Dr. Chase Hudson (The Surrogate Book 2) (20 page)

“You can hold me as tight as you want like this,
can't you baby?” I asked, kissing the side of her ankle. As if
testing my theory, she tightened more. And I couldn't hold off
anymore. But it wasn't hard. It was just fast. My cock buried deep
and my hips slammed into her thighs over and over so that I needed to
wrap my arms around her knees to hold her body still as I fucked her.

I felt the vice grip of her pre-orgasm and quickly
pulled away before it was too late.

“No!” she cried, reaching for me.

“Up on the bed, baby. All fours,” I said
softly, letting her legs fall.

She moved onto all fours and I pressed her legs wider
with my knees as I reached for the vibrator.

“It doesn't always feel good right away,” I
said, stroking her soft ass. “If it hurts, tell me. I don't
want to hurt you.” I leaned down and kissed one of her ass
cheeks gently. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt
her. “I'll be gentle until you tell me otherwise.”

“Okay,” she said as I slid my cock into
place, pressing but not pushing forward. I reached for the vibrator,
turned it on, but didn't put it to her clit. “Just breathe,
babe,” I reminded her as I started pushing forward slowly. Her
body tensed, jerked. “Ava, breathe,” I said, moving the
vibrator to her clit. Her legs shook with the sensation. “Is it
too much?” I asked, hoping to god it wasn't. “I just have
the head in. If it hurts too much...”

“It's okay,” she said, breathing deep.

I steeled my resolve to go slow and kept inching my way
in. She flinched every inch or so and I paused to let her adjust. Her
ass arched up for better access as I pressed fully in. She reached
for the vibrator, taking it from my hands and turning it off. “You
okay?”

“Yeah?” she half-asked, half-declared.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Thank fuck.

“Does it feel good?” she didn't answer for
a moment. “Baby?”

“Yes,” she admitted a little timidly.

A growl type rumbling came through my chest. “I
want it to feel good,” I told her, rocking my hips into her. It
was barely a movement at all, just a pulsing. My hands went around
her and up her belly to cup her breasts. I pressed into her chest,
pulling her backward until her back was resting against my chest. One
of my arms went around her hips, the other around her chest above her
breasts, holding her far too tightly against me but she didn't
complain and I didn't want to let go.

My hips started dropping then moving back upward into
her. Over and over. Until her breathing started to hitch. “Tell
me it feels good.” I needed to hear it.

“It feels good,” she said on a groan.

“No one has ever been in here before, have they?”

“No.”

“It's all mine,” I said, sliding in again,
claiming it.

“It's all yours,” she agreed breathlessly.

Fuck me.

I kept the slow, steady rocking, enjoying the sweetness
of it. It wasn't sex. It wasn't fucking. It was lovemaking. And I
felt completely lost in it.

“Chase?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Harder,” she said, her hands moving to my
forearm and digging in.

I didn't need more encouragement than that. I gave it
to her. Happily. I jerked up into her. Faster. Harder. Like she
wanted it.

“Chase?” she asked a few minutes later,
sounding like she needed assurance.

“You're going to come for me, baby, and I don't
even need to touch your pussy. You can come for me just like this and
I will feel it.”

That was what she needed to hear. To let go.

She came hard, her entire body jerking as she pulsated
hard. “Fuck, baby. Yeah. Just like that,” I said in her
ear. “I can feel you coming.” And I could feel myself get
there too. “Fuck.
Ava
...”

I held her after. Just as tight as before. I never
wanted to fucking let go. I kissed a trail up the side of her face,
resting against her temple. Her arms went upward, wrapping around my
neck. “So sweet,” I murmured, leaning over to kiss her
arm before I untangled them from me and moved away from her.

She scrambled onto the bed and under the covers and I
felt a rush of relief that she wasn't running out on me again. When I
came back from the bathroom, she was curled up on her side facing the
wall and I crawled in behind her, pulling her body into mine as I
wrapped into her. I took her hand and squeezed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“That was...” Fuck. There were no words
that came close. “Spectacular,” I decided, still feeling
that it was lacking.

She wiggled back into me and I pulled her tighter.
Slowly but surely, her body got more and more stiff. “What are
you thinking about? You're tense,” I told her, nuzzling into
her neck. “Talk to me.”

“I was wondering about the next session,”
she said and it was my turn to get tense. The next session. The next
session where I was going to take her out and teach her how to flirt
with other men. Other men that she might eventually go home with. Men
who would hold her like I was holding her. Claim her like I had
claimed her. The only difference would be that they had that right...
and I didn't.
“Chase?” she asked, snuggling back
into me and it was then that I saw that I had put so much space
between us that we were barely even touching anymore.

“Tomorrow is Friday.”

“Yeah...”

“Tomorrow I will take you out to a bar or club,”
I started, my words robotic. “You will dress for it. Whoever
helped you with the dress tonight, if anyone, that's what you need to
wear.” For other men to look at.

“I can do that.”

“You'll meet me here and we will drive to the
destination together. You can have a drink or two, but no more than
that.” I, however, was going to need a fucking fifth of scotch
to get through the night. “And then you will do what I tell you
to approach men, or what to say when they approach you.”

“And where will you be?”

“There,” I said, pulling away from her
again. “Watching.” I was barely holding her. I couldn't.
If I held her, I would feel the enormity of what I was losing.

“So the purpose is...”

“To get you comfortable interacting with other
men, not just me. But having me there to be a support system if you
need it.” Fuck. Support her. While other men got the privilege
of getting to know her. “We will go in together, sit down, and
discuss how to go about... flirting,” I forced the word out and
it felt slimy on my tongue. “After you get comfortable doing so
with me, I will excuse myself to the bar. Then you will go to the
other end of the bar.”

“By myself?”

“Yes. By yourself. Men get intimated by women
with their female friends and won't approach a woman there with a
man.”

“Okay.”

“Then when a man comes up to you...”

“If,” she said, shaking her head.

She had no idea, no fucking idea what a prize she was.
Or how unworthy we all were to try to win her.

“When,” I corrected her more firmly, “a
man comes up to you...”

“What?” she broke in. “Is this some
positive thinking nonsense? If I believe in it enough, suddenly
hoards of men will come flocking to me?”

I sighed, moving further away so I could push her onto
her back and look down at her.

“How is it possible that you don't see how
gorgeous you are?”

“Chase... really... I'm not...”

No. Nope. I wasn't going to listen to her talk herself
down again.

“Shut up,” I said, shaking my head. “Don't
you dare finish that sentence.” My hand moved to the side of
her face, cradling her jaw. “How many times have I told you how
beautiful you are? And you still don't believe me.”

“It's not that. It's...”

“It's what?”

“It's... twenty-some odd years of not feeling
that way. Of no one saying that to me. It's not like I am going to
transform my thinking overnight. But I'm getting better. I mean...
could you picture the me who walked in here for my introductory
session wearing the dress I wore tonight?”

She had me there. “That's a good point. Do you
believe me when I say you're beautiful?” I asked and the look
came back. The look I hoped was gone for good. “There,” I
said, grabbing her face a little hard. “That look. What is that
look? You've been giving it to me a lot lately.”

“What look?” she asked, but there had been
a guilty pause.

I let go of her face, rolled onto my back, and raked a
hand down my face. “You're killing me, woman.”

“I'll go,” she said, already moving to the
far end of the bed.

“That's not what I meant,” I said, trying
to reach for her, but she was too far and too determined to move
away.

“I know,” she said in a small voice. “But
it's late.”

“Baby...” I said, my voice a distinct plea.

She paused, grabbing her dress, and turning to me.
“Yeah?”

There was so much to say:
I want you. Don't leave.
Don't leave me here like this, with my heart in my hands. Not one
moment of this has been therapy for me. I fucking love you. I want to
stop this facade. I want you to know the truth...

But none of it could be said.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she said once she
slipped into her dress and tentatively touched my foot for the barest
of seconds.

“Seven,” I agreed, watching her move to
grab her keys and wallet.

“As usual,” she said, going out into my
office.

I didn't follow. I couldn't.

I just had to let her go.

I needed the practice.

For when I needed to do it for good.

After the Session

My mother got me back briefly when I was twelve. It was
my third time being pulled out of the system and put back in her
care. She pee tested clean for six months. She went to her weekly
meetings. She got a place that wasn't crawling with roaches. In the
system's eyes, she was fit again.

Unfortunately, the system didn't know that her problem
wasn't the booze or the drugs. Her problem was her own head. Her
problem was she was severely bipolar. They just so happened to catch
her on the mania side. The side where she was full of life and
energy. The side where she was hyper goal-oriented and able to speak
rapidly and never ending-ly about her plans for the future.

They saw the good mom. They saw a woman trying to get
her life back on track. They saw someone determined and excited.

What they didn't see was the sleeplessness. They didn't
see that she could go three days without nodding off once. They
didn't see that her judgment was off and her goals and plans became
more and more grandiose and unattainable.

Then they didn't see as the mania gave way to the
depressive side a short six weeks later. They didn't see her curled
up under her covers on her bed for weeks at a time, crying, telling
me how hopeless it all was. They didn't listen as she would sit up
late at night talking about horrifying, morbid stories she had read
about suicide. About how jumpers finally felt free of stress because
their fate was decided, there was no going back. How cutters could
feel a surge of indescribable euphoria when they sliced into their
skin with a razor.

Then they definitely didn't see when she started having
her drug dealer come to the apartment. They didn't see her sitting at
the dining room table while he tied her off and loaded up the needle.
They didn't see the needle slide into the bruised crook of her elbow
or watch as her head rolled back as she stared at the ceiling while
the heroin worked its way into her system.

I got those constant ups and downs for a year. Because
I was older. Smarter. I washed my own clothes so I didn't go to
school dirty. I had perfect attendance. I got good grades. I did
everything right. There was no cause for concern.

That was until I got home after soccer practice one
night and found my mom at the dining room table (nothing new), her
arm tied off and a needle in her elbow (normal sight), her head
titled up to the ceiling with unseeing eyes (again, typical).

The differences came on me slowly. Her dealer wasn't
there. He always hung around afterward. I didn't know (and frankly
didn't want to) if it was the euphoria from the drugs that made them
want to do it or if was the way my mother paid for the drugs in the
first place, but they always screwed when they got high.

Him being gone was not normal.

Neither was the fact that she hadn't turned to greet me
with pinned eyes.

Neither was the fact that her chest wasn't rising and
falling.

My backpack hit the ground with a loud thud as I ran
over to her, instinctively reaching my hand toward her neck to feel
for a pulse. But my palm found cold skin.

She was dead.