“So fucking hot,” he whispers in my ear, and I glow inside at his praise.
Driven by the desire to hear more, I cave in, and I touch myself with abandon as I lick his lips and spear my tongue into his mouth, bite his bottom lip, his chin, suck on the strong cords of his neck. I rise quickly toward orgasm, but then I hover at the edge, unable to go over, as insidious thoughts invade my head.
I must look so funny right now, touching myself when I have this beautiful man here. I should have sex the right way, let him do the touching. I should be easy to pleasure. I should orgasm for him in stantly, multiple times, every time, any time he wants me to. People would laugh at me if they saw.
He kisses me and whispers encouragement as I tremble in his arms. But he doesn’t quite drown out the voices in my head. They have gotten too loud. My hips twitch as I undulate against my hand, chasing a release that remains out of reach until sweat covers my body.
His hand strokes my inner thigh, and my heart lurches. I freeze, afraid he’ll investigate what I’m doing and find out how I need to touch myself, how strange I am. I don’t want him to know. He can’t know.
“I can’t—it’s not—we need to stop,” I say, and it sounds like pleading.
“Okay. We’ll stop.” His words are husky, rough, but he does as I ask. He stops. He rolls onto his back and pulls me partially onto his chest, where I hear the wild beating of his heart, feel the deep billowing of his breaths. Farther below, his sex is like a brand against my leg, stiff and hot.
A sense of failure makes me want to cry. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says.
“But I didn’t. And you didn’t.” I can’t bring myself to say what we didn’t.
“We did a lot.”
“You’re not angry?” I ask.
“No, I’m not angry,” he all but growls as he hugs me tighter. “I’m fucking proud of you. I’m honored that you trusted me. I’m not angry, not even a little.”
“You’re still …” I shift my leg and move my hand from his chest downward. He stops me, pinning my hand against his stomach.
“Next time maybe,” he rasps.
“You want there to be a next time?”
“Yes, I want there to be a next time. I want there to be lots of times.”
“You might get really …” I’m not sure how to phrase it in a way that sounds good and settle on … “sexually frustrated. If you keep waiting for me.”
“Then I’ll get sexually frustrated,” he says.
I almost tell him that by choosing to wait, he’s putting pressure on me, but I don’t. This isn’t just about me. It’s about both of us. He has his own reasons for needing things to be a certain way, and I respect that.
Feeling wrung out and exhausted, I ask, “Do we sleep now?”
“Are you inviting me to stay?”
I’m tired, but I smile. “Yes.”
“Then yeah, let’s sleep now.”
THE INSISTENT RINGING OF A PHONE DRAGS ME BACK INTO consciousness. I must not have been asleep for long. My hair is still damp with sweat, and I feel uncomfortably messy between my legs. Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position.
“Let them leave a message,” Quan murmurs sleepily.
“I can’t. That’s my mom’s ringtone.” I slip out of bed to grope around the floor blindly for my dress.
I find something that feels dress-like and pull it over my head, only to have it fall just below my butt. It must be Quan’s shirt, but it’ll have to do. I find my way to the door and go to my living room to hunt for my phone, turning on the lamp on the end table as I go. My phone’s stopped ringing, and I can’t remember where in the world I stuck it （a common problem for me）。 I look all over—on my coffee table and bookshelves, under my couch pillows. I even check inside my shoes and get down on all fours to peer under my couch.
“It’s in my jacket pocket.”
I glance over my shoulder, and the sight of Quan makes my heart sigh. He’s leaning casually against the wall, shirtless, wearing only his jeans, which ride low on his hips. I touched all of that, that skin, that ink, without seeing any of it. It’s a shame that we did everything in the dark.
Except if it wasn’t dark, I never could have done what I did.
Was that why he suggested it? Not for himself, but for me?
His gaze sweeps over me, dark, intense, possessive even, and I become aware of my bent-over, kneeling position and the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear. He must have quite the view. I straighten and yank on the hem of his T-shirt, embarrassed and self-conscious. But I also feel immensely desired and sexy, things I’m not sure I’ve ever truly felt before.