Chapter 20 Roman #2
I watch. Not in a performative way. In the same way I study opposing teams’ defensive patterns. Cataloging every detail.
The exact spot she touches. The pressure. The rhythm—steady circles, not too fast. The way her hips lift slightly when she gets the angle right.
“There,” I say when she gasps. “Right there. That’s the spot. Keep going. I’m still learning.”
She’s a little closer now, her free hand fists in the sheets. But there’s still that edge of frustration. In the way she’s squeezing her eyes shut and breathing with the movement, as if this is an exercise and not passion.
“Stop thinking,” I tell her. “I can see you overthinking. Just feel it.”
“I’m trying—”
“No you’re not. You’re timing yourself. Analyzing it.” I put my hand over hers, feeling the movement. “Let me try.”
I replace her hand with mine, matching exactly what she was doing. Same spot. Same pressure. Same rhythm.
“Like this?”
“Yes—oh God—”
I maintain the exact pattern, watching her face. The way her lips part. The flush spreading down her neck.
“Stop thinking, Moxie,” I say.
“I’m not—”
“You are. I can see it.” Her thighs are loose, her body not quite committing. “Lock your knees. Tense up your thighs. And hold your breath.” I don’t change the rhythm. “Your body knows what to do but your brain’s getting in the way. So give your body something to focus on that isn’t thinking.”
She hesitates, then does it—locks her knees, tenses her thighs.
“Good. Now stop thinking.”
“I can’t just stop—”
“Yes you can. You have to stop talking to hold your breath so focus only on my hand. On nothing else.” I increase the pressure slightly. “Stop performing. Stop analyzing. Just feel it.”
She’s getting close—I can feel it in how she’s tightening around my fingers, how her breath explodes out before she inhale on a gasp and holds it.
But that last bit of tension is still there.
I move between her thighs before she can overthink it, replacing my hand with my mouth.
Same rhythm. Same spot. Same pressure she showed me.
But now with the wet heat of my tongue, the slight scrape of stubble on her inner thighs, the anchor of my hand holding her hips.
I don’t change anything. Just maintain exactly what she showed me, keeping her legs tense the way I told her to, not letting her squirm away from the sensation.
I feel the moment it happens. The exact second her brain finally shuts off and her body takes over.
Her whole body goes rigid for a heartbeat before the shaking starts—violent tremors that rack through her entire frame.
She’s clenching so hard around my fingers I can barely move them, her thighs locked around my head, hands pulling my hair hard enough that my eyes water.
And she keeps coming. Waves of it rolling through her, each one making her shake harder, making her cry out again. I can feel it everywhere—in how her muscles spasm, how she’s soaking my fingers, how she can’t seem to stop making these broken, desperate sounds.
I don’t stop, working her through every aftershock until she’s sobbing and pushing at my head because it’s too much.
When I finally pull back, she’s wrecked. Completely undone. Tears streaming down her face, chest heaving, whole body still trembling.
“That was—” She stops, can’t finish the sentence. “I can’t even—”
“I know.”
I’m so hard it’s bordering on painful. Have been for what feels like hours. Days, maybe. My jeans are too tight, every shift of position makes it worse, and watching her fall apart like that didn’t help.
“I can’t feel my legs,” she says faintly.
“That’s probably normal.”
“Is it though? Because I literally cannot feel anything below my waist.”
Satisfaction floods through me. “Give it a minute.”
She turns her head to look at me. “That was—I don’t have words for what that was.”
“Good.” I’m already moving, reaching for my nightstand. For the box of condoms that’s been sitting there since I moved in, never needed until now. “Because now it’s my turn.”
I get the drawer open. Fingers on the box—
Her phone rings.
Loud and shrill from across the room where it fell with her jeans.
We both freeze.
“Ignore it,” I say, already pulling a condom from the box.
It stops. Starts again immediately.
“That’s—” Marnie sits up, alert cutting through the post-orgasm haze. “That’s my emergency ring. I have to—”
She’s already scrambling off the bed, looking for her phone.
I sit there, condom in hand, every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop her. To finish this. To finally get the relief I’ve been desperately needing for four days.
But the fear in her voice—the sudden panic—that overrides everything else.
She finds her phone in the pile of clothes by the door. “Hello?”
I watch her face change. Pleasure to concern to fear in seconds.
“Teresa? What happened?” She’s already looking for her clothes, trying to dress one-handed. “Is she breathing? Okay—okay, that’s good. We’re coming. Twenty minutes. Just keep her calm.”
She hangs up and I’m already grabbing my clothes from where I tossed them.
“What happened?” I scrub my hand over my face, trying to process this shift but my body hasn’t caught up.
“Mom had a fall. Teresa’s scared—she never sounds scared.” Her hands are shaking as she tries to button her jeans. “She said mom’s confused, blood pressure’s up, she doesn’t know if she should call an ambulance.”
“We’ll figure it out when we get there.” I find my shoes, shove my feet in. “Come on.”
We’re dressed and out the door in under two minutes.
Down the elevator in silence. Into my truck.
I’m still hard and aching, body furious at being denied after all that buildup. I feel like an asshole for it.
But Marnie’s beside me, leg bouncing with nervous energy, fear written all over her face.
And that matters more than anything I’m feeling.
“She said mom tried to get out of bed and fell,” Marnie says quietly. “That she’s asking for my dad. That everything’s confused.”
I reach over, take her hand, squeeze it.
“We’re almost there.”
The rest of the drive is silent except for the GPS giving directions.
I’m still half-hard, still aching, body not understanding why we stopped when we were so close to finishing.
Every shift of the truck, every turn, reminds me exactly what I’m not getting right now.
But Marnie’s hand is trembling in mine.
And that matters more than anything my body wants.