Chapter 47
IVY
Afew moments later, Soren steps back inside the bedroom, this time holding a plush towel. There’s a storm in his eyes, an intensity I didn’t expect to see today.
“There’s one other thing I heard helps,” he says. “If you’re willing.”
I quirk a brow. He’s already given me a heating pad, TENS machine, nourishment, water, pain relief. Mountains of affection and moral support. What else could he possibly have read about that could help me out of this miserable state?
But the pain is still present—nowhere near as strong as before but still making itself known—and still way more severe than I’m sure some people would bear before running to the hospital and demanding something far stronger than over-the-counter pain relief. So I’m all ears.
My interest is piqued. “Do tell.”
His mouth curves into a small smile, but his eyes give him away, darkening in a manner I’ve become accustomed to.
Subconsciously, my body knows too, and despite the savage beating it’s been taking from my illness, I feel a tingle in my overwrought core.
“I’m going to make you come,” he says. “Orgasms help to relieve the cramping.”
“Oh really?” I ask. I’ve heard this—even taken matters into my own hands a few times. And it has definitely offered some type of reprieve. But it’s very much been a self-service situation.
“And you don’t mind the fact there’s blood literally everywhere?” I squint an eye at him, trying to figure out if he’s all talk, or if he’s really intending to follow through.
“Hey, I’m here for all of it,” he says. “Your blood is mine, as far as I’m concerned. Nothing about you is off-limits to me.” His expression grows serious. “And I hate seeing you in pain, Ivy. I don’t like it. I’ll fix it.”
“Seriously?” I quirk a brow. “You’re not grossed out at all?”
“No, I’m not,” he takes my hand. “Far from it. There’s absolutely nothing about you that could ever gross me out, Ivy.” He frowns, his disappointment obvious. “Why can’t you get it through your head that everything about you is exactly what I want? What I need.”
“This is a bit of a stretch though, isn’t it?
” I remain skeptical. Guys are usually so squeamish when it comes to anything menstrual-related, treating women like they’re aliens during this time of the month.
As if their blood touched them it would burn a hole in their flesh, or give them some incurable curse.
I’ve literally seen men take a perimeter walk to avoid the tampons in the feminine product aisle at the grocery store, as if they’re subject to some kind of restraining order demanding they keep a certain distance.
And yet here’s Soren, offering to bring me to orgasm just to relieve my pain.
Weirdo. The good kind.
“Nope,” he shakes his head. “I mean it. When it comes to you, I want every part of you.” He seems earnest. Truthful. Eager.
And so I let him.
He retrieves the towel and lays it down on the bed with reverence.
Then he helps me on top of it, lowering my ginormous, ugly panties.
Not laughing at the thickness of the material, not put off by the expanse of my flesh they cover.
Not judging the security blanket I swathe myself in each month because I’ve endured too many messy and embarrassing accidents to remember.
I move to cover myself, suddenly self-conscious about the blood that trickles from me.
“Don’t,” he says, moving my hand away. “Not with me.” He pauses. “You’re so beautiful, Ivy.”
“Even like this?” I ask, raising a brow, still not quite sure he’s serious even though his expression looks like he is.
“Especially like this,” he leans down and kisses my forehead, tender. “This is real.”
He uses his fingers at first, stroking my clit.
I moan, the sensation more intense than usual, perhaps caused by the extra blood that courses low in my body. Maybe exacerbated by the sensitivity of my nerve endings right now. All I know is that his touch feels really fucking good.
“Is this helping?” he asks.
“Yes,” I moan, letting myself exhale as he continues to caress my clit.
My body is loosening, yet my core tightens at his touch. I can almost anticipate the release and how good my body is going to feel when it finally gets to let go.
He moves backward now, dipping his head between my thighs.
I gasp as his tongue flicks against my clit, laying it flat against my swollen skin. He laps at my pussy, slow, patient.
And the coil in me contracts further, my hips moving in time with his licks. I reach down and fist his hair, and he brings his hands up to gently hold my hips in place.
I know I’m already close, the pressure building up in me with an intensity faster than it normally does. My core is on fire with anticipation.
And then my body releases, like it’s taking a massive, much-needed exhale. My hips buck, shooting up into the air and my back arching high off the bed as my pussy crushes into his face. I feel a trickle of blood, the pressure of the orgasm expelling it from my body as I come.
But he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he grips my hips harder, continuing to feast on me as the orgasm wracks through me, the pulses making my body shake against him.
He doesn’t stop, all the way until my orgasm subsides and I begin to squirm under his tongue. Satiated and languid now, I lie flat, the plush towel cushioning me.
Only then does he pull away. He looks up and I notice the blood on his face.
For a second, I’m concerned that he’s going to be upset. That he’s going to regret doing what he did, and that it’s suddenly going to be my fault.
But instead, he simply wipes the blood away with the back of his hand which he then wipes on the towel.
I smile and stretch more deeply.
Because he was right, as per usual, about what I need. What my body needs.
I feel looser now, the pain still present but gentler than before. Like an echo, a reminder of the intensity that made me weep earlier.
The endorphins from the orgasm give me a boost that makes me feel like this pain is something that will subside, that it’s something that I can and will overcome.
And then he grabs his pants by the waistband and yanks them down, his cock springing free. Hard, and clearly undeterred by my current state.
Still hungry for me, desiring me.
He climbs on top and thrusts into me, my blood lubricating us as he slides fully out and then back in, stretching my pussy which is still throbbing from my orgasm.
He’s tender as he grinds into me, his eyes locked on me. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, bringing his lips to mine.
“Even now?” I ask, my eyes half-closed as I take in the sensations coursing through my body, tasting myself on him, slightly metallic.
“Especially now.” He thrusts faster, as if energized by my words, and I moan at the way his cock fills me, rubbing against me in a way that makes every nerve ending respond with a twitch.
Then his body tenses, and he erupts in an orgasm. He grunts as he comes inside me, the pressure of his cum spurting against my walls.
“I wanted you so fucking bad,” he says, his voice low. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”
“That was just perfect,” I reply.
And as we lie tangled once again in each others arms, our breath regulating, I realize I’ve found something I’ve never dared dream of.
Later, I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. Maybe even a bit sassy. I don’t know if it was the orgasm, or if my period is just running its course, but I’m almost a different woman.
For me, at this point, it means the pain is a five or six out of ten rather than a fifteen. But in relative terms, I’ll still take it.
And then Soren decides to really grind my gears. “Now that you’re feeling better, I want to talk about what you wore to Pilates the other day. That you then wore to go down to the store on the corner.”
I squint at him. “What the fuck?” I ask. “What are you even talking about?”
“It was impractical,” he frowns. “I don’t like the way it inhibited your movements. You need to wear something different next time.”
I rack my brain, trying to recall what I was even wearing. “The purple outfit? Is that the one you mean?”
“Yes, the purple with the teal details.”
Oddly specific, but okay.
“You are worried that it… ‘inhibited my movements’?”
He nods. “Well, that and the three guys that ogled you when you walked to the corner store and back.”
“Why are you even thinking about that?!” The fact he’s gone from tender care about my pain to criticizing my choice of athleisure has me so off kilter I don’t know which way is up.
My pain level may be improving, but I’m still as cranky as hell.
“They’re lucky I didn’t poke their eyes out, skewer them clean from their body and force them to eat them,” he says. “But this all could have been avoided if you chose a more appropriate outfit or just stayed home.”
I lose it then. Completely lose it.
It must be the combination of the ibuprofen which always makes me feel a little loopy in high quantities, mixed with fatigue from the pain and the general aches that run through my bones. Plus the ludicrous audacity of what he just said.
Policing my outfits. Telling me I should stay captive in his apartment and not walk to the store to buy a fucking kombucha after a workout.
Not to mention blaming random men’s actions on a woman’s choice of what to wear.
It’s that last part that’s the last fucking straw for me.
“I don’t understand you, Soren!” I yell, furious.
“I can’t take it anymore! I’m all for spontaneity, but you’re fucking confusing.
One moment you’re—what—buying me heating pads and weird little machines for my cramps, eating my pussy even though it’s dripping with blood.
And the next minute you act like you might kill me and any man who dares look at me when I walk past to go to the fucking store?
I never know what version of you I’m going to get! ”
The realization rings true as the words exit my mouth.
I do truly never know with Soren—is he going to be the volatile, intense psycho who controls everything I do, who wants to consume all of me?
Or the tender guy who looks at me with a softness in his eyes that tugs at my heart—who pre-empts every need I might ever have, long before I have it.
Who researches fucking period pain, for god’s sake.
All I know is I can’t fucking stand it.
He tilts his head slightly. “You… don’t like the heating pad?”
I stare at him.
“What?” He doubles down. “I thought I was being thoughtful.”
Something in me snaps.
I see it then—the heating pad, still plugged in beside the bed. With no hesitation, I yank the plug out of the outlet and wave it above me like a lasso. I must look crazy as the cord flips about my head, my eyes wide, my teeth bared.
The cord picks up speed and I launch it at his head. “Aaaaagh!” I yell as it careens toward him, buoyed by the weight of the heating pad part of the device.
I gasp as in what feels like slow motion I realize what’s about to happen.
He ducks, but the edge of the plug clips him on the cheek.
A thin line opens instantly.
Blood beads, then spills from the gash.
The soft thwack of the metal meeting his cheekbone jolts me out of my crazed state. “Oh shit,” I gasp. “Sorry.”
He touches his cheek, glances at the blood on his fingers. “Jeez,” he says mildly. “Now I see why they say not to mess with a woman on their period.”
“Oh my god—” Blood rushes to my temples again and I leap from the bed and charge forward.
When I get close enough, I lunge at him.
He doesn’t move fast.
Doesn’t need to.
He just lifts a hand and plants it on top of my head, holding me at arm’s length.
I swing anyway—wild, furious—but I can’t reach him. Not even close.
My arms windmill like I’m competing in some manic Olympic freestyle race.
But he just holds me at bay, a smirk forming on his lips while a little trickle of blood continues to seep from his cheek.
“Aaaaagh!” I repeat myself in frustration, my normal articulation out the window. “I fucking hate you and your tall stupid tallness!”
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
Low. Amused.
Completely unbothered.
“You’re cute when you’re furious, little poison.”
I freeze for a second, still caught in his hold, breath coming fast.
Then I scowl harder. “I’m not cute.”
“Mm,” he murmurs. “Debatable.”