Chapter 4 — Natalie
I can't sleep.
His bed smells like him. Clean laundry and something underneath that's just male. Just him.
I've been lying here for hours staring at the ceiling trying to convince my body it's tired.
My body is not interested in sleep.
It's interested in the man on the couch twenty feet away.
I've never felt want like this, my skin too tight and restless and aching in places I barely acknowledged existed with Tyler.
This is different from the pale imitation I convinced myself was attraction for three years. This is raw. Immediate. The kind of want that makes lying still feel impossible.
I shift position. The t-shirt rides up. When I pull it back down the fabric brushes my nipples and they're so sensitive even that makes me gasp quietly.
This is what desire actually feels like.
I need water. Or to move. Or something that isn't lying here thinking about how close his hand came to mine in the kitchen.
I get out of bed and open the door quietly into the dark hallway.
I walk toward the kitchen on bare feet.
Then I hear it.
A sound from the living room, rough in a way that makes me stop moving.
I take two steps toward the living room and see him on the couch.
Shirtless, pants shoved down his hips, his hand wrapped around his cock.
Every thought in my head stops.
He's stroking himself. Hard, fast pulls. His other hand gripping the back of the couch like he needs an anchor.
His head is back, jaw clenched, and the sound he makes is desperate.
Heat floods my body so fast I feel dizzy.
Between my legs, instant wetness. Soaking. Just from watching him for five seconds.
I make a sound. Can't help it. Breath catching or movement or something.
And his eyes snap open, looking directly at me standing in the hallway.
His hand doesn't stop. Just keeps moving. Keeps stroking.
Three seconds of silence.
Then his voice cuts through the dark. Rough and commanding and not asking.
"Don't stand there unless you're ready to do more than watch."
The words make something clench hard between my legs.
I can't stop staring. At his hand. At his cock. At the way the head appears and disappears into his fist slick.
"You been lying in my bed thinking about this?" His voice is rough. Strained. "About my cock inside you?"
I nod. Still can't speak.
"Say it."
"Yes."
"You touch yourself?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because when I do I want it to be your hands."
He makes a sound low in his throat. His hand speeds up. "Strip. Now."
My hands move automatically, pulling the shirt over my head and letting it drop.
His hand stops moving just for a second, his eyes drag down my body like a physical touch.
Through my breasts, stomach, hips, and between my legs where I can feel how wet I am.
"Fuck me," he breathes. "Get over here."
I move to the arm of the couch opposite him and sit close enough to see everything. To smell sweat and want.
"Touch yourself. Show me what you wanted to do in that bed."
My hand slides up my body to my breast, and the weight of it fills my palm immediately. My nipple is already peaked, a hard point against my skin. I roll it between my fingers, then pinch.
"Harder. Pinch it harder."
I do. The sharp sensation borders on pain but the pain sends pleasure radiating through me. I gasp, can't help it.
"Other hand. Between your legs. I want to watch you fuck yourself thinking about me."
The words make everything between my legs clench hard around nothing, the ache becomes unbearable.
I slide my other hand down my stomach, between my thighs. I'm so wet my fingers slip through easily.
When I touch my clit the sensation makes me bite my lip hard to keep from crying out.
"Don't hide those sounds. I want to hear every one."
I circle my clit once. The pleasure shoots through me sharp and immediate. A moan escapes before I can stop it.
"Fingers inside. Now."
I slide two fingers into myself and the stretch burns immediately. I'm so tight, tighter than I expected.
I've never done this thinking about someone real before. Someone whose eyes are locked on me, watching every movement.
"Move them. Fuck yourself."
I start moving my fingers.
Slow at first, working through the initial resistance. Then faster as my body adjusts. I can't look away from him. From his hand moving in hard, fast pulls on his cock. From the way his jaw clenches with each stroke.
"Jesus, you're tight. How the fuck are you going to take my cock when you can barely fit two fingers?"
The words make me moan louder, make my hand move faster without conscious decision.
"Add another."
"I can't," I manage.
"You can. You're going to stretch yourself on three fingers because tomorrow that's my cock inside you and I'm bigger than your fingers."
I work a third finger in slowly, stretches me wider than I've ever been. But I'm so wet they slide in despite how tight I am, despite my body's resistance.
"Look at that." His voice is strained, rough. "Taking three fingers. You're going to look so good split open on my cock."
I'm close already. Too close.
My fingers move faster, my thumb finds my clit, and I can't look away from him. From the way his hand moves. From the way he's watching me like I'm the only thing that exists.
"I'm going to come," I gasp.
"Do it. Come so I can watch."
Three more strokes and I break apart.
I come hard, clenching rhythmically around my own fingers. My head falls back and sounds I don't recognize pour out of me.
Through the haze I hear him groan low and desperate. I force my eyes open and watch him come.
I watch it spill over his hand, his stomach. The raw sound he makes goes straight through me.
We both sit there breathing hard, neither moving.
The air in the room is thick with what just happened.
My body is still humming, still electric. Between my legs the ache has lessened but it hasn't disappeared.
If anything, the release just made me more aware of how empty I am, of how much I want him instead of my own fingers.
He stands without speaking. Walks past me, his jeans still unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips. The bathroom door closes. Water runs.
I sit there on the arm of the couch trying to process what just happened.
I pick up the shirt from where I dropped it on the floor and walk back down the hallway to the bedroom, my legs not entirely steady beneath me.
The bed welcomes me and I sink into it, the shirt still clutched in my hand. I don't put it on. Instead I let it fall to the floor beside the bed and stretch out on top of the covers, completely bare like he told me to be.
Sleep should come easily after that release, but my body refuses to cooperate.
The ache settles back between my legs almost immediately, more insistent than before. Three fingers weren't enough.
The release I gave myself only highlighted how empty I am. How much I need his hands on me instead of my own. His cock instead of my fingers. Him inside me, filling the hollow space that touching myself only made more obvious.
I let myself imagine it. His hands learning my body the way mine just did but better, more assured. His cock pushing into me slowly, stretching me wider than my fingers could. The way he looked at me tonight like I was something essential, something he needed to survive.
Twenty-seven years I've spent executing other people's decisions, living other people's plans.
This is the first time I'm choosing what I want instead of what I'm supposed to want.