Chapter 12 #2
She comes close again and removes my shirt. I lift my arms only as much as needed, hands returning to my thighs when the fabric clears my head. Her fingers travel over my shoulders, down my chest, and along the harder lines beneath.
She takes her time.
Usually, being examined makes me prepare for a result. Irene checks tissue and movement. Coaches watch routes. Opponents measure reach and balance. A stranger’s gaze decides whether I am useful, frightening, injured, or worth testing.
Diana’s attention asks nothing from my body except that it remain available to her choice.
Her palms slide over my chest. Her thumbs trace the edge of muscle near my ribs without following any old mark to its origin. She does not make history out of the scars. She feels what is here now.
“You are trying to hold your breath,” she says.
“I’m breathing.”
“Technically.”
I release more air.
“Better.”
“That sounded like evaluation.”
“It was appreciation.”
The distinction reaches somewhere under my ribs.
Diana bends and kisses the center of my chest. Her mouth moves to one side, then lower. Each touch lands separately because I cannot cover it with my own hands or redirect her toward what I know how to give.
I grip my thighs.
She pauses.
The stop hurts more than the touch did. My body leans toward the next sensation before I catch the movement.
Diana looks up. “Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes.”
“What are your hands doing?”
“Surviving.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“You stopped.”
“I wanted to see your face.”
“You can see it while you keep going.”
She laughs softly against my skin. The sound vibrates through me, half amusement and half desire.
“I like watching you,” she says.
“While I do nothing.”
“You are not doing nothing.”
“What am I doing?”
“Letting me choose the pace without turning my pleasure into your assignment.”
The answer leaves me with nowhere to perform. She does not ask me to agree with it or explain what it means. Her mouth returns to my chest, and the thought disappears beneath sensation.
She moves around the chair enough to vary the angle, but never behind me. I always know where she is. Her fingers travel across my shoulder as she steps to one side, then down my arm to the open hand on my thigh.
She turns my palm upward again.
“Keep this open.”
“It was open.”
“It was becoming ambitious.”
She kisses the center of my palm.
The contact is small. It moves through me anyway, along every finger I have trained to close around sticks, jerseys, weights, and other men. My hand looks too large beneath her mouth. The old scars are visible, but she does not touch them differently from the rest of me.
Her lips move to my wrist.
My fingers curl toward her cheek.
Diana lifts her head before I touch.
“Michael.”
“I know.”
“Receiving was your request.”
“I was going to touch your hair.”
“An important emergency.”
“It was in reach.”
“So is the lamp.”
“I don’t want the lamp.”
“Useful clarification.”
I flatten my hand again. Shame tries to enter with the correction, but she gives it no room. Her thumb strokes once across my palm, and the humor stays between us without making the desire less serious.
“You are allowed to want to touch me,” she says. “You are practicing not turning every want into immediate work.”
“Touching you isn’t work.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
The answer comes out rougher than I expect. “The part where I know what I’m doing.”
Her gaze holds mine.
“That is why you asked for this,” she says.
I nod.
Diana returns my hand to my thigh. She removes the rest of her clothes in stages, never hurrying to make nakedness the only event worth noticing.
Her pants first, revealing strong calves and full hips as the fabric lowers.
The remaining pieces follow while she stands in front of me and allows my attention without asking me to praise what I see.
Praise feels too small anyway.
I know the physical details of her. The strength in her shoulders. The line of her waist under my hands. The generous curve that fits against my palms. I know how her left ankle needs support in certain positions and how her breathing changes when the pressure is right.
I have never watched her undress while my own hands remain completely still.
“You look offended,” she says.
“I’m trying not to move.”
“Those can coexist.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
She steps close enough for the warmth of her body to reach me before contact does. Her fingers find the fastening of my pants, opening it with a slow concentration that makes my breathing louder.
I lift my hips when she asks.
The clothing moves away. The room’s cooler air reaches skin that has become painfully sensitive, and Diana’s gaze follows what she has uncovered.
Her expression changes.
She has already seen all of me. She knows the significant width of my body and the care it required when we first joined. Familiarity does not reduce the effect now. Her eyes move over the hard length of me, then rise to my face with open appreciation.
My thighs tighten beneath my hands.
“You are pleased with the chair,” she says.
“I haven’t thought about the chair in several minutes.”
“It continues performing well under pressure.”
“Diana.”
“Yes?”
“Please.”
The word leaves more of me exposed than my lack of clothes does.
Her teasing softens without disappearing. “What are you asking for?”
“Your hands.”
“Only my hands?”
I look at her mouth.
She follows my attention, and satisfaction appears in the slow curve of hers.
“That was honest,” she says.
The praise is not about obedience. It reaches the part of me that still expects vulnerability to be something another person tolerates until I become useful again.
Diana kneels between my feet.
She does not touch immediately.
Her hands rest against my knees first, palms warm on the hard muscle above them. She moves upward along the inside of my thighs, slow enough that every inch becomes separate anticipation. My legs open farther without lifting from the floor.
Her right hand closes around me.
The first stroke empties my lungs.
Her fingers cannot meet completely around the thickest part. The sight of her hand working with the size of me makes my body pulse hard against her grip, pleasure striking low and spreading through my stomach.
Diana watches the effect on my face.
“Too light?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She adds pressure.
My hands dig into my thighs. I feel my own strength pressing uselessly into muscle while hers decides the pace. The contrast makes each movement more intense. Her grip slides, pauses, returns with enough firmness to pull a rough sound from me.
“That?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She repeats it exactly.
No extra speed. No performance created from my reaction. She gives me the sensation I named and lets me remain inside it long enough to lose every prepared response.
My head tips back.
“Look at me,” she says.
I do.
Her gaze stays on mine while her hand keeps moving.
She is naked between my knees, confident enough to let herself be watched without turning my attention into judgment.
I see desire in the way her lips part, the slight deepening of her breath, and the way her free hand rests against my thigh as though she enjoys feeling the tension collect there.
I want to reach for her.
The need becomes physical in my fingers. They close once, nails pressing into my own skin before I force them open.
Diana sees.
“Still want the rule?”
“Yes.”
“You can change it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Then stop trying to escape through your hands.”
“I’m not escaping.”
“You are planning three useful things to do to me.”
“More than three.”
Her laugh reaches me at the same time her grip changes.
The combined sensation nearly lifts me from the chair.
I catch myself, feet pressing harder into the floor. Diana’s hand stills, not withdrawing, keeping me held inside the pressure without giving me the movement my body is chasing.
“You moved,” she says.
“I noticed.”
“Did the chair fail?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
The question is too lightly delivered to become a test.
“No.”
“Good. Receiving is not a statue contest.”
She resumes, slower now. “Stay because you want to know what comes next.”
“I know what comes next.”
“You are very confident for a man who does not control the schedule.”
She lowers her mouth to me.
The first warm contact destroys the rest of my answer.
My whole body contracts around the sensation. Her lips close gradually, accommodating the breadth of me in stages while one hand remains firm around what she cannot take at once. The combined pressure is wet, hot, and so complete that I feel it behind my eyes.
My hands lift from my thighs.
They stop in the air.
Diana looks up without releasing me.
The sight nearly ends whatever control remains. Her eyes are dark and focused, her mouth stretched around my size, her hand moving in a rhythm that makes every muscle in my body fight the order to remain still.
I put my hands back down.
She continues.
Pleasure builds with no task attached to it. I do not guide her head. I do not measure whether she needs something from me. I do not turn the angle so I can reach her or convert the moment into mutual attention.
I receive.
The word becomes physical rather than abstract.
Diana takes what she wants of me, pauses when she chooses, then returns with a different pressure that makes my thighs shake beneath my palms. Her tongue moves with deliberate attention, finding the places that turn my breath into sounds I would usually swallow.
She pulls back.
I follow her before I catch myself.
“Stay,” she says, smiling.
“That pause was unnecessary.”
“It was essential to my enjoyment.”
“Cruel.”
“No pain, remember?”
“This is close.”
She stands, leaving me hard, wet, and aching in the chair while she walks toward the table for her water.
I stare at her.
Diana drinks without hurrying. Her body moves with the ordinary act, one hand lifting the glass while the other rests against the edge of the table. She looks over the rim at me and finds exactly what she expected.
“You said you wanted me to lead,” she says.
“I did.”
“Do you regret your judgment?”