Chapter 44
Nina
Four Months Later . . .
Filming has wrapped on the as-yet-untitled Mountain Man documentary, and for the last couple of weeks, Wes and I have been knee-deep in preparing for the GeekOut filming.
We’ll be doing a season of a YouTube show—thirteen episodes in total—that could potentially expand into more if it gains enough popularity.
From what I’ve seen of Lyle’s storyboards and Wes’s ideas, coupled with Sienna and Rae’s financial backing, I think it definitely will.
As if prepping for a show isn’t busy enough, Wes and I have also been moving into our own place.
We’ll be staying in Michigan to be close to Wes’s family, who have taken me in like one of their own; and luckily we’re only about an hour’s drive from Chicago, so I still see my friends for Pizookie night, and any other time I get to pop into town.
Honestly, even though I’m technically farther away in distance than where I was living before with my family, I’ve gotten to see my friends way more often since moving—because now I get to choose where I go and who I spend my time with. What I eat. What I wear.
I’m trying to take it slowly, little by little.
Small changes to test the waters and see how I feel.
In some ways, it’s been an overwhelming process, trying to decide what from my old life I want to keep, what I want to change, what I want to get rid of completely.
Construction, destruction, reconstruction.
I’ve started seeing a therapist, recommended by Helen’s friend Sandra, and that’s helped a lot.
But there have been some big changes, too.
I don’t keep a food journal anymore. Yesterday I ate French toast for breakfast and had ice cream in the afternoon, which is almost double the sugar allowance I used to be given for the whole week.
Two days ago, it was a little warm, so I went outside in a tank top.
My whole arms were showing! And . . . I watched Bridgerton. I know, c-raaaazy stuff.
Luckily, Wes has been beside me the whole way to help me navigate this new terrain.
He is so agreeable with whatever I want to try.
I never knew men could be that way—easygoing and kind and ready to talk and compromise and laugh and be silly.
My whole life, being around men meant being on edge, being careful, treading lightly.
But Wes seems to have truly taken to heart what he told me all those weeks ago.
I’m the captain. I set the pace, and he happily follows my lead.
In most ways, it’s absolutely wonderful.
In some ways, though, it’s proven to be a problem. Well, one way, specifically.
Wes has been so gentle with me. Even though we’ve been living together for months now, we haven’t slept together.
We haven’t even fooled around. There’s been no touching of any bathing suit areas.
We cuddle. We hold hands. We kiss, but it’s the kind of kisses from the Hallmark movies that used to be some of the only programming I was allowed to watch—chaste and close-mouthed—not the kind that set your body on fire.
At first, honestly, that was what I needed. Time to process, time to heal. But now we seem to be in a holding pattern. Wes has never said as much, never even hinted at it, but I know he’s waiting for me to take charge. To let him know I’m ready.
That’s the problem with being the captain. Sometimes you have to lead, even if you aren’t entirely sure how to.
Over the last couple weeks, I’ve started to feel ready again.
I’ve been reading my romantasy books. And I haven’t been subtle about it, either—I’ve left them around the apartment for Wes to find, all those covers with scantily clad men.
Still, nothing. I’ve been watching Bridgerton, hello!
If that isn’t a sign that you’re thinking about sex, I’m not sure what is.
Deep down, I know that Wes is right to hold off. If this is something I want, I’m going to have to learn to ask for it—directly, not passive-aggressively. I need to be able to own my desires and not treat them like something secret or shameful.
But literally nothing in my upbringing or my life thus far has prepared me to have this kind of conversation.
It’s like I’m fighting against all of my instincts, snuffing out that inner voice that tells me Wes will think less of me for having these urges or that I’m shameful for wanting these things.
Words have never been my strong suit. Luckily, I think I have an idea that will show Wes what I want, and that I’m finally ready.
When Wes walks into the living room, holding his phone up to me, a perplexed look on his face, I can’t help but laugh. “What’s this programmed onto my calendar?” My amusement seems to be contagious, because he’s grinning, too. “‘Meeting with wardrobe department.’ I don’t remember scheduling this.”
“Hmm, some smart person must have linked our calendars.” I rise from the couch, going up on my tiptoes to wrap my arms around his shoulders.
He has to bend down to accommodate me—and the guy worried he was too short to be on Mountain Man.
Ridiculous. “I know you’ve been busy, but I wanted to make sure we carve out some time for this.
You don’t have anything planned for the next couple hours. ”
“Smart.” Wes gives me one of his sweet, quick kisses. “Why’s my girl so smart?”
I pretend to consider it, then shrug. “You must have done something really good in your last life.”
He considers it. “I’m pretty sure in my last life I was a Scotsman.” Because of his unnatural love for bagpipes, he doesn’t need to elaborate. I’m already well aware.
Now that it’s time to implement my plan, I’m starting to get nervous. Maybe even second-guess myself. Do I really need to rock the boat? I’m pretty sure that’s the number-one thing captains are taught not to do.
But I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “Why don’t you sit on the couch? I’ll show you a few of the pieces I’ve put together.”
If Wes thinks it’s strange that I’m going to model a bunch of costumes that are primarily meant for him and his character, he doesn’t let on.
Maybe he doesn’t suspect anything. Him sitting on the couch as I show him different outfits has become such a regular part of our routine—as I experiment with new clothes and styles and fashions—that it might even seem normal to him.
I pause in the doorway, my heart racing. “Just one rule, okay? The costumes are all still a bit delicate, so don’t touch anything. Just looking, okay? And you have to stay on the couch.”
Wes makes a show of obediently sliding his hands underneath him and sitting on top of them. “Jedi’s honor,” he promises me.
I hurry to put on the first costume I’ve made. I have been hard at work making the different outfits Ryko will wear based on the challenges he’ll be completing, but if everything goes as planned today, I won’t be showing any of them to Wes.
Instead, I put on a dress I’ve made for myself, complete with a headdress and bracelets and boots. I check myself in the mirror to make sure everything is just right before going back out into the living room.
Wes smiles instinctively at the sight of me, then he straightens once he realizes what I’m wearing. I watch his eyes roving over me, the way he swallows, slow and hard.
“What do you think?” I ask, doing a twirl for him.
I copied my design from one of his many sketches of Princess Annais—the dream fantasy girl who bears more than a passing resemblance to me.
She isn’t going to be part of the GeekOut show—mostly because I have no interest in being an actress, nor in watching my boyfriend pretend to be in love with anyone else ever again—but I thought he might enjoy seeing her come to life. For his eyes only.
This costume isn’t anything particularly outrageous, just a fitted emerald-colored dress that hugs my frame, but I can tell from the look on Wes’s face that he really, really likes what he sees.
He starts to rise to his feet, but I hold out two hands, stopping him. “Wait! You aren’t supposed to stand up, remember? And no touching. Just stay right there, on the couch.”
Wes swallows again, his gaze traveling over my body once more before finding mine again. “What is this, Nina?”
“Do you like it?”
“I really, really like it.” It might be just my imagination, but I think I see Wes’s lap area start to twitch and . . . expand, for lack of a better term. That, coupled with the intense look in his pale green eyes, sends heat flaring through me. “Are you going to get any closer . . . ?”
“Not yet,” I tease him, disappearing into the other room.
I know I could go to him right away, climb onto the couch with him, tell him he can touch me now, and I’d likely get what I want, what I’ve been waiting for.
But I’ve had so much time to think about this moment, to plan it out in my head, that a part of me wants to get it exactly right.
And, okay, yes, there are also more costumes I made that I want to show him.
So I make Wes sit and watch me as I try on more pieces, each one more revealing than the last. More cleavage. A higher slit up the leg. A shorter skirt.
By the time I come out in my last costume, there’s no ambiguity whatsoever about whether Wes’s lap is expanding.
His cock juts up through the fabric of his gray sweatpants.
Nevertheless, he’s remained true to his promise to stay on the couch, hands underneath him, even though I can tell it’s driving him crazy.
“Whoa,” he gasps out when he sees what I’m wearing now.
It’s the costume Annais wore for the forest people—the thinly disguised excuse for Wes to draw me practically naked.
All I’m wearing is a slash of fabric for my skirt, a headdress—and nothing else.
No shoes, no socks. No shirt, no bra. No underwear.
Just like in his sketch, I’ve parted my long hair so it falls down on both sides of my chest, covering my breasts, but only just.