He’s close.
So close that I have to stare up at his punishing dark eyes.
“W-what are you doing?” I don’t mean to stutter or speak in such an airy voice, I really don’t, but he’s kind of robbed something from me.
Because he’s a thief. All he does is steal things from me.
First, my respect.
Then my girlhood dreams.
And now, he’s coming after my body.
“From now on, I’ll have a say in it.”
“In…what?”
“The curfew. Answering your damn phone. Not getting on the back of a fucking kid’s bike.”
“You…can’t. You’re not my dad.”
“No, but I am your husband.”
“On paper, remember? No touching, remember? It’ll be all over when I’m twenty-one. Do you remember all of those? Because I do. And this marriage means nothing.”
There’s a tic in his jaw. It’s small and barely-there, but I notice it because I notice everything about him. It’s my only superpower.
“It means nothing, huh?” He draws out the words, speaking slowly, but it’s downright menacing.
“Yeah, nothing.”
“Is that why you pulled up your skirt and hopped on the back of a bike with a kid? Because it means nothing?”
“Chris is not a kid, okay? And he can drive that Harley like nobody’s business. That’s what it’s called, by the way, a Harley, not some normal bike.”
“And why did you get on that not-some-normal bike?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “None of your business.”
“Watch your fucking tone. Don’t go on the defensive in front of me or I promise it’ll end ugly—for you, not me. So drop the attitude and your fucking arms.”
I don’t want to, I really don’t, but my arms seem to have a mind of their own as they fall limply to my sides.
“I don’t see why you should care who gives me a ride or who I spend my time with.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The question catches me off guard, or the tone does. It’s calm but with a deep, nefarious undertone that makes me curl my toes in my white sneakers.
“What if he is?” I feign nonchalance.
“Answer the question. Is he?”
“I’m not allowed to have one? I’m twenty, you know, and that means I have crushes, boyfriends, and urges. It means I go out and ride motorcycles and do whatever the hell I wish.”
“What type of urges?”
“Huh?”
“You said you have crushes, boyfriends, and urges. What are the urges?”
Shit. Of course he’d focus on that part of my word vomit. I should backpedal, pretend it means nothing, but I’m feeling extra ballsy. I feel like being extra bad.
Maybe it’ll hurt worse afterward, but I don’t care. The pain is worth it sometimes.
“Sexual urges,” I whisper in a breathy voice that surprises me.
Apparently, it surprises Nate, too, or maybe my words do, because he goes so tight, I think he’s going to auto-combust or something.
Even his voice is as stiff as the rest of him. “Sexual urges like what?”
“You know.”
“I don’t know. Tell me, Gwyneth, what are the sexual urges you need the not-some-normal bike kid for?”
“K-kissing, for starters.”
“Kissing.”
“Yeah, with tongue and groping.”
“And?”
I can feel the fire spreading all over my neck and ears, but I don’t stop. I can’t. “Then he’d finger me.”
“How?”
“Huh?”
“How would he do it? Would his fingers be deep inside you, making you all full?”
Holy shit. I am now. All full, I mean, and it only took his words. They’re not really words anymore. They’ve gained a dimension and are now living inside me, touching me, making me all stuffed with him.
“Yeah…and they feel so good, too.”
“They do, huh?”
Everything in me clenches—my chest, my stomach, and my pussy. It’s clenching so hard, as if I’m trying to keep his fingers there.
“How good?” The rigidness in his voice and posture doesn’t go away. He sounds like he’s on the verge of something. What, I have no clue.
“Very.”
“Describe it.”
“I…can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can only feel it. And that only happens in the moment.” This moment, apparently, because I’m so hot and bothered, I’d only need to touch myself for a few seconds to get my much-needed relief.