Chapter 14 #2
He laughs, the sound little more than a heavier exhalation through his nose. The hands on my waist stroke up and down a little bit, a hey, it’s okay, relax kind of gesture one might utilize on an antsy horse. Lifting one, he puts a palm on my cheek and kisses the other.
“Do you want to shower?”
I nod. “Yes. Please. I’ll be quick, though. I won’t take all the hot water.”
Nils’ mouth pinches together, holding in another laugh.
I wait, testing the water to see whether he’ll, well, join me in the water.
Or, like last time, watch me in the water.
I would not say no to either. But he just kisses me again, mumbles “chickens” into my ear, and points a finger at the dresser.
Shower and unpack while I go check on the chickens, is what I gather from that, so I nod in agreement.
I watch him go as he leaves, tall form wrapped up tight in jeans and a cable-knit sweater, and think about the things I brought.
Did I need five different options of panties?
Probably not. But choosing what underwear to slip on is a little bit like having power over your mood ring.
You can’t know what you’ll feel like ahead of time.
Reaching for the shirt Nils left me, I finger the soft fabric and consider my options.
The thing about fancy lingerie is that it’s meant to be taken off.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t put on a little show first.
Unpacking having been completed first—and taking all of five minutes—I don’t rush in the shower.
I sing, enjoy the hot water, and keep an eye on the door in case Nils decides to slip in with me.
He doesn’t, but I can feel the moment he comes back in the bedroom while I’m toweling off.
There’s a slight change in air pressure, like a storm altering the electrical currents.
Still running the towel over my hair, I open the bathroom door and step out.
Nils, feet bare and hand on the waist of his jeans like he’s getting undressed, looks over.
The shirt he lent me is a bit oversized, the bottom edge skimming the tops of my thighs and barely covering my butt.
Arms lifted as they are, though, the hem pulls up high enough to catch on the black lace I put on below.
Nils’ eyes, which had moved to me and stuck the moment I walked into the room, come to a rest somewhere near my navel.
“Thank you for letting me borrow the shirt,” I say softly, watching Nils’ eyes—almost mimicking the same dark, inky color as the panties—flick over me.
My hand is still moving, using the towel to dry hair that really doesn’t need any more drying.
Mostly, I just want to keep my arms raised as long as possible, keep that hungry longing on Nils’ face a little longer. “And for the space. I unpacked.”
Nils makes a low noise in his throat—little more than an acknowledgment that he heard me.
Energy zips across my skin like it’s his fingertips on my hip, not his eyes, a burn of wanting sparking awake.
I consider my options, watching Nils watch me, thinking about what we’ve done and have yet to do.
Thinking about all the things he’s never done with anyone.
Thinking of how nice it would have been, during my first time, to have someone lead me along by the hand instead of shoving me into the deep end of desire without sticking around to make sure I could swim.
I would have appreciated a bit of gentle encouragement and instruction. Perhaps Nils would, too.
“You could take off those clothes,” I suggest, a jolt of recognition buzzing through me as Nils’ fingers immediately start moving, the zipper on his jeans obscenely loud in the quiet of the bedroom.
I wait until the meat of his thighs, peppered with dark hair, comes into view before adding, “Briefs, too.”
Again, there’s no pause or flicker of discomfort in his eyes as he obeys.
Blood begins pooling in my core, warmth lapping at my insides as I watch him.
I enjoyed the shower we took together, enjoyed the erotic, half-dressed and slightly mussed version of the steadfast man in front of me.
I want what I didn’t get to have last time—to touch.
Jeans and underwear kicked off to the side, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pauses.
Dark eyes meet mine, the question there making me dizzy with arousal and power.
“Take it off,” I instruct softly and watch as he does. As I drop the towel onto the floor, the hem of my borrowed shirt tickles my thighs and covers what the lace has no hope of hiding. “Come here.”
When he’s close enough to touch, I do, putting a hand on his chest and spreading my fingers.
His own rise to my hips automatically, settling above the shirt.
I let that be for a second, watching my fingers as I trail them along his collarbone, across the meat of his shoulder, and down the line of his arm, tracing a bicep.
When I abandon the arm and move to his stomach, I stop watching my hand and start watching his face.
Nils won’t talk during sex—this I already know.
His limits will not be expressed in yeses or no’s, but in the flutter of eyelashes, parted lips, and soft gasps.
Circling a thumb around his navel, I feel the hitch of his breathing and see his throat bob as he swallows.
Sliding my hand down his thigh, fingers teasing, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s a soft, chaste sort of kiss that’s meant less as a precursor and more as an excuse to put my face closer to his.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask him, the words soft enough that not even embarrassment can touch them.
If there were a way to go about this without acknowledging his inexperience, I would utilize it.
Nils, perhaps recognizing this, clenches his fingers and relaxes them, a tiny bit of fight bleeding away.
“T-e-e-e-ell me,” he requests. Another squeeze of those hands, warm on my waist. Tell me what to do.
It feels as though the air between us is taut—a rubber band of expectation and possibility and desire.
I could tell him to kiss me or tell him to bend over the edge of the bed.
I could tell him to worship me. Instead, I move his hand, carefully sliding it down my side until fabric gives way to skin.
Nils understands this for the nonverbal request that it is, spreading his fingers and inhaling deeply when they encounter the lace.
His hands are rough—rougher than mine, even though we work in the same profession.
The panties feel like an extension of my skin when his calluses catch on the fabric, my pulse jumping each time he grazes somewhere new.
I want to take this shirt off, but being half-dressed with him naked—hands hidden from view as they touch me—is really doing it for me.
As is the intense way he’s examining me, brown eyes fathomless as they watch.
I’ve never been with someone who was so present in the moment the way he obviously is.
“Take it off,” I tell him when the fabric of the shirt feels like too much on my oversensitive skin, every inch of me covered in gooseflesh. We’re barely doing anything—hands slow and kisses slower—yet my heart is pounding, and my dick aches to be free.
Nils shudders at the command, and again when I give his cock a soft stroke, groaning and leaning forward to kiss my neck.
I lose contact with him as my arms are raised, the shirt tugged upward and tossed away.
Sliding one hand behind his head, I reach once more for his dick, touching gently as I kiss him.
He pushes his hips into me, mindlessly trying to thrust. I keep my grip loose and pace sedate.
I want to play and enjoy. I want to have enough time to learn the tiniest of his tells and know exactly how to produce each one.
It’s Nils who eventually slides his thumbs under the waist of the black lace, my dick twitching when he grazes it.
I tip my chin up to give him better access when his mouth skates down my neck.
He’d asked me to tell him what to do, but so far, he’s doing a marvelously fine job of figuring it out for himself.
Hands staying where they are, he leaves my neck and starts kissing downward.
It’s a deliberate, careful sort of attention.
The devotion of someone trying hard to learn and do the right thing.
There’s tension in his shoulders and under my palm where it’s resting on his neck.
Even without any of the thoughts being voiced, I can feel his mind whirring.
“Come here.” Cupping a hand under his chin, I gently direct him to straighten.
He complies immediately, lips wet and plump, eyes so dark I can’t see where his pupil ends and the brown begins.
There is a nearly imperceptible change in his breathing, only elevated enough for me to see the difference in the rise and fall of his chest. He’s working very, very hard to control himself.
Sliding my thumb across his mouth, I lean forward to kiss him, sweeping my tongue in and catching his bottom lip between my teeth, making it filthy enough that he groans, hands clenching hard where they remain on my waist. Stepping away, I lean over the bed to snag one of his pillows, dropping it at his feet with a soft thump.
“Get on your knees,” I tell him, blood pounding in my groin when the order is followed immediately.