“Coming in here and teasing me with that church mouse striptease of yours isn’t offering yourself to me on a silver platter,” he whispers into my ear. “Come back with a little more dignity next time. I don’t want an AUB wife. I want a girl in charge of her own sexuality.”
I jerk my wrist from his grip. “Oh, I’m in charge, Jensen.”
“Yeah, for some reason, I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need to prove myself to you.” My arms lock tight across my chest.
“Yeah, you do.” He leans into my ear once again. “You want me to take you seriously? Fine. Tonight, when you go to sleep, I want you to finger yourself as you think about me. I want you to come all over those delicate fingers of yours as you think about my cock inside you.”
My body quivers against my wishes, betraying me like a willful criminal. The warmth between my thighs spreads into a euphoric high I’ve never experienced before. Even the thought of being bad feels good.
“That is,” he adds, “if you want to. Your choice. Obviously.”
“I don’t need to think about you to get off.”
“Sure. Just like I don’t need to think about you, but I do it anyway. I control what dirty thoughts lurk in the corners of my warped little mind.”
“How many times?”
“Twice.” He smirks. “How many times have you…? Wait. Have you ever pleasured yourself, Waverly?”
“Of course I have,” I lie. I’ve touched myself once. But brought myself to the brink of an orgasm? Never. I don’t know how. I’ve slipped a finger down there once after reading select pages from my romance novels. It was warm and wet and highly sensitive. It felt good until the guilt set in, and I quickly retrieved my hand and vowed never to do it again.
Jensen rubs the space above his temple, releasing a harsh groan.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“We just took five giant fucking steps backwards.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Make yourself come tonight,” he says. “That’s your assignment. Bring yourself to orgasm.”
“You’re telling me what to do,” I scoff. “What happened to having choices? If I touch myself, won’t that be because you told me to touch myself?”
“Forget all that,” he says, his words coarse and frustrated. “Making yourself come is the ultimate lesson in control. Relax. Trust your instincts. Do what feels good.”
His words send a shiver down my spine and heat between my legs, creating a burning itch too powerful not to scratch. My resolve, previously hardened and stiff, vanishes into thin air.
“Go.” He places his hands on my shoulders and escorts me to his door. His lips curl into the most mischievous smile I’ve ever seen. “I’ll be listening.”
I smack him across his smooth, solid chest and rush down the hall and into my room before anyone sees a thing.
***
My room is pitch dark.
And stuffy—because it’s too early in the year to turn on the air conditioning, and my father is cheap.
I’m buried under a mountain of light blankets, as if they could shield my sins from the outside world.
My fingers twitch. Anxious. Needy. They calculate their next move like criminals shielded by the cover of night.
That’s what this is—a crime. A crime so wrong, I deserve to be punished. If I go to hell, at least I know Jensen will be there to keep me company.
I don’t need my Harlequin paperback for this.
A deep breath passes through my half-parted lips and I brush my hand across my belly before slipping it under the elastic waistband of my pajama bottoms. It travels lower, possessed by a mind of its own, until it reaches the heat between my thighs.
I slip a finger between my folds. A zing of anticipation zips through my stomach. I close my eyes tight and I picture my stepbrother. His broad shoulders and warrior tattoos. His dark hair. His golden eyes. The outline of his erection hidden behind his towel.
I’m a dirty, dirty girl.
I’m going to hell.
Oh, my God. I’m going to hell.
I retrieve my fingers and open my eyes. Doing something so naughty makes me feel as if I’m being watched. They’re going to see it on my face tomorrow at breakfast.
They’ll know.
The ache between my legs intensifies. I’m pulsing down there as if it’s my body’s only way of luring me back into dangerous territory.
Good AUB girls don’t touch themselves. Good AUB girls save themselves for their husbands. Sex is not for pleasure. Sex is for creating families. I should be ignoring these urges. That’s the right thing to do.
I inhale in a full, sharp breath and close my eyes again, rolling to my stomach and slipping my hands under my pillow as if to pin them down.
Only the second my eyes are shut, all I can picture is Jensen.
He’s a thorn in my side.
He’s obnoxious and a know-it-all.
He’s annoyingly attractive.
And he commandeers my body, forcing foreign sensations throughout every inch of me every time he opens his smug mouth.
Cade… Cade makes my heart feel warm and happy. Cade gives me the butterflies. Cade makes me spend hours of valuable class time daydreaming about happily-ever-afters. Cade is the kind of guy you marry after graduating from college, the kind of guy who makes your parents proud. Or in my case, a poly version of Cade.
But Jensen? Jensen sends my nerves into overdrive. He heats my core, forces dirty thoughts into my mind, and flips all of my beliefs sideways, underneath, and in between the places they used to reside.
His words echo in my mind, right along with the words of my father. They align like two opposing views, rivaling for the big win, and contrasting. It’s almost as if my entire life, my father has taught me the sky is one shade of blue, and then Jensen comes along and tells me the sky can be whatever shade I want it to be.
Choices.
That’s the real issue here.
Jensen thinks I have no choice in regards to what I do with my body. I have to prove him wrong.
I’m wet. My panties are soaked.
But maybe he’s not wrong?
I’m an eighteen-year-old woman, and I’m afraid to pleasure myself because my entire life I’ve been told it’s wrong.
My nipples harden, becoming so sensitive that the mere sensation of the lining of my bra cups against them is painful.
Is it wrong?
Am I afraid to think for myself? Is that what’s happening?
I bury my face head down in my pillow and scrunch my face. The ache between my legs hasn’t subsided yet. If anything, it has deepened, becoming more pronounced than before. My right hand pulls from beneath the pillow and travels down the length of my side until it wedges beneath my hips. My fingers slip below my waistband once more.
The racing thoughts are gone.
The hemming and hawing is over.
My fingers work between my folds, pressing along the most sensitive part of me because that’s what feels best. I’m growing wetter with each massage. I press harder, rubbing until my face is twisted and all I feel is a buildup of pressure inside. My middle finger finds my entrance as my palm continues rubbing the rest of me with each stroke.
I rake my teeth over my bottom lip as I picture Jensen, imagining his body is weighing me down and we’re both tangled in a mess of white sheets and covered by the veil of night. I want to make a noise, but I have to be quiet. If Jensen were here, I imagine he’d cover my mouth with his strong hand.
One finger is suddenly not enough. I try two.
Much better.
My hips buck as the pressure mounts, but I’m not ready for it to end. It’s the greatest physical feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire life. My fingers press deeper inside me. Faster. Harder. The ache is painful almost, building and building until there’s nowhere else for it to go.
I think of Jensen again.
I think about his big, hard—
And then my body tingles, tightens, and quivers. My mind blanks. I’m pulsing below, hard and quick. My body contorts, and a wave of euphoria rushes over me from head to toe.