Chapter 11
CADENCE
The early June night air is warm and the sky is so full of stars one could lose count in a space no larger than one's palm. Beneath me, the blanket is a thick, if somewhat scratchy, barrier between me and the cold metal of the truck bed.
Riley is a bulky presence above me, beside me. He radiates warmth and exudes desire and patience and strength.
I am nervous—I have no clue what to expect. Kissing is not at all as I had imagined, in the few times I even endeavoured to direct my imagination toward that end. My skin tingles in anticipation of his touch, and my belly flutters and flips.
I want this.
Badly.
What I have not said to Riley, as I am not certain he would not take it the wrong way, is that this is an opportunity I will not squander—not knowing what the future holds, I cannot be certain a chance such as this will ever come to me again.
I am aware that that sounds…well…opportunistic, and perhaps it is.
But such is my reality. I am here with a man who desires me.
Who seems to care for me, at least to some degree.
I may never find anyone like Riley again, or anyone who could want me for me, who could see me the way he does.
I push this line of thought out of my mind—it is worrisome and frightening to consider.
If I allow myself to continue down that mental vector, I may never leave this place or this man, and I would eventually resent him if that happened.
I must go to South Sudan. I could not live with myself if I did not.
Yet so much of my heart, when I leave, will remain here. I can see that, even now.
Mercifully, Riley chooses this moment, when my mind is whirling and conflicted, to touch his lips ever so gently to mine.
My mind does not go blank—it will take more than that, I fear— but the chaotic maelstrom of conflicting needs and desires quiets enough that I can tune in on him, focus on his lips on mine.
His lips are warm and smooth and slippery.
I tilt my head slightly and find a better angle, and the soft, warm slip of his lips on mine is delightful—a barrage of sensations: the wetness, the warmth, the slippery slide of our mouths moving, the hot waft of his breath, the press of his nose alongside mine.
His body is large and hard and hot. His tongue creases the seam of my closed mouth, and I open for him, and his tongue drives into my mouth; this is almost overpowering.
The intrusion of his tongue in my mouth is alien, slithering on mine, stuttering past my teeth, grazing over my lips.
I feel his kiss in every cell of my body.
It warms me from the inside out, creates a bizarre, unfamiliar pressure in my belly.
It pushes a hunger through me, but not for food.
My mind is asking a dozen questions all at once:
Will he touch me, now?
Does he want to?
Is he only doing this because I asked him to?
Does he really think I am gorgeous as he keeps saying?
Which part of my body will he touch first?
Will I enjoy it as much as I do his kisses?
Are my breasts large enough? Men prefer women with oversized breasts, I believe, and mine are not especially large, though they are not small, either.
Will he attempt to make me orgasm?
Will I be able to?
What will it feel like?
Will I like it?
What if it hurts?
The way my university roommate screamed, cried, groaned, grunted, whimpered, and otherwise carried on when cavorting in bed with her boyfriend, I always got the impression sex must be very painful.
When I asked her about this, however, she laughed uproariously and would only say that it does not and should not hurt, and that I would only be able to understand if I were to experience it for myself.
What about Riley's body? I have only seen the male form nude in clinical settings, never personally. I have never seen an erect penis before.
What would it feel like to touch his penis?
What if I hurt him, somehow?
What if he does not enjoy the way I touch him?
What if I cannot bring him pleasure?
What if I panic and cannot function?
What if my mind will not allow me to enjoy this?
What if I displease him and he wants to stop?
What if he rejects me?
What if I cannot bring myself to touch him intimately?
What if…?
What if…?
What if…?
"Hey," his voice murmurs. "Come back to me."
"I am here," I mumble.
Levered over me, he traces a fingertip from temple to jaw corner to chin. "Nah, babe, you went somewhere else, mentally."
"Oh, Yes. I…" I swallow hard. "I apologize."
"Care to share?"
"What I was thinking?"
“Yeah."
I let out a breath. "Fears. Worries. A mental storm of what-ifs."
"Then I'd better do a better job of distracting that amazing brain of yours, huh?
" He kisses the corner of my mouth, and then my jawline, and then the underside of my chin, and then my throat, and with each next kiss, my heart beats a little faster.
“The most important thing, Cadence, is that you talk to me. Or, communicate, at least."
He kisses lower on my throat, and his hand cups my waist between ribcage and hip. My pulse slams harder at the idea that his hand might drift up…or down.
"Talking is communicating," I answer, my voice soft and breathy, and I find myself tipping my head up so he has better access for kissing my throat, which, oddly, is quite arousing—I had not considered one's throat to be erogenous. "How else would I communicate except by speaking?"
“You just did it," he answers. "Tipping your head back like that tells me you like it when I do this…" he kisses my throat again, above my Adam's apple, and then lower and lower, until he is kissing my suprasternal notch.
"Yes," I breathe, unable to summon my full voice. "Yes, I do."
"If I'm doing it right, you won't always be able to talk," he says, and kisses lower yet, centimeters above the neckline of my dress.
"So just find a way, nonverbal if necessary, to let me know if you like something.
If you don't want me to touch somewhere, push my hand away.
If you do want me to touch somewhere, guide me there.
Gasps, sighs, groans, things like that also tell me you're liking something. "
He brings his mouth back to mine, and this kiss is all tongue immediately, and the hot pressure behind my navel pulsates.
His hand drifts toward my midline, his palm covering the precise location in which I feel the heat and pressure.
His tongue moves on mine, and I dance my tongue against his.
This feels kind of silly at first, like a child’s game of thumb war except with tongues.
But then, when I sweep my tongue through his mouth, he groans low in his throat like a grumbly grizzly bear, and the hot pressure in my belly sinks southward, building behind my privates.
I do it again, and receive a similar response from him—I touch his cheek, and then slide my fingers into his hair at his temple, and then above his ear, and then I cup his neck and find myself at war with his tongue, as if we are each seeking some kind of supremacy over the other, though I know not what victory would look like in this case.
My belly flutters the more I kiss him in this manner, however, and my mind is mercifully, blessedly quiet—I think my hyperfocus is taking over.
There is only this—only Riley, only his body, his tongue, his hands, only the wild, alien barrage of sensations as he kisses me.
His hand carves up over my belly and halts at my sternum.
His thumb presses against the underwire of my bra at the center point between the cups.
My heart crashes in my chest crazily, anticipating.
He pulls away from the kiss, gazes down at me—I open my mouth to say something, I do not know what, and then…
His large hand cups my breast—over the dress and over the bra, but still.
Riley is touching my breast. My nipples harden into achy, tender bullets.
I am absolutely certain he can feel the hard point of my nipple even through the two layers of material; I am not sure whether I should be embarrassed about this.
He kisses my breastbone, and then along the neckline of my dress.
to my shoulder. He kisses the round of my shoulder, and his finger deftly prods the broad, shallow neckline of my dress over the edge of my shoulder.
My bra strap shows, now. I restrain myself from tugging my dress in place—I assume he did that on purpose.
I must let him; I want him to.
He kisses me again, now at the juncture where shoulder and arm meet, the tender crease there.
Now, the other side, where he does the same, gently slipping my dress's neckline down, and now the upper slopes of my breasts are exposed.
My bra is a plain black full coverage one, as I am a practical, utilitarian woman with no interest in or need for lacy, unsupportive, and immodest undergarments which no one will ever see.
He kisses my breastbone from left to right, right to left, subtly lowering my neckline with each kiss.
And then he brings his mouth to mine and claims a hot, wet kiss that short-circuits my brain, causing me to gasp into his mouth and lift up and lean into him, ratcheting up the intensity of the kiss.
He tugs my neckline down, exposing my bra cups fully.
He guides my arm out of the sleeve, and then the other, and lowers the neckline again so it stretches around my sternum…
and then again so it is around my belly.
My heart batters against my ribcage as the night air bathes my skin, and I am hyperaware of his eyes on my chest.
"Okay with this?" he mutters, his eyes searching my face.
I can only nod.
"Nervous?"
I nod again.
He smiles at me. Lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me—this one is gentle and soft and sweet rather than hungry. "I can't get enough of kissing you."
"Nor I," I whisper.