Chapter 7 First Touch…Again #3
I swirl my finger in a circle, and sensation rips through me—heat, wetness, desperation. "Yes," I answer, between gasps.
"Don’t stop. I want to watch you come."
"You first," I say.
"I wish it was your hand," he breathes. "I wish you were in here with me. That would be my hand. Better yet, my mouth."
"Oh god, Ren," I breathe.
“Talk to me."
I shake my head, because I have no words, not with the heat and pressure building inside me.
It's been so long since I've felt pleasure like this that it may as well be the first time—it's overwhelming and intense, and tears pool in my eyes and a sob hitches in my throat, and the edge of orgasm slides out of reach once more.
I close my eyes, frustrated and embarrassed.
I hear the water shut off, hear the shower door open.
Tears pool in my eyes—my emotions are at the surface all the time now, ever since I broke down with the girls.
I hear fabric rustling. I turn away, shoulders shaking in anger at myself—at everything that’s caused me to be so hung up.
I feel him behind me. I’m drawing deep, hard, slow breaths of panic and embarrassment and frustration.
His hands settle on my shoulders. I jolt at the touch, but then…instead of razors, I feel…him. Calluses and heat.
It's wonderful.
"Okay?" he whispers, lips near my ear, the words hot and hissing.
I nod. “Yes." I reach up and touch his hands with mine. “I am now. I’m sorry.”
His lips touch my ear. “Don’t apologize. All I want is to make you feel good. Anything that's not good, you stop."
“I’ll try," I whisper.
His hands ghost down my arms, and goosebumps cover my skin.
I lean back a little, and feel his hot, wet, hard chest against my back.
I give him more of my weight, and he accepts it, tucking his chin against my shoulder.
I reach up and back, clasp the back of his head.
His hands descend to rest on the upper swell of my hips.
Each touch is slow and deliberate, giving me time to stop him.
I don't.
I don't want to.
I don't need to.
As long as I'm focused on Lorenzo, I can manage the fear and control the panic.
I grasp his wet hair, fingers dimpling into his scalp as he brings his hands around to flatten on my belly.
"Lorenzo," I murmur, squirming. "Don't. Not there. The skin—I'm not—it’s not—I don’t like it.”
His lips brush my ear. "Hush, my love. This—" he dimples his fingertips gently in the skin of my belly that never returned to its former tautness, “created life. It is a beautiful thing, to me. There is no part of you that isn't perfect and beautiful and sexy."
I rest my head backward against his shoulder. "I'm so scared, Ren.”
“Of what?"
"I don't know. Everything. That—" I hiccup a sob. "That I won’t be able to feel good like that ever again. That I’ll panic. That I'll have a flashback. That I…that I'm broken."
His hands slide down from my belly to my thighs—which I press tightly together, crossing one thigh over the other. I whimper, and his hands rise up to my waist once more.
"It's—" I force my breathing to slow. Force my eyes open. "It's okay. Just…" I let go of his head and drop my hands to his, covering them as they rest on my hips.
I guide his hands back down to my thighs, leaning back against him so I'm off-balance, forcing myself to trust him. His hands splay open and he grips my thighs, dragging his touch up to my hipbone and then back down. His fingers drift inward, slipping between my tight-shut thighs.
I exhale shakily and relax the tension in my legs.
"Okay?" he whispers.
I nod. "Good."
He turns us so we're facing the mirror—it's a large mirror in front of a rather low sink, so our reflection reveals my body down to mid-thigh.
Where his hands are.
Mere inches from my sex.
He's behind me, cheek to my ear, chin to my shoulder, arms around me. My breasts hang heavy, my nipples pebbled and hard, silver-dollar-sized areolae darker than the rest of my flesh.
I look at his hands. Press mine against them and guide his touch back up to my belly, and then to my diaphragm, and then higher, until they're brushing the undersides of my breasts.
"Your tits are incredible," he murmurs.
His praise makes me flush. "Ren," I whisper.
"May I?" He breathes, the words felt against my ear as much as heard.
I can only manage a nod, dropping my hands from his. I reach back to clutch at his thighs, fingers digging into hard muscle as his hands flatten against my diaphragm, hesitate, and then score a hot path upward until he's cupping my breasts.
"Fuck, Sophia. Do you have any fucking clue how many times I’ve dreamed of getting to do this?"
"How many?" I ask.
"A million. A hundred million." A groan of delight as he fills his hands with my flesh. "They're even more amazing than I'd fantasized.”
His touch is pleasure, not the pain I’d feared. The panic is still there, but the amazed wonder I feel at his touch occludes it. Especially when he flicks my nipples, sending a searing line of heat from breasts to sex.
"Ren," I breathe. "I…that feels good."
"Watch, Sophia." He releases a breast to touch my chin, and I open my eyes. "Look."
He scoops my aching breast into his hand again, and his thumb scrapes my nipple—I jerk, squealing as the sharp sensation shocks me.
His hands are huge and sun-darkened and scarred and weathered and rough.
They scrape against my sensitive, soft skin.
His touch is gentle, but I can feel the titanic strength in his grip.
"Ohhh," I breathe, shaking as he fondles my breasts, tweaking, twisting, pinching, and caressing my nipples until I'm panting with the pleasure of it.
Yet the frustration still burns in my belly, boils just behind my sex. I know what I want, but I'm too frightened to ask, too embarrassed.
I'm a grown woman, but I'm terrified of saying what I want. Terrified of…
Myself.
My past.
My dreams.
My long-ingrained trauma response to everything—to being touched.
Yet this whole time, every touch of Lorenzo's hands has felt good. Nothing I've been afraid of has happened. No flashbacks. No panic attacks.
It's because it's him.
My Lorenzo.
He knows my heart. He knows the substance of my nightmares. He has fought for me, bled for me, killed for me.
He loves me.
He loves me.
And with that knowledge inside me, I can find the courage to let him help me fix the broken pieces of me.
I let the tension in my legs slacken, and then gradually let my stance adjust until my sex is exposed.
I meet his eyes in the mirror. "Ren," I whisper. "I…I want…"
"You're sure?" he asks.
"I…yes."
"Sophia, my love, there's no hurry. No pressure. I want to make only you feel good, however that looks.”
I grab his hands and guide them down to my belly, hesitate, and then lower—just above my pudendum.
I'm panting—more nerves than fear, now, although I am afraid. The fear is part of me, I think. But I am in control.
Me.
No one else.
I trust him. I know him.
I am not chained to a cot in a cell.
I want this.
My fear does not rule me. My past trauma no longer defines me. I am a woman, with a woman's needs and desires. I can trust Lorenzo to be gentle. To give me pleasure without pain.
I press my hand over his and guide his touch down until his fingers cover the triangle of my sex. My eyes squeeze shut at the intimate heat of his hand, the rough sandpaper of his touch. My breath catches. He does nothing else, just waits.
"Soph?"
"I'm alright. Just…" I force my eyes open yet again and look at his hand, covering me. He's searching my face in the reflection, concerned, cautious. Ready to pull me into his embrace the moment I show any sign of distress.
"I'm alright," I whisper. "Thank you for being so patient, Ren."
His other hand palms my cheek, turns my head toward his. His lips ghost over mine. "I love you, Sophia. Whatever you want, whatever you need. I am yours. I'm here for you."
I whimper at his words, the undisguised passion in them like a bolt of heat to my heart, setting it to pounding, making my stomach flip with desire, my heart crash with love. "Kiss me?" I breathe. "Please?"
"God, yes," he growls.
His kiss is slow and gentle and delicate, his lips soft and wet and warm. A surge of intense emotion floods my system—an emotional response to the kiss.
Desire.
That's the feeling.
Need.
Desperate need swells within me—exactly as I remember feeling for him when we were kids first discovering sex together in the hayloft by the light of a stolen lantern.
I let my tongue steal over his lip. Lean further back against him, wrap a hand around his nape and pull him down to me. Break, panting. "More."
He growls his desire, and gives me his tongue. I take it, taste it. Our kiss deepens, becomes a fury of mated mouths and panted breaths. I shift my legs apart to give him more access, and he takes it as the invitation it is.
His middle finger swipes up my tender seam, and I gasp into his kiss, break but don't pull away, panting against his mouth as he uses just the pad of his middle finger to pet my seam.
I inhale, a deep filling of my lungs, turn away from his mouth to look into the mirror; as I watch, Lorenzo slides his finger inside me.
I release my held breath on a whimper. "Ohhhh…god!" I cling to his neck as my legs shake.
"So tight, Soph. So wet."
I can’t respond—I can barely catch my breath.
He delves inside me, exploring my depths. Withdraws, drags his now-glistening finger up…and touches my clit.
"Oh god!" I cry. "Ren!"
"You're so responsive, my beautiful one," he says, and I realize belatedly he's switched to our shared native language.
"More," I whisper.
He plunges his finger back inside me, withdraws it and smears my essence against my clit. My legs jerk, threaten to give out.