His words send red-hot electricity up my spine. I can’t help wondering what fucking filthy things we were doing in his imagination.
“Russ,” I say, and I like the way his eyes flutter shut at that nickname. “You don’t have to close your eyes this time.”
That elicits a lovely groan from him, and I remove my hand so he can shuck off his jeans, sending up a quick thanks to the Patron Saint of Boxer Briefs.
I can’t marvel for long, though, because he’s turning his attention to my bra, tracing a finger along the black lacy straps. “This is beautiful. But unfortunately, it has to come off.” It only takes a twitch of his thumb for the front clasp to fall open. Then I’m just in matching black lace panties and my lightning bolt necklace, Russ in a gray T-shirt and boxers.
“Christ. So gorgeous.” His mouth parts as he looks me up and down. “Can you just . . . I want to look at you a second.”
It’s not until he says it that I realize my body is slightly scrunched, the way I usually am with new partners, not ready to completely expose myself yet. But the pure want in his voice is enough to ease that shyness. I relax my muscles, stretch out my legs, letting him drink me in.
It’s a raw, heady feeling, being able to see someone’s attraction like this. Russell wears it plainly—a dark intensity in his eyes, an exhale of breath, a curve of his lips that gives way to a wicked smile as he lowers himself over me. He’s careful to avoid my left arm, I realize, his hands cupping my breasts as he kisses my neck, his erection grazing my thighs. Crushing his mouth against the charm on my necklace, the cold metal pressing into my skin. It’s not that his touch is sloppy or inexperienced—it’s reverent, almost. Experimental, the way he rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, listening to the way my breath hitches, finding out what I like.
With Russell, I’m beginning to think I like just about everything.
When I reach for his shirt, though, he freezes up again.
“What is it?” I ask, my hand pausing at the hem. I will my breaths to slow down. I want to give him space to tell me how he feels—if that’s something he’s ready for.
He pulls back on his heels, gesturing to his stomach. Not quite meeting my gaze. “I, uh—I don’t want my stomach to be in the way, or for you to feel disgusted by it or anything. I know I’m fat.”
“You’re not—” I start, ready to defend him, but he holds up a hand.
“It’s not a bad word. It’s just an adjective. It’s just the way I am.” He waits a few beats before speaking again, as though deciding how much he wants to tell me. A soft sigh. A hard swallow. Maybe that is the sound of letting someone in. “I’ve been fat since I was a kid. And most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. It used to, and some people sure as hell think it should and go out of their way to make sure I’m aware of that. They’re sneaky about it sometimes, too—it’s all under the guise of caring about my health, even though I’m perfectly healthy.” He brings his eyes back up to mine. “So if it bothers you . . . I could maybe leave my shirt on? If that’s what you want?”
Hearing him say all of this breaks my heart. “No, no, no,” I say quickly, placing my hand on his arm. “Honestly? That’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”
“Are you sure?”
I push to a sitting position so I can cup his face, have him look at me. “Yes. You’re hot, Russell, and I really fucking want you. All of you.” And then, to prove it, I take his hand and guide it between my legs, where I’m wet and needy for him.
He slips a finger inside my underwear and groans. Slowly, slowly, his finger brushes my center, achingly close to my clit. An excruciating circle, and then he finds it again. My hips buck, begging him to move faster.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath. I love the way he lets himself enjoy this, bit by bit. “Fuck, Ari. You are . . . incredible.”
I can’t take it anymore, not feeling skin against skin. Greedy, I lunge forward, eager to rid him of his shirt. And—he’s absolutely beautiful. I force myself to slow down, to take him in the way he did to me. I run my hands along the pink stretch marks on his belly, on the sides of his stomach, along the chest hair I’ve been wondering about since that night at the hotel bar. I kiss as much of his skin as I can, until he reaches for my panties and I’m all too happy to help him take them off.
Without the fabric in the way, he trails his hand up my thigh, parting my legs before sliding a finger where I need him most. Jesus. There’s that experimental touch again as he learns my shape, up and down and up, a second finger, up, yes, and I lean my head back against the pillow, arching my back.
All while his fingers are circling.
And circling.
And circling.
Every time I think I might be close, shutting my eyes and focusing on that building sensation, it slips away. He’s encouraged by my breaths, the way I grip his shoulder, but after a while, his hand slows, like he’s too tired or I’m not giving him what he wants. Or both.
Fuck. I was hoping this wouldn’t happen. Not with him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, positive he can hear the frustration in my voice.
“Hey. You have nothing to apologize for.” He sits back and looks at me, his other hand perched on my hip. “Is there anything I can be doing differently?”
I lift up onto my elbows, my face heated with both arousal and embarrassment. I was worried this might happen. I thought the excitement of doing this with Russell might get me there quicker . . . but no such luck.
“It’s not you.” I hope he knows I’m not just saying that. “I’m self-conscious with new people. I’ve always been that way. Like I can’t turn off my brain or can’t fully relax. Sometimes . . . sometimes it takes a few times. I’ve never been able to—the first time.”
I’ve been with guys who take this as a challenge, declaring that no woman has ever had trouble achieving orgasm with them, which feels great when you’re already naked with someone, imagining them pleasuring another partner. I’d love to be the type of girl who collapses into ecstasy the instant her partner touches her, but I’m just . . . not. And my antidepressants, as wonderful as they are, dim my libido a bit.
He’s quiet for a moment. I almost wonder if he’s going to say we should stop, that it’s not worth it. Or that we should full-steam ahead right into intercourse, which, sure, is plenty fun, but I’ve never had an orgasm that way either, even if I’ve faked it a good dozen times. I don’t want to do that with him.
When he speaks, it’s not at all what I was expecting. “So the thing is,” he says, his voice low. “I really want you to come. Tonight.” He might get me halfway there if he keeps talking like that. “I have an idea. And you can absolutely say no.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, thumb lingering on my cheekbone as he pulls away. “What if you made yourself come? Here. With me.” I must make some kind of expression, because he continues, “If you think it might be easier?”
His hands on me are so gentle. He’s not demanding an orgasm from me. He’s not frustrated—he wants me to enjoy this.