Chapter 19 #2
“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, and I nod in response, not taking my mouth away from him.
I’d forgotten how sexy I feel when I pleasure Miles.
Hearing him say my name half-moaned doesn’t just make me hornier; it gives me confidence.
To bring a person to a state of physical weakness, to elicit the kind of groans Miles is making, it makes me wonder what else I’m capable of. This is what it means to feel powerful.
No man I’ve ever dated has been as vocal or appreciative; none has ever held my head so gently.
Miles lets me set the pace and pressure.
He might have told me to get on my knees, but he’s handed me the power now, something I don’t often feel I have a grasp of in my own life.
To have a safe space to hold power is healing a part of me that has felt helpless in the face of my own body.
Having a chronic illness puts me at the mercy of my body, unable to control the pain, grasping at relief.
But Miles has put me in charge of his body, of his pleasure, of our pleasure, of my body.
He wants me to take whatever I want from him and give whatever I want to him.
He’s an eager partner, willing to let me take charge.
I’m eager to exercise my power, and I find the opening when I’m ready to switch activities. I look up at him through my eyelashes from my place on the shower floor.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say, clearly and decisively.
“Now who’s bossy?” he says with a smirk, but helps me to stand, moving us like dance partners so he’s in the water stream.
“You like it,” I say as he spins me, pretzeling my arms across my own body, my back pressed against his chest. The hard length of him presses against the seam of my ass and I arch into him.
He nuzzles his mouth into the crook of my neck.
Miles’s body blocks most of the water, but it sprays around me in a warm mist.
“You better fucking believe I do. I think you should boss me around more, in fact.”
His wet hands slide down my abdomen, down the front of my hips.
Even as his teeth sink into my shoulder muscles, one hand slides back up to my breast to tweak and play with a nipple and the other finds its way between my legs.
His fingers find my heat, sliding in to touch the most sensitive part of me.
He strokes a finger across my clit, sending a wave of pleasure through me, and then does it again and again, the pressure building inside me.
I reach behind me, threading my fingers through his hair. “Please, Miles…”
“Please what, Abby? Use your words.”
“I want you inside me.”
I twist to get my mouth on his, kissing him in a desperate, messy way. He continues to stroke me, my orgasm building. He seems to be ignoring what I’m asking for, but I don’t want to come like this.
“Now,” I say, my frustration leaking through clenched teeth. I tighten my grip on his hair to drive the message home.
“There she is,” he says with obvious pride. “Hands on the wall.”
I brace myself on the opposite wall as he pushes my legs wider.
The moment he pushes inside of me, we both let out satisfied moans.
He pumps with increasingly longer strokes, going a little deeper each time.
When he’s buried all the way inside me, he leans forward to find my clit again, stroking me as he moves in and out.
The shower room has steamed up now, cloaking us in warm air.
It smells like the rainstorm we got caught in earlier, but this water is pleasurably heated, the sensation on my sensitive skin enhancing the way Miles’s every movement is driving me out of my mind.
A sense of power washes over me again. I wanted this. I asked for it. I got it. And he’s going to stop if I ask him to or give me more if I want it. And I do—I want more.
“More,” I demand, and he obliges, as I knew he would. His fingers work me with more pressure, and although he doesn’t change pace, he thrusts inside me harder.
It’s heady to feel so much power and so much pleasure all at once.
I remember with Miles it was always good, but I had never considered my own power in those moments.
I was so focused on his pleasure and his experience.
I have spent so much of my life focused on other people and their happiness or comfort or pleasure, so to greedily take what Miles is offering me now feels selfish but indulgent—like a child with a whole cake in front of them.
I never want this moment to end. This feeling to end. But he’s hitting all the right spots and I’m seconds away from an orgasm I can already feel is going to rock me.
“Miles, I’m…”
“Me too, baby. Come whenever you want. Come all over my—”
Something about his voice or the words he’s saying tips me right over the edge, and as soon as I cry out, so does he.
An explosion of pleasure bursts through me all at once, a massive fireworks show behind my eyes, in my legs, my arms, my chest. There isn’t anywhere the pleasure doesn’t flood me, leaving me feeling like my bones are jelly, and this time I really am well and truly spent.
Miles wraps his arms around me, holding me as I fight to stay upright. I feel weak and woozy, like I’ve had a little too much to drink, but in a pleasant way. I lean back against him, and he turns us so the warm water washes over me. It feels like a blanket just out of the dryer.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He kisses my temple, my cheek, my neck, and tightens his arms around me. “For what?” he asks into my neck.
How do I articulate it? How do I thank him, not just for pleasuring me and making me come so hard I nearly black out, but for helping me experience my own power?
I don’t know how to explain that our dynamic makes it easy for me to feel safe in my own skin.
He makes it easy to ask for what I want, to express what I want.
He has always made me feel safe enough to say no, but I’m noticing now all the ways he makes me feel safe enough to say yes.
To ask for what I want, to take what I want.
It isn’t just that my pleasure matters to Miles; my voice matters to him.
And if my voice can matter to him, why haven’t I been acting like my voice matters to me?
“I…I don’t know. I think I’ve forgotten how to use words,” I say.
His abs flex when he laughs. “Should we actually get clean now?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I say, but when I reach for the shampoo bottle, Miles insists on doing it himself.
It feels so good to let him shampoo and condition my hair.
He takes all my instructions, washing it the same way I would, but without letting me move a muscle.
His meaty fingers dig into my scalp, fully relaxing me.
Once my hair is washed, he soaps up his hands with the body wash and starts running them over my shoulders, down my arms, up my sides, and all over my body.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I say as he spends longer than necessary cleaning my chest.
“Let a man enjoy soaping up his beau—a beautiful woman.”
He tries to play off his slip of the tongue, but I noticed it. The same way I noticed he called me baby a few minutes ago.
It doesn’t ruin the mood or anything, but it does wake me back up to reality. I go home in a mere forty-eight hours and the bubble is going to burst on whatever this is. We are going to have to have a conversation about what comes after this, about what we want to do about us.
Now is not the time for that—for a lot of reasons, but namely because, for the first time maybe ever in my life, I want to figure out what I want first.