Intrusion (10 page)

At the very least, his bedroom is bound for destruction.

Yet, still he doesn't stop. He keeps kissing and kissing and touching in this fevered way, sometimes coming so close to dangerous areas I have to hold my breath. It's like being in a thriller, only the murderer is the hand he nearly puts on my hip and my terror is over all the things it might make me do.

Like putting a hand between my legs, for example.

Though I swear I really don't mean to do it. At first, I hardly register what I've done. I keep kissing him as if nothing has happened, almost unaware of my treacherous fingers trying to press through two layers of material to the inferno below. It takes him slowly pulling away for me to finally get an inkling.

And then he looks down between us in this curious but disbelieving sort of way, one eyebrow faintly raised, and my humiliation is complete. The only action I can take to mitigate the situation is immediately apologize, hoping against hope that he'll understand. That he'll get how little I want to hurt him, and how much I respect his wishes.

Though judging by his next words, I have very little clue what his wishes
are
.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, in a voice that just about melts me off the bed. It has this rich mix of professional curiosity and kiss-choked warmth that would seem like arousal on anyone else. In fact, I almost put it in that category after he kisses me again, all soft and slow. He does it before I can answer, as though the separation from me was too awful to stand. He needed a little more, a little taste, and even that isn't quite enough.

He has to lick my upper lip as he pulls away, like he has no idea what that does to me.

Unless he
does
know. Maybe he does know.

It certainly seems like it when he finally adds, “I don't want to take anything for myself. Doesn't mean I'd deny you any kind of pleasure.”

After which, I have no clue what to say. I have no idea what to think. The idea of me being allowed just didn't occur—though now I'm wondering why. Because I thought he might be offended? Or because I was afraid for my own reasons?

Both seem possible.

Neither is what I focus on—much to my regret.

“Is that what you don't like? The idea of taking? Of forcing?” I blurt out, too eager for some sort of clarification. So eager that I hurt him without really meaning to. His eyes stutter closed before the question is done, and when he speaks his voice is too loud.

It practically barks out of him.

“Don't say ‘force.' God, don't ever say ‘force.' ”

And then I know for sure what the problem is.

“But you know I'd never believe you would though, right?

“I don't know that. I can't. . .process that. Everything feels like forcing to me.”

“What can I do to make you feel otherwise?

“Focus on yourself. Focus on what you want.”

“That seems awfully one-sided.”

“It has to be. . .There is no other side.”

“Then what. . .what can I do?” I ask, even though I already know. He kind of told me a second ago—but I need him to make it absolutely clear.

And then he does and it's better and worse at the same time.

“Just do what you started to before I caught you. There are no rules when it comes to that. I feel no discomfort knowing you might be excited and want to touch yourself. So go ahead, go on—as though maybe I'm not even here. What would you do if I wasn't here and you felt the way you clearly feel now?”

My voice is faint when I try to answer.

But not as faint as I feel inside.

“Don't you know already? I bet you know already.”

“I do, but indulge me. I need it to come from you.”

“It's embarrassing enough just putting my hand there,” I say, though
embarrassing
isn't really the right word. I've never felt my clit swell at the thought of something shameful.

“Then we'll stop. We won't. Forget I asked.”

“No, no. . .just close your eyes, okay?”

“Of course—anything you want,” he says, and I can tell he means it. That idea is so strong in him that he couldn't escape it if he tried. The opposite of forcing is what he really craves, and oh that gives me such freedom.

More freedom than I should be allowed, really.

“I want you to tell me what you think I like to do.”

“That isn't fair. I've promised, now.”

“I know—so tell me. Tell me what you imagine.”

“I don't imagine you. Not ever,” he says, and for just a second my stomach drops. I think of it the wrong way around. I take it like the words from any man—as a comment on my lack of allure or attractiveness.

I even start to stutter out a retraction, pulling away just slightly.

And then he drags me back with words that set the air alight.

“If I start to, I'm afraid I'll never stop,” he says.

It's really no wonder that my voice trembles when I reply.

“It's okay to never stop, you know.”

“Not for me it isn't.”

“Then just be clinical about it. Be a professor. . .analyze my sexual habits. What do you think I like to do, Doctor?” I ask, and I swear I mean it only in a joking way. I don't expect that one ending word to have the effect it does on me—or to have the effect it does on him. I go all hot and cold, and he falls silent for about half an hour.

By the time he speaks again, I'm aching for all the things he might say.

Though I don't expect any of the words he goes with. I don't expect his tone of voice, like the low hum at the end of a sweet song. And I definitely don't expect the
explicitness
.

“I think you like skin on skin. You're very. . .tactile. You become excited at the slightest touch—though that may be due to the parameters of our relationship. Nothing is so arousing as the forbidden,” he says, and I try to be calm. I do.

But would anyone want to be, in this situation?

He said
skin on skin
. He said
arousing
.

And more than that: he notices.

Dear God, I think he notices.

“How do you know I'm excited?”

“The obvious signs mostly—flushing of the cheeks and throat, pupil dilation, and a slight shortness of breath. Sometimes you shake just a little, and of course—”

“Of course what? Noah, of course what?”

“I don't want you to think I've been looking.”

“I won't think that. You can say whatever you want.”

He gets this faint little frown at that, and when he speaks his voice is a little more halting than usual. I get why though. My voice would halt if I had to say the following. My heart halts in my chest, just to hear it spoken aloud in that brittle tone of his.

“Your nipples usually. . .make little tight points under your clothes. It's very noticeable, though I promise I try not to notice at all.”

“Is there anything else you try not to notice?”

“I do my best to avoid your frequent sex dreams,” he says, and when he does one eyebrow lifts just ever so slightly, as though to underscore what he's doing here. He struggles to say
nipple
, but has absolutely no problem teasing me.

His eyes stay closed, but one eyebrow kind of lifts in a way I would find amusing if I wasn't so busy burying my face in my palm.

“Oh God, you know about that.”

“When your girlfriend asks you to fuck her pussy in her sleep, it's sort of hard to avoid. But you made a very good attempt with that drowning comment, honestly.”

“I have no idea what to have emotions about first—that I said that without knowing it and you just kept quiet, or the fact that you just said
fuck my pussy
,” I tell him, even though I do know, secretly. I want to ask him about that one word bright and beautiful word:

Girlfriend
. I am his girlfriend.

And apparently, that lets him be a lot bolder.

“There are lewder things I could say,” he murmurs, a single eyebrow still lifted so lightly you could almost believe he wasn't doing it at all. Or offering what he is definitely offering. Good God, he is definitely offering.

Is it any wonder I sound so breathless when I speak?

Or that I have no problems pushing?

“Then say them. Say them to me,” I blurt out, but I don't expect what I get.

I could never imagine what I get in my wildest dreams.

“I could tell you that I know how aroused you get when you sleep here next to me because I can smell it, and I can hear it. When you move all the slipperiness between your legs makes a kind of. . .soft slick sound. I try to pretend it's something else, but I've never been very good at that.”

I feel so silly for thinking
arousing
was a big deal when this is what he's actually capable of. In the night he lies awake and listens to me, and is able to think of words like
slick
and
slippery
. More than that: he can say them out loud in this matter-of-fact tone that somehow makes it even more intense than it has any right to be.

“Oh my God,” I say, when what I really want to go with is some shocked word that hasn't been invented yet. It has twelve exclamation points and three of them are right in the middle of it, and it ends on an angry gargle.

“Too much?” he asks.

“Not enough,” I answer.

No hesitation. And no real hesitation from him, either.

“All right. . .all right. . .you like to masturbate underneath your clothes. One hand in your panties, the way you want to do it now. Am I close?”

“I think you know you are.”

“And you just stroke your clit in nice little circles—rarely fucking yourself with either your fingers or a toy. Though I imagine you sometimes fantasize about it.”

“I do, I do. God, I do, yes, yes.”

“You wonder what it would be like to orgasm around something inside you. Something hard and thick and good in a way things never really are.”

“That—yeah, yeah,” I say, but only because my brain can no longer think up more coherent sentences. His ability to guess and interpret my behavior was dazzling before, when applied to mundane things. Now it damn near makes my mouth water. My clit swells to hear it; my face burns to know he knows it.

And that's before he adds the delightful little kicker:

“Slide your fingers down.”

Of course, I'm certain I've misheard.

I even ask, despite how clear he was.

“What?” I say, then wait for him to take it away.

He must—he hates to push. He hates to force.

Though does this really feel like forcing?

“Slide them down, and just let them ease in a little,” he says, and his tone is so even and detached I can't possibly say it does. Instead, it feels kind of like a lesson, with a really wonderful tutor. And though that seems insane, he goes on like that. He goes on so much I can't think of anything but.

Or be anything other than ridiculously aroused.

“Don't thrust or fuck yourself or any of the things most people do in ridiculous porn,” he tells me, while I die inside of being turned on. “Instead make a hook, like you want to lift your body up with two fingers. Don't worry about finding anything—you won't. Just sort of rock or tug at yourself right there, nice and hard. Do you understand?”

I have no idea if I will ever understand anything again.

But I do what he asks all the same. I slip my hand underneath my panties, and ease through what feels like a torrential downpour. And when I find my very tight but oh-so-greedy pussy, I push in a little. I make the shape he asked for with my fingers, and tug just once. Just once, I think—only once isn't enough.

I hear that slick sound he probably did and get this jolt of something too vicious to be pleasure, then just have to do it again. Harder this time, faster this time, until I know exactly what I'm pushing against and precisely where it feels best.

After which, all is lost.

“Does it feel good?” he asks, and I can hardly answer him. I try, but then he presses down on the back of my hand and I forget where my tongue is supposed to go.

“Ah, yes, yes,” I say, and am amazed I manage that. He's pressing so I'll do it harder, and go in deeper, and just the thought of that is beyond what I can reasonably cope with. I twist into it and twist away all at the same time, not sure if I want this much pleasure. Or want this
kind
of pleasure.

But he helps clarify for me.

“Use your thumb on your clit,” he says, and I know then for sure.

“No—I need to. . .I need to. . .” I start, fighting for the right words, the right sentiment to match this sensation. I don't have to though. He already knows.

“You need to come like that,” he says, and oh, he is just the best.

All I can do is moan and nod in answer, that pressure now so hot and hard it sort of feels like my orgasm is being squeezed out of me. My legs don't want to stay down on the bed in some polite and pretty sort of pose. They want to come up, real close to my stomach.

They want to make me look wanton and desperate, so lost in sensation I hardly care about anything but feeling more of it. Getting more of it. I practically have three fingers inside myself now—though that isn't the thing that is really putting me over the edge.

It's the sense that he is very close to touching more than my hand.

That maybe he even likes it, or wants it. I feel the pad of his finger sort of stir against my skin, and suspect he does it because some of my wetness is there. It must have spread up over my fingers, and now he gets to feel it. He gets to stroke it.

And all while pretending to focus just on me.

“Think you can?” he asks, voice just a touch shakier than it was before. Not so much that it really gives the game away, but enough for me to want to push. To hardly feel bad about pushing him.

“God, yes, yes just. . .say more things to me,” I pant, hoping for more suggestions or maybe directions, or best of all, oh, best of all please just order me to do whatever you want. If he ordered me I think I'd burst, yet somehow, what he gives me is so much better.