He hands me the packet. I look at it like it’ll bite. “Tell me how.”
He rips open the foil. “Pinch the top, then roll it on,” he says, and he moans in pleasure as I slide it on him. “See what you do to me? I get even more turned on just from you doing that. You can do anything to me, Harley. Anything.”
I lie on my back, propped on my elbows, and foreplay is over and that’s fine because the last several months have been foreplay, and now there is only this.
When he hovers over me, my shoulders shake once, twice.
“You okay?”
“Yes. No. I’m nervous as hell.”
“We don’t have to,” he says as if it pains him, but still I love that he offers an out.
“I don’t want an out.”
Then he teases me, rubbing the head against me through all my wetness, and it feels so good the way he’s touching me. I start to spread my legs wider for him. “You’re so wet it’s almost a sin for me not to go down on you. But I love that you’re so wet,” he says, then he pushes into me. Not far, maybe an inch. Hell, maybe even half an inch.
I tense up.
He meets my eyes, asks me with his if it’s okay.
“It’s okay,” I tell him as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “You can come in more,” I say, with a silly smile because the words sound silly.
He slides in deeper, and I clamp my legs against his. “Are you sure?”
I breathe out deeply, yoga breaths, deep calming exhalations. Then I spread my legs again, relax my body, and tell myself that it will feel amazing because it’s him. I close my eyes and nod into his shoulder, then run my hands down his strong back, to his ass, guiding him.
He sinks slowly into me, and the pain is intense. It’s like my stomach has been jammed up into my neck. I am being stretched in directions I didn’t know I had. This man is so big, and I don’t know how he’s fitting inside me. Oh wait, I do know. Because when he thrusts once, my spleen leaps into my chest.
I grit my teeth and try to tell myself it’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon. He’s turned on, he’ll pump once, twice, three times, and he’ll come, and I can curl up and let the pain roll out to the night.
Then I feel his breath on my neck, his stubble on my cheek, his hand on my hip. “Harley, I don’t want to hurt you. I can tell you don’t like it,” he says, but he’s not mad, he’s not hurt. He’s simply being honest.
And I decide to do the same. I open my eyes, look up into his. They are so earnest, so heartfelt. “Yes, it hurts. But it’s okay. I can handle the hurt,” I say, and it’s strange, but true. Because maybe it hurts now, but it might not hurt the next time. Or in five minutes, or in five seconds. And with that, I start to relax, to let go, to give in. As I do I realize the pain is fading, and now I just feel full with him deep inside me. I let go of the tight grip I have on his ass, and of the way my strong thighs are holding him like a vise.
Then he slips his hand between my legs, and he slowly, softly rubs me with his finger while he moves inside me. I gasp in pleasure for the first time.
“Oh!”
I let my eyes roll back into my head, and I can feel him smile.
“That better?”
“Yes,” I say with a happy sigh. “More.”
He slides his finger across me, rubbing me, stroking me, all while sliding gently in and out, and the sweep of pleasure from his finger starts to consume me. And soon, I’m opening my legs farther, and I’m wrapping them around him, and I’m taking him in. And holy fuck. He’s all the way in me and it no longer hurts. It starts to feel good, this feeling of being filled, of his hard length moving in and out of me, of his nimble finger rubbing me. Then the tingling sensation grows stronger, ripples through my veins like a wave, and I shudder.
“God, I fucking love this, Harley,” he groans as he touches me. “I fucking love being inside you. I love touching you. I love you so damn much.”
His words thrill me. His feelings shred me and soon, all the hurt washes away, and I am left with only the barest of essentials – this imperfect moment in time with this perfectly damaged man who is mine and who knows all of me, and still loves me, and still wants me, and doesn’t want to turn me into his fantasy, but he wants us to create a new reality together. I wrap my arms around him and he sinks deeper. The stretching is still bizarre but it’s delicious at the same time, and I want to feel every second of it as I start to rock with him, to move with him, and then his pants and groans aren’t solo anymore. They’re meshed with mine, with these sounds and noises I make as I gasp and moan from his finger working me over in the most delirious way all while he thrusts into me.
“Trey.”
“Oh fuck, Harley. Is there any chance you’re going to come? Because I can’t hold back much longer. I am so fucking turned on.”
“Yes,” I answer, and I dig my nails into his back, so deep I’m leaving marks, but I have to hold on, I have to mark him. My body tenses, then it’s like there are sparklers set off in my belly, lit up and burning brightly, and they become an explosion of color and light and sounds, and that sound is my sound, it’s my voice, it’s me, calling out his name, and then he’s doing the same, chasing me into this sweet release on the other side.
Here, where there is sex and love, and love and sex, and they don’t just spill over into each other.
They are one and the same with him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Harley
“I’ll expect your first writing exercises on character development by the end of the week. You can deliver them via email, and remember to think about what makes each person unique. What events informed them, how they grew up, how they were raised. All of those are part and parcel of what makes a character in a story come alive.”
My writing teacher taps the laptop screen for emphasis.
I grew up strangely, I was raised in a topsy turvy world. But now and then, memories flutter in and out of my mind of peaceful, sunny days from long ago. Maybe they’re all part and parcel of me.
“See you next week,” he says, then dismisses us.
Summer classes have begun, and I am hoping to enjoy writing again. That when I write for fun, it won’t be so bone dry. Funny, how blackmail can sap the love of something. I leave the classroom, grab my sunglasses from my purse and slide them on as I head outside.
I stop in my tracks when I see my mother waiting for me outside the building.
She’s been calling and writing to me for the last week, but I’ve ignored all her messages. Let’s be honest, there’s not much to say to each other.
“Harley,” she says crisply from her post standing sentry on the sidewalk.
“Barb,” I say, and this time I use her name not because she wants me to. But because she doesn’t deserve to be called mom.
“You haven’t returned any of my calls. Nor my emails.”
“That is a correct observation. I see your reporter skills are strong,” I say, and I can barely contain a wicked grin, because holy cow – I sassed her. I talked back and she’s not used to it.
She raises an eyebrow sharply as if that action alone can bend me back to her will, into her submission as the sister she wishes I were.
But I am not my mother’s daughter anymore. There was a time when we were cut from the same cloth, but no more.
“In any case, I’ve decided to forgive you.”
“Excuse me?” I scoff. “I think I might have heard you wrong.”
She nods. “I have been thinking about what you did. Your actions. Your choices. And I have a way for you to be forgiven.”
I’m dying to know what she has in store. “Oh, do tell.”
She gestures grandly to the modern building I just left. “I pay for your college. And I am glad to do so because education is a vital element in one’s growth. And I will continue to do so under one condition.”