Ella
As I rock on top of Bernard, touching myself in ways that have always been private until now, one thought repeats itself: I want him.
Not as a tutor. Not as practice for some mythical “right guy,” but just for himself. He’s beneath me, his massive body solid and warm, eyes hooded, words so encouraging, and I want him.
My fingers circle and press in a rhythm I’ve used with Bernard on my mind, and nothing about this feels like practice. His hand grips my hip, an anchor. His eyes are dark, fixed on my face, filled with want.
Everything adult Bernard has done since I arrived in Pittsburgh has been in service of my safety and comfort. Rides to work. Actual interest in my studying drama. He says he thinks I’m capable, and I can feel the truth of that.
I look down at him, on the verge of coming, and the hunger on his face is real. Not performed or rehearsed.
"I want you inside me," I say.
His jaw tightens. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
I watch him swallow, feel his erection against my bottom as I squirm on top of him. “Ella, I want you to be ready. So it doesn’t hurt as much…”
"Right. Okay." I let my hand drop to his belly, feeling the skin of my thighs against his flanks.
His hands slide from my hips to my thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles on my inner skin. And then one thick finger presses inside me, slow, careful. I gasp, and his eyes flash, concerned. "Does that hurt?" His voice is rough with restraint.
"No. It’s so good.” The sensation is strange, full, and intimate.
He adds a second finger, and I moan —fuller now, a stretch that borders on too much before it settles into something warm and deep. His thumb finds my clit and begins to circle, and the combination of his fingers inside me and the pressure outside makes my vision blur at the edges.
"I'm going to make you feel so damn good, baby,” he says, and the words are a promise and a prayer, and I believe him completely because Bernard Houser has never once broken a promise to me.
He works me with his hand — patient, attentive, reading my body the way he reads the ice, adjusting pressure and rhythm based on the sounds I make and the way my hips move.
I brace my hands on his chest and let the wave build, let it crest, and when I come this time, it's deeper than before, a full-body pulse that makes me clench around his fingers and cry out his name.
He holds me through it. Steady. Solid. His other hand on my hip, grounding me while I shake. I feel my belly against his, soft against solid, but I’m too far gone in pleasure to worry that he might not like the sensation.
"God, Ella," he whispers. "You're incredible."
I'm still trembling when he reaches toward the nightstand. The drawer slides open, and I look over. And then I start to laugh.
There must be forty condoms in there. A chaotic pile of foil packets in every brand and variety, crammed into the drawer like a pharmacy exploded.
"Oh my god, Bernard."
"In my defense, these were here before you moved in." He rummages through the pile and holds up a blue packet with silver lettering. "Not these. Definitely not these."
I squint at the label. THIN ICE. "What's wrong with ‘defense never felt so good’?”
Bernard laughs beneath me, his muscles flexing in a way that soothes me and sets me even more at ease. “Tucker Stag endorsed those until they didn't work, and now he has twins."
A full-body shudder runs through me. I might be experiencing big feelings today, but the desire for motherhood is not among them. “Put those in the trash."
"Gladly." He tosses the Thin Ice packet across the room and produces a regular condom and a small foil packet of lube. "These are the good ones."
I take the condom from him. My hands shake slightly as I tear the wrapper.
I scoot back further down his legs, feeling the hair on his thighs tickle my bottom.
He watches me, patient, and when I fumble the first attempt, he covers my hands with his and guides me, rolling it down his length, slow, together.
His cock is massive, erect, with skin so taut it’s like suede over a hot iron. I want to taste it again. I am about to have this inside my body.
"Now the lube," he says. "Just…yeah, drizzle it. Make me slick."
I tear the lube packet and spread it over him, and the slide of my hand on the condom makes him groan and thrust into my fist. He's hard, thick, and ready, and I'm terrified, desperate, and certain all at once.
"Whenever you're ready," he says. "Your pace. You're in control."
I brace my hands on his shoulders. His hands settle on my hips. I rise on my knees, position him beneath me, and begin to lower myself down.
He slides into me like he was meant to be there. “We’re doing it,” I exclaim, and I laugh along with him.
“Yeah, we are, Ella. Fuuuuck.”
I freeze halfway, breathing, adjusting. There's a stretch —not quite pain but not quite comfort, the feeling of my body making room for something it hasn't held before. Bernard's hands tighten on my hips, but he doesn't move. He waits. His eyes search my face.
"Okay?" he whispers.
“Yeah.”
I sink lower. Inch by inch. The stretch becomes fullness, and the fullness becomes something I don't have a word for—connection, maybe, or completeness, or the feeling of a lock clicking into place.
My body takes him in, and I rest there, seated fully, and I feel so close to him, so full of so many things.
"Ella." His voice cracks. "You feel — fuck — you feel—"
"I know."
I start to move. Slow at first, rocking my hips, finding a rhythm that works with his injured leg and my inexperienced body. His hands guide me, not directing, just steadying, letting me find my own pace while his hips rise gently to meet mine.
His mouth finds my breast. Lips and tongue on my nipple, and the dual sensation of him inside me and his wet mouth draws moans from me so loud, I’m grateful the condo is empty.
"Oh my god," he breathes against my skin. "Ella, look at you. You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that? Do you have any idea…"
I roll my hips harder. His hands grip tighter, sinking into the soft cushion of my backside. The rhythm builds, and I find it: the angle, the pressure, the pace that makes everything tighten and climb. “I think I might come again, Bernard,” I whisper.
His eyes are molten. I see the drive there, the professional athlete attuned to his task, which is apparently destroying me with orgasms. His hips thrust up off the bed to meet mine, and the sound of our bodies together fills the bedroom.
"Christ," he groans, and his eyes are locked on my chest, watching me move above him, watching my breasts bounce with each thrust. "You are a goddamn masterpiece. Every inch of you. I can't — Ella — I can't believe—"
His praise pours over me like warm water.
I take what I need. I brace my hands on his shoulders and ride him, and I feel powerful in a way that has nothing to do with silks or nursing or passing a test. I feel powerful because Bernard Houser is looking at me like I'm the sun and he's been living in the dark.
I cannot imagine anything ever feeling this incredible. His body under mine, his hands on my hips, his mouth worshipping my skin. It's everything. It's all I want.
I come a third time, and this one breaks me open. I feel it in my spine, in my fingers, in the roots of my hair. I clench around him, and he groans my name and thrusts up hard, once, twice, and I watch his face as he comes, too.
I was not expecting to love this sight so much.
His eyes close. His mouth falls open. His neck arches and his hands go rigid on my hips, and the expression on his face is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Open. Unguarded. Trusting. He looks the way I feel, like every wall is down, every performance abandoned. Just Bernard. Raw and real and mine.
The word arrives without permission: mine.
I look at his face, the openness there, the trust he shows me, and I return, and I realize with the calm certainty of a nurse reading vitals that I am probably in love with Bernard Houser.
Our breathing slows. I lift off him carefully, both of us wincing at the separation, and roll onto my side next to him. He pulls me close immediately, arm around my waist, tucking me against his chest. His heart hammers against my cheek.
We lie there. His hand moves in slow circles on my back. My hand rests on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall. The bedroom is dark and warm and quiet, and I don't want to move, but I do know we can’t leave a condom situation unattended.
"Stay," I tell him. "I'll be right back."
I clean up in the bathroom, where a look in the mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize.
Flushed. Bright-eyed. Wrecked in the best way.
I bring a washcloth and the small trash can from the bathroom back to the bed.
Bernard cleans up, ties off the condom, and tosses it while I crawl back under the covers beside him.
"Bernard?"
"Mm."
"Will you sleep in here tonight? With me?"
He laughs, low and tired and happy. "Ella, there is absolutely no way I could move from this bed right now, even if the building were on fire."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
I press against his side, tuck my head into the curve of his shoulder, and feel his arm tighten around me. His lips brush my forehead. His breathing deepens.
The last time Bernard Houser was in this bed with me, it was an accident. He stumbled in drunk and grabbed me in his sleep, and I lay there in the dark feeling the ghost of his arm around my waist, wondering what it would be like to be held on purpose.
Now I know.
It feels safe.