestly, I’m less afraid of telling him I love him than I am about the romances. Harper’s words of caution had been a shock, but the more I think about them, the more they make sense. Is it possible for a guy to be comfortable with what I write? Would he find it intriguing and fun or indecent and demeaning? Would it be one of those scenarios, like strip clubs and naked pictures, that's okay for women to do as long as it’s not “his” woman?
I know speculating will lead to nothing but frustration, and that I should just enjoy what we have right now, which is incredible. Chris fills a void in my life I’ve been vaguely aware of but didn’t feel compelled to fill. I let my books do that, and I thought that was sufficient, at least in the short term. But now that I’ve gone out and lived a little, developed a connection with someone who gets me in a way few others do, I don’t think… That’s it. Connection.
I force my attention back to the task at hand with renewed inspiration. I need to connect emotionally with our audience. I can’t just tie facts and data into a neat little bow and expect people to respond. I need to show them how the facts and data translate to their lives. Only then can they imagine what it would feel like not to have to worry about the facts and data, because our company does that for them.
Hours later, when a smile spreads across Charlie’s face while he reads my blog, I know I’ve hit the mark. And I have my evening with Chris to thank for it.
It remains to be seen what our relationship will do for my romance career, but as far as my career in education, it’s starting to look like romance is the key to success!
Chapter 21
Chris
I sit in my usual spot, slightly toward the front and left of center stage.
