Chapter 11 Nora #2
I blush, tossing them aside. I do not need to be thinking about Rush’s cock.
That is dangerous, because thoughts like that make my damn stomach flip, and then I vaguely remember feeling his hardness against me as we kissed.
I might be making it up, or it might have really happened, I’m not sure.
But I know it’s best not to wander down that road. Especially now, when I’m drinking.
The last thing I want to do is end up sending my ex’s charismatic playboy brother a text asking him if it happened or not. That would be a disaster, and not to mention, the last time I was drinking around Rush…
I shake my head and unhook my bra, letting it fall to the ground. My breasts fall with that familiar sinking heaviness, relief palpable, and I groan. Nothing feels as good as taking off your bra at the end of the day, no matter what anyone says.
I slip the panties on, and they go on smooth.
The fabric is a soft lace, but there’s a sheer layer between the lace and my skin, so it’s not itchy at all.
I slide the matching bralette on over my head.
I grab all the clothes and the half-empty bottle of wine, as well as my cell phone, and head down to the guest room to get a good look in the full-length mirror.
I dump everything out on the guest bed and saunter over to the mirror, and when I see myself, I almost have to do a double take.
The pale blue lace looks almost ethereal against my fair skin. The cut on the sides of my panties accentuates my hips as I slide my hands over my stomach.
Normally, I feel a little self-conscious over my stomach, especially as of late, but these panties are either made from wishes or the wine is easing me up because I think my stomach actually looks good. And my breasts…
The bralette is snug and comfortable, but there’s a decent amount of lift so it doesn’t look like my damn boobs are sagging, like in most of the lightly lined bralettes I wear. In fact, there’s enough lift to give me ample cleavage even though it’s not a pushup.
I pull my hair out of its messy ponytail and let it fall in waves over my shoulder, the incandescent light of the guest room shining on me like I’m some angel, lighting up the strands of my fiery locks and turning them gold.
My freckles are more than noticeable, and my skin almost has a rosy hue to it from the contrast of blue and the lighting. My lips part for a moment, my blue eyes sparkling in the low light.
I look…
I look amazing.
I bite my lip as I stare, taking in my curves and the little details. I twist and turn, checking myself out at all angles. From the side, the cut of the panties makes my ass look great too.
A strange sense of self-awareness hits me as I think about Brett and that woman, and the negative thoughts try to pervade and erase the positive ones.
I shake my head, tousling my hair as I reach for my phone to do something I haven’t done before.
I snap a photo.
Of me in my bra and underwear, the acceptance and awareness mingling with the pain and heartache.
And I think about all those romantic movies, all the make-overs and bitter show-offs.
Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe I’m entering my mid-life crisis era and this breakup is my catalyst, or maybe I’ve just watched too many movies lately, but whatever it is, I blame it for what I do next.
I search for his name—since I deleted our text thread the other day in a fit of rage—and as soon as I see Sterling, I click it, but for some reason, it’s not coming up.
So instead, I go under my photos, select my picture, and then type Sterling into the bar.
I try to send the photo not once, not twice, but four damn times because for some reason, the message isn’t working.
Finally, after the fourth try, it brings me to Brett’s thread and I viciously select the photo and hit send.
The rush of excitement and vengeance fills me, and I smile, giggling. I’ve never felt so good about myself before.
Not just because I look great—which I do—but because the bitterness has been festering for days now, and it feels good to be bitchy for once.
I toss the phone on the bed as I try on the jeans, the shirts, and the sweaters over top, taking photos of everything in between.
I take another swig of my alcohol, and realize the bottle is a lot emptier than I remember. My head is a little dizzy, and I think maybe I should stop, but I also can’t help but admit that I feel great.
Better than I have in a long time, all things considered.
Pickles meows at me from the door, and I giggle.
“Yeah, maybe I should get r-ready for bed,” I say with a hiccup, noticing it’s late.
I grab my wine and cell phone, heading for the bathroom to draw a bath, purely to relax and get myself ready for bed. It’s pretty late, and though I don’t have to be in early tomorrow or anything, I am starting to feel the effects of my pasta and wine.
And the jolt of confidence I had is starting to waver.
I slide out of my underwear and bra and set to soaking in the tub, closing my eyes as I drift into that relaxed headspace. My mind wanders to Freddie. To Rush. And even Tommy.
I don’t know why I keep thinking about them, but the wine and my sudden burst of awareness tell me not to think about it too much and just let it be.
So I do. I let my mind wander down those pathways as I cleanse myself.
I massage the warm body gel into my skin and do my best to wash up with the rag I was using yesterday.
When I get between my legs, I realize how sensitive I am.
I slide my fingers through my folds, the familiar ecstasy culminating. Some water sloshes over the side of the tub, and I realize that this is not the best place to start grinding out a damn orgasm.
So, I finish up my bath and grab a towel, before heading back into the bedroom. I drop my towel and my phone on the bed and fall on top of the sheets, falling on my belly. I pull myself up, my insides fluttering as I close my eyes and my mind starts to wander again.
I get into a downward position, stretching for relief as the images of Freddie looking down at me, those perfect lips open, whispering words that make my insides flourish, catch along the sparks of the thought of Rush and his steamy kiss, his evident hard-on.
And Tommy…just thinking about his sweet gaze, his admission…
What would it be like to feel his sweetness on my tongue like Rush? What would it be like to be wrapped in his warm words and heartfelt understanding?
I groan, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about any of them—my ex’s brothers—like this.
But I also know that my insides are aching for release, and I’m exhausted and tipsy and alone. It’s not like anyone will ever know.
So, I settle one hand on my mound, sliding one finger inside of my wet, tight entrance while the other braces for relief, for grounding. My hand hits something hard, so I move it, not able to focus on anything other than what I need to right now.
I keep my eyes closed as I slide another finger inside of myself and slowly start to work them in and out in a rhythmic fashion. I groan as I rock my hips forward, building my own pace, my own rhythm as I fuck my fingers.
I think of Rush and his hardness, the size of the slit in his underwear capable of holding him. I imagine his cock, heavy in my hand, warm and solid as I slide myself over top of it, feeling every vein, every ridge.
And because I’m alone, I can let myself think the things I shouldn’t.
I imagine Rush sliding his cock between my thighs, my pussy lips grazing over his shaft.
I imagine Freddie telling me to spread my legs so he can fill me.
I imagine doing as he asks, him praising me with those two sweet words.
Good girl.
And I imagine Tommy—sweet Tommy and his gentleness, his lips whispering soft, adoring things in my ear while I fall into his space with ease, finding his lips with mine to show him my praise.
My phone chimes, but I can’t focus on it.
My orgasm is in the wings, and I can feel it starting to take shape, and all I can do is focus on that.
I need to come.
I need the relief.
The chimes go off, a flurry of noise amidst my building desire.
Everything hits me at once. My orgasm, my tears, and that little spark that begs me to let go. I can’t fight it.
All those memories of nights spent beneath Brett, waiting for my moment to let go. My release. But it never came. He always came first, and when he finished…
When he finished, it was over, and there was no waking the dragon from its slumber again.
So many nights I lay in bed, like this—with my hand between my legs, chasing my relief—especially after those games that didn’t end so victoriously.
I grab the sheets as I thrust my hips forward and my orgasm hits me. The rush of emotion, the pulsing ache, the heady euphoria hits me like a damn hurricane, and I collapse on the bed, a mewling, tearful mess.
I slide my fingers out of myself and curl up on the comforter, the cool air kissing my skin.
My phone chimes again, but I have no energy or motivation to move as my limbs turn to Jell-O and sleep takes me away.
In my dreams, all I can see is the ice—bright, shimmering ice and the stark aqua lines left by the skates of players who have come and gone.
All I can see is the shadow, the bright light of the Zamboni and an arena full of empty seats. The quiet peace after a long, hard game.
But I know that beneath the shimmering surface, the cracks are there. Spreading like vines until eventually they will be sealed again.
And as I dream of shattered ice and shadows that chase me, I hope one day I can be healed too.