Chapter 30
“WHAT’S THE ONE ABOUT the lady who slept with the corpse of her fiancé?” Ian asks.
Smiling, I turn in my desk chair to face him. He’s sitting in my throne, where he’s been thumbing through a collection of short stories while I finish an email. “‘A Rose for Emily.’ Faulkner.”
He nods, eyes distant. “We read it in class junior year, and you could track how quickly everyone finished by when they reacted to the ending. One of the cheerleaders audibly gagged.” He laughs, returning to the book. “That single iron-colored hair will haunt me for life.”
“It’s a classic for a reason,” I say, lingering to indulge in the sight of him.
He’s dressed almost exactly as he was the night we met, but in a darker sweater, and the T-shirt below doesn’t appear to be cutting off circulation.
I ended up in the same halter dress, mostly to see if “break” me is bold enough to forgo boob tape. Turns out, I am!
Tonight is supposed to be our first date date, which is hard to believe, given that we haven’t spent a night apart since Diego’s livestream last week.
We usually end up here. He comes over for dinner, we help clean up and, after, hang out with the guys for a bit, streaming something on the TV or reading or working on assignments or projects.
Last night, I finally showed them The Proposal. I was right: They loved it.
It’s sweet and homey, and if I trade bubbly ladies for beefcakes, surprisingly close to what I’d been hoping for the day I spotted that glittery pink sign.
When we bid goodnight to my roommates, it rouses some cheeky commentary.
Grant makes a retching noise, and Diego inevitably drops his line about wearing headphones.
And while Ian and I do enjoy plenty of activities that would make his brother retch to consider, between the discomfort leading up to my period and the unkindness of menstruation itself, we haven’t gotten to do anything at the Dawghouse requiring soundproofing.
That’s where the privacy of Ian’s apartment comes in.
Like yesterday, when I installed the suction-cup toothbrush caddy I’d bought him.
I attached the caddy to the wall of his shower, highlighting the clever design—It holds the toothpaste, too!
No more soap dish!—and he thanked me by stripping off my clothes and bringing me to glorious, nonpenetrative climax right there next to it.
The caddy didn’t budge, not even when I grabbed on to it in the throes of orgasm.
I may have to mention that when I post a product review; Ian did the same thing when I pounced on him, and frankly, that’s incredible performance for one little suction cup.
The subject of an actual date came up not long after.
I left it all up to Ian, though I did put in a request for somewhere with burrata.
And while I’m excited for whatever he has in store, a rain check may be in order.
My period tapered off this morning, and I’m as pain-free as I get.
Now, seeing him in my space, lounging with a book, I’m officially at my limit. I need this man inside of my body.
I am out of my mind with want for him. He turns a page, and I am riveted by the movement of his fingers, the care he takes with the worn paper.
I glare at the whorish book, cradled in his capable hands, open and exposed to peruse at his leisure.
I want to be in his hands! I want to be exposed! Peruse me!
He looks up, catching me creeping on him as I mentally slut-shame a Norton Anthology. “You ready to go?”
I start to nod, then shake my head.
His brows twitch down. “What’s up?”
“Did you make a reservation?”
“Ah—” His look turns wary. “No. It’s Sunday, so I figured we’d be okay…”
I take in a long breath. No reservation. He made no reservation, and this has done nothing to curb my appetite for him. Incredible.
“So, no time constraints?” I confirm.
“No?”
I stand and slowly start toward him. I can’t make it to dinner. I can barely make it across the room. This is happening now.
He stays seated, his eye line forced upward as I approach. It’s not an angle I’ve had much experience with, but I like it. The look in his eyes tells me he does, too.
I stop just shy of him. “Dinner is going to have to wait.”
The book hits the floor with a hollow thump.
Watching him, I reach under my left arm for the tiny hook and eye at the top of my dress, unfastening it with my thumb and forefinger before taking hold of the zipper.
I ease it down, feeling the teeth separate as the form-fitting garment loses tension, Ian following the descent of the pull with unblinking focus.
He tracks my hand just as intently as I reach up and back for one of the trailing ends of the bow securing the halter, not moving as I coil the ribbon around my finger and pull.
The bow comes apart, but the tension I have on the ribbon keeps the dress from falling off me. I watch Ian’s chest rise and fall with a long, controlled breath. And then another. I hear the pop of a knuckle, and glance at his hands, fingers white-knuckling the armrests of the chair.
I let the ribbon unfurl. The dress falls to the floor.
Ian stops breathing mid-inhale.
Points for boldness, Break Me.
Clad only in a lacy black thong, I step out of the circle of my dress, resisting the impulse to drape it over the back of my desk chair, my eyes fixed on my quarry. Still no sign that he’s breathing, but the throb of his heartbeat is visible against his light sweater.
Speaking of…“I need to touch you.” I nod to indicate the layer. “Take it off.”
The unfinished breath rasps into him, and he’s all action, sweater and shirt coming off in a blur, joining my dress on the floor. Bare-chested and panting, he leans back in the chair, awaiting further instruction.
Bending forward, I gently press his legs together.
His eyes are impossibly large as I rest a knee to one side of him, then angle my opposite leg over him to straddle his lap, resting my rear on his thighs.
I take his hands, the fingers still tense, and press them to my bare sides. He’s stopped breathing again.
I run my palms over the expanse of his chest, raking my nails through the hair, kneading the slope of his trapezius, then cradling his face in my hands.
Leaning in, I draw on his lower lip, nibbling it gently, and his hands relax as he kisses me back.
After another moment of coaxing, his hands slide down to my waist and back up to my rib cage, thumbs gliding over the tender skin below my breasts.
I break the kiss, lifting my face from him just enough to ask, “How are you?”
He chokes a laugh. “How am I?” His right hand meanders along my side, coasting down my hip crease toward my center.
His fingers smooth over the edge of my thong, and I whimper.
But he doesn’t go any farther. He just teases along the border of flesh and fabric.
“I thought you didn’t like that question. ”
“I don’t like it being asked of me. But I couldn’t come up with a euphemism for letting you know I’m”—a finger bypasses the elastic—“ready.” He traces the edge of my opening, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder. “So ready,” I moan.
“Are you?” His finger continues to skirt the heat of me as I pant, unable to speak as he traces up, circling my clitoris, then easing back down. “I think you could use some more time.”
Incredulous, I roll my head to the side to glare at him. He laughs.
“Not much more,” he assures me. “Not unless”—he runs a finger down my seam, parting me—“you want it?”
“Please.” The single, desperate word rips out of me, and gray eyes flash as one of his fingers enters me. I grab his shoulders, nails digging in. He eases in and out, gently, his focus on my face, and I can barely keep my eyes from rolling back.
“You’re sure?” he says thickly. “You’re not in any pain?”
“None.”
“Then I think I should tell you about the stimmy.”
The— I gawk at him, my face still half buried in his shoulder. He is manipulating me like a finger puppet, and the dumbest series of syllables has just fallen out of his mouth. “What?”
“It’s a byproduct of your body’s stress response. From lifting heavy. Like the back squats you did this morning.”
“Why?” I shake my head, bewildered and probably oxygen deprived. “Why are you doing this now?”
“Because you’re willing to skip a burrata for the chance to fuck me,” he says, decisively. “The least I can do is make sure you’re set up to get the most out of it.”
I… can’t argue with that? “Okay?” I concede, and force myself upright, gripping the back of his neck for support. “Then do some boob stuff, too.”
His free hand cups my right breast, and I moan. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“Stress response?” I remind him.
He takes in a long breath, then continues, his finger stroking inside me, thumb caressing my erect nipple.
“When you’re going heavy, do you ever feel like you’re being hijacked?
You know that you’re only squatting, but your body is screaming battle!
and wants you to throw a car at an advancing army? ”
Christ, this is strange, but I’ve legitimately wondered about this. “Yes!”
He lets out a thoughtful rumble, leaning in to kiss my neck.
“That’s the stress response.” He presses the words into the column of my throat.
“You’re putting a significant amount of stress on your body, which your lizard brain interprets as a threat.
So your brain, specifically, the hypothalamus, activates the fight-or-flight response. ”
“And my body prepares to fight.”
“Just fight?” he asks, lips teasing below my ear.
“Are you calling me a coward?” I demand, impressed at myself for feigning indignation when my blood has abandoned my brain. “Are you”—I gasp as he pinches my nipple—“suggesting that I am predisposed toward flight? Because there’s a car out there with your name on it.”