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“If you wish, when you’re feeling up to it, you can even things out.”
Her nose scrunches, and she grins. It’s a very Sophia-like grin. A very familiar Sophia grin.
I groan, and she laughs. But when she nestles beside me, I curl my good arm around her. A mistake. I should get up and go out to the sofa.
My eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of her body next to mine and the comforter over us has a sedative effect. Outside, the sun has set, and the room darkens. She lays her head down on my chest, and her heartbeat thuds against my ribs.
CHAPTER17
SOPHIA
I don’t regret what I did. But I’m mystified by my actions. That’s not like me. Or it’s not like the old me. This is actually what I’ve been working for in therapy for years. For the ability to take pleasure from sexual interaction.
Never have I been the aggressor. The seducer. Sure, I can be aggressive in defensive maneuvers. In a boxing ring or on the mat. But for the longest time, sex brought unpleasant ideas and physical reactions. And I’ve hated those residual side effects.
Against my therapist’s advice, I forced myself to have sex my senior year of college. My lack of sexual desire, or asexual preference, felt like an injury I carried around that wasn’t healing. And I wanted to heal. To put it all behind me.
It worked. More or less. Mechanical sex helped to launch me past a gaping divide between me and my friends and other healthy individuals my age.
But what I did to Fisher, that wasn’t mechanical. The area below my waist tingled, my muscles quivered—hell, I wanted him deep inside me. I wanted to touch him and taste him. Maybe a part of me wanted to tease him, to force him to see me as the woman I am, not the girl I was. But that wasn’t all there was.
The subtle pounding of his heart beneath my ear soothes. One of my legs drifts over his. A tremor courses through my sex. I still want him.
He’s a good-looking guy. But it’s not like I haven’t been around those before. Could it be the fake marriage scenario? The sparkling ring on my finger? Is that what’s turning me on? An underlying subliminal need to conform to society’s standards?
Once, in college, on a drunken night, Lauren rambled on about how she just wanted Christian’s dick. She was so drunk I interpreted her ramblings as someone repeating what she thought she should feel.
The thing is…what I did to Fisher turned me on. But it didn’t relieve me. I still feel that need between my legs. A carnal need. A pulsing desire. My fingers slip down to the gap between my pelvis and Fisher’s sleeping form. I clasp my fingers over myself and close my eyes, letting the added heat build around my sensitive, thrumming parts. My hips, ever so slowly, rock against my hand. My fingers press against my mound, nudging and kneading, much like I did to Fisher’s tight muscles. But it’s not enough, and my finger slips inside.
This right here, getting myself off, is something I’ve been doing more frequently in recent years. It’s as if my body has been slowly coming out of dormancy, awakening to sexual pleasure. That has to be it. It’s all timing. Fisher is the first male I’ve been around, that I’ve kissed and touched, in years. And then he was there, his erection straining beneath my sex, the buzz between us visceral.
The phrase from one of my prior therapists comes to mind as wisps of pleasure build. Sex is a natural, physical need. My fingers gently tap, massaging myself, mixing light and hard pressure. A calloused hand covers mine, halting my movements.
“What’re you doing?” He deftly replaces my hand with his, and the tip of his finger explores. “Hmmm.” The low, guttural noise vibrates through my core, and my hips rock against him. “I passed out without taking care of you.”
“You’re injured.” But not so injured that his left hand can’t pick up the slack. His fingers plunge deeper while his thumb caresses my clit.
He maneuvers me onto my back, and I spread my legs, willing him to continue building me up with his long, agile fingers. His hot breath coaxes my throat, and his lips tenderly tease my skin, kissing his way down my body, to my breasts.
His tongue laps around my swollen, eager nipple, eliciting a near purr from somewhere deep within. He withdraws his hand from my center, and I whimper at the loss, but his rough skin glides up my body, over my stomach, to circle my breast. He adjusts his body, positioning himself between my spread legs. He winces. It’s obvious he’s protective of his right shoulder, keeping his arm clasped against his side.
“You don’t need to.” I shift, moving away, and he growls.
Slowly, his left hand skims down my side and rests on my hip. He pulls on my thong.
“Close your legs.” My eyes flutter open, and he gazes down at me with a look that reassures me my legs won’t be closed for long. I do as he instructs, lifting my feet into the air, and he leans forward and nibbles on my ankle as the silk rises over my legs, ankles, and feet. He rests my ankles on his uninjured shoulder and presses soft kisses, a sharp contrast to his rough beard, to my shin and calf. “Your skin is so smooth, so soft.”
His straining erection juts out above his thighs as he sits on bended knees, and I bend sideways, reaching for him. He clicks his tongue, and in a restrained, throaty, foreign tone, he says, “No, baby. Not yet. Now, spread those legs.”
I do as he instructs, and he trails kisses along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. He pauses, and those dark, hooded eyes meet mine. “I’m going to hell for this.”
I can’t help but snicker. Then he kisses me. There. His tongue dips inside, and my body melts, relaxing against the comforter. Spreadeagle, open for him to devour. He licks and laps, and his fingers join in. My skin tingles and my muscles tense and my fingers tousle with his hair, directing him as his tongue circles my clit and sucks. His rough beard against my sensitive skin has me pushing and pulling. It’s the bite that does me in, and I let go, back arched, toes curled, shouting out a semblance of the word “Fish.”
He presses his lips to my inner thigh, kissing me. It feels like he’s thanking me, but damn, he’s the one deserving of thanks.
He crawls up over me, hovering lower, his weight on his knees and one arm. His thick, engorged shaft prods my belly, and he places a soft, strained kiss over my heart.
“It was worth it,” he says. He carefully positions himself down on the bed and pulls me back against him in a blissful, comforting cloud.
