Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ivy
Tell me exactly what you want to do to me.
It's another dodge, but I can't say I mind, exactly.
There are so many things. Too many to count. My mind whirls with possibilities.
My eyes move around the room, taking it in like it’s new again. The clean white walls. The framed art in bold colors. The warmth and life in the space. But, somehow, it has a certain emptiness, the way my apartment does.
He doesn't fully inhabit it. Not yet anyway.
Then my eyes meet his, and I forget where we are. I forget everything but how much I want to mount him. "Can it be anything?" I ask.
"I don't know." A teasing tone drops into his voice. "Try me." He moves to the couch, takes a seat, looks up at me with all that interest.
He doesn't spread his legs so wide he takes up the whole couch. Only enough to invite my attention.
Only enough to send my thoughts racing to his cock.
He's turning the question around, it's true. But it's fair too. He only offered to drop a little pretense at a time. This isn't two normal people having normal sex.
It can never be that.
But it can be more intimate and more honest than hooker and john.
We can stand on more even ground than therapist and client.
What if I could do anything to him? What would I do?
Even with all my training, it's hard to shift into the mindset of sexual subject. Even with all my experience, I still default to object.
To the things I want him to do to me.
There are things I want to try. Role-plays. Cameras. Mirrors. But I can’t tell him any of that. I don’t care if he’s a professional. I barely know him.
I start with the easy stuff. "I want to take off your shirt."
"Then?" he asks.
"It's hard to imagine what I want then with that shirt in the way." My voice takes on a flirty tone. One I don't expect. Sure, it's not the smoothest dirty talk, but it's something.
"Sounds like a dire problem."
"It's terrible." I take a step towards him.
He looks me in the eyes, daring me to continue. "What are you going to do about that?"
Right. I'm in control. It's a lot. Intimidating, even in this small way.
But there's no doubt in my mind. I know I want to see him without his clothes. I know I want to touch him. I know I want to feel my body against his body.
Maybe there's not some sophisticated scene, but it's plenty.
I close the space between us.
I slide onto the couch, next to him, but that's not enough. I swing my legs over his and sit, so I'm straddling him.
Slowly, I pull his shirt over his head.
I drop the fabric behind me.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much." I settle into the position. Let my body soak in the feeling of his body. His flesh between my legs. His torso six inches from mine. His breath on my collarbones.
"What else, dolce?" There's something in his tone. A falseness.
"Do you use that line with everyone?" I ask.
"With some," he says.
"I don't like it." The harshness in my voice surprises me. I rarely stand up for myself this aggressively. But it's true. I may be here because of our deal, but I don't want to be reminded of it.
"What would you like?" He looks up at me. "I know." His voice shifts to a perfect Spanish accent. "Mi reigna."
I remember that much. "Your queen? Really?"
"It suits you, no?"
I like the thought of it, I admit.
"Have you used it before?"
He shakes his head. "I can use the English, if you prefer."
"No. It's okay, if it comes naturally…"
"First thing that came to mind." He taps his head. "Now… mi reigna, what next?"
I do like it. That I'm not a princess in his eyes. I'm not a girl. I'm a woman, a ruler, someone powerful yet feminine. He really is good at this.
Way too good at this.
"I want to touch you." I bring my hand to the space just above his chest, so I'm not making contact. Not yet. "Slowly. So I can feel the warmth of your skin. And the hardness of your muscles."
He brings his hand to my wrist and places my palm on his chest. A non-verbal invitation.
The way I prefer things.
For all the ways I preach sexual communication, I much prefer non-verbal signals. I talk all day. This is when I let my body do the talking.
In theory.
In practice, I default to what my partner wants. I let him run the show.
Men just… move so much faster than I do.
Romeo notices me hesitating and looks up at me. "Take all the time you want."
Right. I'm doing what I want to him. And this is what I want to do. I look into his eyes as I explore his torso with my hands. First, the firm muscles of his pecs, then the defined shoulders, the thick biceps.
The actual abs.
He has a fantastic body. Objectively speaking. But it's not his traditional good looks that move me. It's the way his skin feels against mine.
There's something right about it.
The touch fills some place in me that's been empty for far too long. Is it lacking love or lust? I'm not sure.
Both, maybe.
For once, I don't question it.
I close my eyes and surrender to the sensation.
I take a long, long time exploring his body. He leans into the touch with patience and steady breath.
When I finally move onto my next desire, I expect him to rejoice from the momentum. But he doesn't.
He stays patient.
"I want to kiss you," I say.
He brings his hand to my cheek and pulls my head towards his.
My lips connect with his. The soft brush at first. Then his lips against mine. The scrape of teeth.
My hips shift against his.
My tongue slips into his mouth.
He starts to reach for me. His hands go to my thighs. But he stops himself. Presses his palms into the couch.
"Touch me," I breathe as I pull back.
"Not yet." He keeps his body steady. He waits for me to move. To act.
Similar to what he did in my apartment. Only there's a different energy to it. There, he seemed like, well, a man who has sex for a living. He seemed like he had all the skill and patience in the world.
Here, he seems more urgent. More rushed, despite his stillness. Like he's playing a game with me. Or against himself.
Not because he's trying to prove he's a fantastic fuck.
Because he wants to see how well he can do.
Because he wants to see what I want.
What do I want?
I want to kiss him again.
So, I do.
I bring my lips to his. I suck on his bottom lip. I slip my tongue into his mouth.
He matches my pace again.
He's a good kisser. There's no other way to explain it.
There's something romantic about our tongues touching. Or maybe it's the intimacy of it. A more emotional sort of intimacy. Less about the urgent need to come. More about the urgent need to connect with another human being.
Good sex is about connection.
I have to explain that to so many people.
To myself.
But I don't want to stay in therapist mode, right now. I want to fall into this moment. To follow my urges.
I run my hands over his skin. Again, I take my time. I want to touch him everywhere. I want him to touch me everywhere. I want our bodies to fully join.
But I want this too.
I touch him until I'm too desperate for more, then I unbutton my blouse and toss that aside.
The bra.
I let my torso sink into his. Let that feeling of our skin connecting flood my body. Oxytocin. That's the feeling in my body. But somehow putting a word to it doesn't make it any less special.
Sure, I know the science. I know I'll feel this rush of hormones with skin-to-skin contact from anyone.
But there are other hormones I won't feel. And these sensations in my body, this urge to be closer to him—
That's not an everyone thing.
That's rare and special and pure and human.
This time, when I take his hands, he lets me. I bring them to my breasts. I kiss him as he toys with me.
The same horrible, beautiful agonizing teasing.
Until I need more. Until I shift off his lap.
I stand and do away with my slacks.
Then the underwear.
"Here or in your bedroom?" I ask.
"Is that a question?" he returns. "Or a desire."
It's a tough call, actually. There is something sexy about the couch. The urgency of it. The ability to position myself so I'm sitting on top of him.
But then the bed…
That's just classic.
"Bedroom. Now." A demanding tone drops into my voice. It's slight, but it's enough to surprise me. I want him that much. I'm that ready to throw caution to the wind.
He smiles with the confidence of an expert mentor. Then that smile shifts into something I only barely recognize.
The playfulness that can come from sex with someone you like.
Romeo stands and takes my hand.
This time, he leads me into the bedroom.
The space is sleeker than I expect. Cleaner too. It lacks the lived in warmth of the rest of the apartment.
There's a certain practicality to it. A queen bed, white cotton sheets, a royal blue bedspread, a small shelf of books, a little desk, white shutters over the window.
He goes straight to the bedside table. Pulls out a condom and lube.
I love that I don't have to ask him to grab lube.
It's not that I'm not wet. I am. But I only get so wet. Partly from my antihistamines. But partly from my own unique body too.
Even though I know it's normal, I feel awkward asking. As if it ruins the moment. As if I'm insulting a guy's ego.
I like that he's not making a big deal about it. Or the condom. And let's face it—the condom means the lube is extra necessary too. The friction of rubber against flesh doesn't feel as good as flesh against flesh.
But then I'm getting back into therapist mode.
And I'm here to enjoy myself.
What I want.
At all times.
"Take off your pants," I say.
He tosses the tools on the bed and slides his jeans to his ankles.
He kicks the bottoms off.
"The boxers too." I try to find the confidence in my voice. It's hard. I'm not used to it. But it feels good to play this game with him. To try on this role.
Romeo does away with his boxers.
I take a moment to take in the sight of him. He is a beautiful man. Just the right height, just the right build, just the right size. Not too tall or too short or too broad or too slim.
Just right.
Only a little taller than I am. I should be used to that—I'm about as tall as most guys. I am. But, somehow, it feels different with him. Like it means we fit together just right.
"Get on the bed," I say.
He complies.
I slide onto the sheets with him. I move onto my side, bringing my lips to his. Kissing him again.
This time, when I finish with his mouth, I move to his neck.
His chest.
His stomach.
His cock.
I haven’t done this in a long time. I don't have the confidence I once did. But I'm still eager to wrap my lips around him. To taste his flesh.
He feels good in my mouth.
Right somehow. That's the only way to explain it, really.
I tease him with a few flicks of my tongue. He lets out a low, deep groan as he reaches for me.
His hands brush my shoulders.
Do I really have him where I want him or is this part of his routine? I'm not sure, but I don't exactly want to stop and ask either.
I toy with him again. A few more flicks. Then the suction.
I take him a little deeper.
I take him again and again.
Not enough to get him there. Only enough to tease. To taste him.
Then I release him and kiss my way back up his body.
He kisses back, but he doesn't resume control. He continues to follow my lead.
I can ask him for anything. To touch me. To taste me.
But I don't want to wait. I want him now.
I press the condom into his palm. "Now."
He tears the foil packet and rolls the rubber over his cock.
I squeeze a little lube onto it. Onto him.
He groans as my hand glides over his tip. I spread the gel over him then I get into position, straddling him.
Slowly, I bring my body onto his.
His tip brushes against me.
Then it's that sweet, sweet sensation of our bodies connecting. It's intense. Almost too intense.
Then it's just right.
It's in his eyes. That hazy, lost look. Like he's not sure where he is, but he knows he likes it.
Because he's not used to this dynamic.
Or maybe because he's perfected this response.
The artifice is still there. A part of me wants to stop everything and demand authenticity. But another part doesn’t care. And not just because I need a story for our next episode. Not just because I can turn this into a series. Doctor O Gets Her Groove Back—with a Pro.
Because I want to feel him against me. Because, even if he is playing this up, he is here. We’re here, together, in this moment.
Okay, sure, if I’m actively thinking about how we’re here, together, in this moment, I’m in my head a little too much. But I’m making progress. I’m getting there.
I bring my hands to his shoulders and use them for leverage as I ride him again and again.
Taking him deeper, shifting my hips, trying different speeds and pressures and sensations.
Until it's just right.
I stay like that, as my orgasm builds. It feels good, but I need more. So, I bring my hand to my clit, and I rub myself as I ride him.
The pleasure comes quickly. All that tension rides and releases. The world turns white. Nothing but pure, blinding light.
And, still, he lets me lead.
I continue my motions, looking down at him as I go. Until it's too intense, and I have to close my eyes again.
Until I stroke myself to orgasm again.
This time, when I blink my eyes open, I look down at him with purpose and drive. This time, I know exactly what I want.
"I want to feel you come too," I breathe.
He flips me onto my back.
I wrap my legs around his hips.
He thrusts into me, slowly at first, then a little faster.
My hands find his back.
His body moves with mine. His breath changes. His posture too.
There's something different about him. Something more honest. More real.
This time, I'm sure he's where he needs to be. Maybe he's not lost in me. Maybe he's not feeling the emotional connection I am.
But he's feeling really fucking good.
He's there, fast, working through his orgasm, groaning into my neck as he comes.
When he's finished, he untangles our bodies, and takes care of the condom.
I take my turn in the bathroom then I climb into bed with him. I lie there for a long time. Because it feels good, to feel my skin against his.
Because this is right.
Even if the other parts are fake.
This is very, very real.
Sure, it will be hard to pretend in front of his family, but it will feel so good to come back to this every time.
After a little cuddling, we order dinner and go through another round of getting through backstory questions.
We don't invite Sasha back to test us. We don't plan another practice session.
We go straight to the action.
The next week, it’s the same.
The following Sunday, he picks me up in his sports car, and we drive to his mom’s place in the hills.
A big, beautiful house where we're spending a week.
A week of deception.
No problem.