Give Me a Chance (BYC #2)

25. Natalie

25

NATALIE

I ’ve created a monster.

A kinky, dominant, punishing monster. One that also does aftercare, by the way.

Something about this sensible looking man spilling his cum all over me after punishing me with four, yes, four orgasms, is more than my jaded heart can take. And fuck, him feeding me with my hands tied and washing my hair in the shower made me halfway to number five.

After the best night’s sleep, I meet up with Rina and Anne for brunch. They wave at me from the white round table, in style with the shabby chic feel of the place.

“We’ve ordered for you,” Anne says, after giving me a hug.

“Yeah, since you were late,” Rina adds, and I stick out my tongue, making her laugh.

“Sorry, my legs weren’t listening to me.”

“Busy night?” Rina smirks.

“Yes, actually. I’ll have you know my clit is in serious need of recuperation.” Rina chuckles as Anne chokes on her drink.

“You? In need of recuperation? Are you not telling us something?” Rina asks.

“We’re talking about Matt, right?” Poor Anne probably thinks I had an orgy or something.

“Yes, we’re talking about Matt. But seems like little Mattie, who isn’t little at all, FYI, has a kinky streak.”

This time, Rina is the one to almost choke on her drink.

“Matt? Really?” she whispers. Tell me about it.

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.” They both burst out laughing, knowing I normally share everything, but this time I’m serious.

The way they reacted shows me what he said might be true—the kinky streak is just for me. And a part of me wants to keep it for myself. For us. After a minute, they must realize I’m not sharing anything else because Anne jumps in.

“Umm, Rina? You know who I saw? Bryce!”

“Bryce?” Rina asks, chewing her food.

“Yeah, Bryce. Bryce that you went to the last year’s gala with.” Anne responds.

“Oh, that Bryce. How is he?” I know her, she’s just being polite.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen him since he moved,” I add. Bryce used to be my neighbor, and I set Rina and him up on a date. It was a good blind date, but Rina was already head over heels for Connor.

“He’s good. He kind of asked for my number to catch up.” Anne looks down at her food but isn’t able to hide the blush in her cheeks. By the end of the gala, Rina and Connor had a thing in the storage room, while Bryce and Anne realized they had a bunch in common and hit it off. Long story short, it was the last date for him and Rina.

“That’s great! You like him, right?” Rina asks.

“Come on, you dated him.” Anne waves her off, but her blush is telling us a different story.

“It was hardly dating,” I add. “It was one blind date and a business event.”

“Nat’s right. I would be absolutely fine if you wanted to pursue him,” Rina says.

“Well, in that case, maybe I’ll meet with him to catch up.” Anne’s lips turn up.

“Ooh, do tell us what’s he like in bed,” I add. “I’ve always wondered.” He’s a hot guy, but he was my neighbor.

Having sex with your neighbor can only lead to awkward situations. It’s complicated. And I don’t do complicated.

At least I didn’t do complicated.

“It’ll just be coffee. No one’s talking about sex, ” she whispers the word, like it’s dirty.

“Sure, I’m just saying.” I shrug.

That afternoon, I head to my yoga studio, in desperate need of a stretch. Somehow, being tied up and lying down strained my muscles so much they’re sore now. That’s what four orgasms will do to you, I guess. And while my mind is already searching for more, my clit can barely stand the touch of my yoga pants.

My body relaxes into child’s pose, but my thoughts are far from child friendly. I’m replaying the previous night over and over again.

I was consciously pushing him to his limits. But if I’d known what awaits me, I would have done it a while ago.

I don’t identify as a brat. At least I never did. But he draws my bratty side right out. And I guess I draw out his dominant side. Both dormant with anyone other than each other.

Why the hell is that?

If I hadn’t renounced romantic feelings ages ago, I’d think there are some feelings involved.

I breathe out the crazy thought in my warrior pose, and after a forty-five minute session, my body’s feeling better.

By Sunday, I’m a mess of hormones and period cramps. With chocolate and ibuprofen as my best friends, I raid Hulu’s romance section. Even my cold, dead heart grows a romantic side a few days a month. Settling on a third rewatch of Normal people, I prepare my favorite blanket and a box of tissues.

Three episodes in, my phone pings with a text.

Matt:

Are you feeling OK?

Is he watching me somehow?

Oh, he’s probably asking because of Friday.

Me:

Not at all

But it’s not because of you :P

Matt:

What’s wrong?

Pfft, nice guys. I’m used to men caring only if it pertains to them.

Me:

Nothing much. Just my womb trying to kill me for daring to not get pregnant again.

Matt:

Say no more.

I guess he is just a man, after all. One mention of periods and he’s out of the conversation.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone vibrates with a call.

“Can you let me in?” his deep voice says.

“What?”

“I’m in front of your building, can you let me in?”

“Why would you come in?”

“I’m bringing presents.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I’m in too much pain to argue.

“Fine,” I say and get off the call.

I’m barely able to get up and open the door, let alone care my shirt has a hole in it and my hair could become a bird’s nesting point if I were to exit the building.

“Hi,” I mutter, mostly to myself, before making my way back to the sectional.

His brows pull together as he gets closer.

“I brought some things to make you feel better.” He lifts a cloth bag he’s holding.

“Thanks, but the only help is to survive until tomorrow when the pain will get better.” It’s what I’ve learned in the fourteen years of having periods.

“What did you take for the pain?” He takes out a few pill bottles.

“Ibuprofen.” He returns two pill bottles to the bag and shows me the third.

“Naproxen would probably be best, but it can’t be mixed with ibuprofen. So, our best bet is plain old paracetamol. The good news is you can combine it with ibuprofen and double the chance of something helping.” I put my palm forward waiting for him to drop some pills.

“Wait.” He heads to the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water. Looking in the bag, he fishes out another pill bottle and drops a single fizzing tablet in the glass.

“Magnesium,” he explains. “It’s good for cramping.” I wait for it to fizz out before downing it with two paracetamol pills.

“You’re like my dealer now,” I say, making him laugh.

“I brought snacks as well.” He smiles and starts taking the rest of the bag out.

“Wow, chips and chocolate?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.” He shrugs.

“What’s that?” I ask, as he takes the last thing out.

“A heating pad. When medicine fails, a simple thing as heat can go a long way.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I grew up with only a mom and a sister. By the time I was eighteen, I knew more about tampons than shaving my beard. My sister had awful cramping, and I was her support system, even when I moved out.” He talks about it like it’s no big deal, but all the guys I know run away as soon as they hear the word.

He gets back to the kitchen and starts heating the water for the pad.

“Here, you should probably lie down.” He’s back with the pad.

I do as he tells me, and he lifts my shirt slightly, pressing the pad to my stomach.

“Tell me if it gets too hot, but it should be borderline scalding.”

He’s right, the heat sears into my skin in an instant, but the surface burn relieves the deep pain. In a minute, I feel my stomach muscles relaxing, soothing the pain.

“What did you eat?” he asks me, and I nod to the pile of chocolate wrappers on the coffee table.

“That’s it? Wow, if I’d known, I would have cooked something for you.”

“What? Gnocchi again?” I joke, glad I’m fine enough to make jokes.

“I’ll have you know, I learned a new recipe yesterday.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“A stir-fry.”

“Wow, someone really doesn’t have big expectations from you.”

“It’s my mom, and she finally realized the level of my incompetence, thank God. First couple of times, her ideas were way too complex for my skill set.”

I blame hormones for my eyes welling up imagining him and his mom cooking together.

“The food will be here soon.” He sets his phone to the side. “What are we watching?”

“Normal people,” I whisper.

“You don’t say, Ms Barnett? Is someone a closeted romantic?” I throw a candy wrapper at him, not dignifying him with a response.

He sits on the opposite end of the sectional, taking my feet in his lap. We watch the show in comfortable silence, the heating pad working wonders on my cramps.

He grabs the food when it arrives and spreads it out on the coffee table. This is the second time I’ve noticed he doesn’t get single-use utensils from the takeout place, but rather uses regular ones. I guess green isn’t just the theme for the gala, but his personal theme as well.

“Chicken soup.” He hands me the bowl and the spoon, offering to feed me, but I shake my head.

Grabbing another bowl of soup, he joins me eating.

“What? Do you also have some ailments I’m not aware of?”

“Nope. Just love eating soup.” This makes me laugh so hard I almost spill the soup.

“Sheesh. Maybe you should lay off the pills,” he jokes, and a blush creeps up my neck.

The last time I blushed, I was probably a teenager. But here he is, helping me with my cramps and making me blush. A dangerous combination.

I should really get things back on the right track.

“You know what else I’ve heard does great things for period cramps? Orgasms.” I expect him to make a disgusted face, but he chuckles.

“A tempting offer, but I don’t think you’re feeling well enough for that.” He smirks as if he’s telling the truth. As if he’s really hot for me while I’m dressed like this and bleeding.

“Wow. Not afraid of the red sea, I guess.” Once again, his chuckle fills the room.

“I almost licked my own cum off you the other day. I don’t think being even remotely disgusted by anything regarding you is in the cards for me.” He shrugs while my face burns. Here I am, blushing again.

But somehow, the unexpected dirty talk combined with a more unexpected, sweet sentiment caught me off guard.

The pain finally drifted away, so I doze off for a while. Waking up, I have no idea how much time has passed, but I notice the show is paused. He’s still sitting in the same spot, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, while gently stroking my right foot. I watch him for a second, noticing the impossibly long lashes framing his deep green eyes. He probably hasn’t shaved since yesterday because he has a light scruff, and I like it. He’s so put together at all times, so it feels intimate to see him in a more casual setting.

Fucking hormones. Since when do I want intimate?

I clear my throat, and his gaze lands on me. A devastating smile appears on his face.

“Feeling better?”

“Actually, yes. How long was I out?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“About an hour?”

“Wow, and you stayed the whole time.”

“I wanted to take care of you.” He shrugs.

“You know this isn’t what this is.” I need him to understand this doesn’t change anything between us.

“I know,” he responds quietly.

“Want to watch the rest of the show?” We have just three episodes left. “If you don’t have any plans.”

“I’d love to.” His lips turn up. “Let me fill up the heating pad with some hot water.”

He returns from the kitchen with the pad and a glass of water. Making sure I’m comfortable, he gives me a new dose of pills and presses play on the remote.

We barely speak till the end of the show, but he stays connected to me, his hands caressing my feet and legs. The touch, so soft and tender, burns through my skin, heating me up from the inside.

I cry, and he brings me tissues as Normal people ends.

“Can I get you something else before I leave?”

“No, thank you.” A tiny, hormonal, bleeding part of me wants to beg him to stay, but luckily the rest of me is sane enough to stop it.

Before leaving, he cleans up the coffee table, all the containers, wrappers, and tissues because, of course, he does. Another bad cramp hits me, like my womb is mad at me for not begging him to stay and make everything better.

But I know better. Even good guys will break you. And comfort isn’t worth the trauma.