Chapter 20
When John died in that car crash, Ava assumed she’d never have sex again.
That she would live her life alone and there was a sense of relief in that, not the sadness some might expect, because for her it only meant freedom. It was a promise that she’d never be in this position again. On her back, with someone bigger and stronger looming above her while everything in her head screamed to fight and run.
No, she never mourned the loss of sex, if what John did to her could be called that. Even before it was bad, it was never really good either, so what was there to miss? All the fuss everyone went on about was something she couldn’t quite grasp and so she settled into her sexless life. Too afraid, too broken, too fucked up to be anything but alone.
Only here she is now, in that position again. On her back with a man above her, his weight pressing into the open vee of her legs and his breath puffing against her collarbone. She should feel trapped. Intimidated. Humiliated. All emotions she’d gotten far too used to. She doesn’t feel any of those things now and the reality of that is so foreign she’s not quite sure what the hell to do with it.
There is some wariness though, it’s been so long, after all, but one thing she knows for certain is that she won’t leave this room with bruises or a split lip. Won’t stain the sheets with blood or have to mute her screams with the back of her hand.
Trust doesn’t come easy for her, but she feels it for Dean, so much so that she’s allowing him this close, trusting him with more than her heart but with a body that’s been broken and betrayed so many times before. She was ready to try the previous day, but hesitation still ran so deep in her bones that she faltered. It wasn’t until she realized that he only wanted to feel her come against his mouth that she was able to relax and enjoy it.
She isn’t used to someone offering her pleasure and wanting nothing in return, and her desire to be with Dean only tripled after that. This time will be different, she tells herself. She is sober and her body is willing. She can only hope her mind doesn’t screw her over.
His tongue dips into the crevice of her collarbone, tracing the hallow there in a slow lick that has her squirming. They’d stalled at first. Spilling into this room eager and aroused after waiting so long, but then reality washed over them like a cold shower. Neither sure of how to proceed.
And then he laughed, soft and brief, but it prompted her to laugh too because really, they were being ridiculous. They’re adults, they know how this goes. Still, it feels a lot like she’s doing this for the very first time all over again and that brings a cluster of butterflies on the heels of anticipation.
She’d been grateful for his sudden burst of humor, especially for someone who often keeps his laughter in check because damn if she didn’t need a little levity right then. It was easier after that to let him pull her flush against him and sneak a kiss onto her lips. Easier to guide him to the bed in short back-walking steps until they were both dipping the mattress with their weight, peeling any remaining clothes off each other between stolen kisses, like unwrapping gifts.
When she reached for the edge of his shirt and lifted it off his shoulders, she found the battered, torn skin on his back and chest, tracing a familiar story.
She knew before that someone hurt him. She saw it clear as day in the infirmary, and in this bed the other night, but her heart breaks for him all over again. She has her own scars to feel wary of, after all. More than the long, sharp knife wound that stretches from her neck to her breast. She is less self-conscious now that he’s seen them, but she’d still prefer to pretend those cigarette burns aren’t there, and those belt lashes never happened. Maybe he wants the same.
Waiting for Dean to recover from round one has its perks. Having anyone touch her like this again could easily turn overwhelming if she’s not careful. He is soft but consistent between her legs, though they remain unconnected. He thrusts against her every few seconds while they touch each other in ways she’s been starved for her whole life. It’s not lost on her how big he is and she worries at how they’ll fit together, if it’ll burn like she expects it might, or if her body will welcome him in.
She makes decent use of her vibrator, but usually on the outside and even two of his fingers prompted an ache. His touch runs from her hip to her knee and back down again, lips wrapping around the stiff peak of her nipple and giving it a light suck that draws a gasp from her lungs.
When her fingers find another cluster of scars at his hip, a large grouping that filters over to his lower back, round and raised and the same size as the ones she guards on her own skin, he freezes above her. She isn’t looking for these things, not trying to seek them out in exploration, but his body is covered in so many long-hidden marks that it’s nearly impossible to avoid them.
She knows what they are. Cigarette burns, so many more than she wears herself. She can’t help but hug him to her, wrapping both arms around his shoulders and cradling him with her thighs. Words feel inadequate now more than ever, especially when her body can show him how she feels in other ways. The mood has dropped to heavy in the span of a few seconds, memories of her own mingling with a wild imagination of what he might have endured.
They’ve come so far and have worked so hard to get here that she isn’t about to let another opportunity slip past them.
He may have been wound tight a moment ago, but it’s not long before she feels that soft, easy thrust between her legs again, pushing against the arousal gathering at her entrance, soaking the length of his shaft. His tongue snakes inside her mouth for a swirling, sweeping kiss that has her forgetting all thoughts of injuries and scars, focusing instead on the feel of him surrounding her.
They haven’t ventured further south yet, but she can feel him get firmer, every move he makes purposeful instead of absent and lazy. That’s when his hand curves to her inner thigh and presses her leg open.
She comes an inch off the bed when he traces the seam of her with a fingertip, and then two fingers press into her at once and she’s convinced she might come as quickly as he did on the sofa. Just implode right here and now from how right it is to have some part of him connected to her this way, pushing and pulling, trying to coax her pleasure from deep within.
There isn’t much of a rhythm, but he feels so damn good anyway that she can’t find it in her to care. Her eyes shut and her head presses back into the pillow, wanton and restless, one hand clutching at his shoulder and the other finding purchase on his hip.
She wants all of him, but she is snug around his fingers and he spends time working her open until her muscles relax around both digits. Then he’s gone, leaving her empty and desperate, her eyes snapping open to find him looking down at her, teeth snagging on his lower lip, traces of anxiety in his eyes.
“You’re sure?” he asks. It’s the first thing he’s said to her this whole time, but only fitting that the words come right as the tip of him rests against her opening.
“I’m sure. Slow, okay?”
“I promise.”
He waits another few seconds, a consistent pressure between her legs that goes nowhere, but when he does move, nudging into her a fraction, she can’t help the hiss that leaves her lips. She felt him in her hand, but she underestimated the burn of the stretch even before he’s gotten completely inside of her.
The head is blunt and her body resists. She wants this, knows any pain is temporary and so when he stops, thinking he’s done something wrong, she only urges him on, opening her legs a little further and tilting her hips up for him. That earns her another small thrust and just like that, she spreads open around him, unused muscles flaming. She lets out a whimper as the tip nestles within her. Tears spring at the corners of her eyes and a flicker of another man’s face replaces Dean’s.
Her body freezes.
Her mind goes blank.
Her voice catches in her throat.
He pauses, his biceps trembling. “I’m hurting you. Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He pulls out of her and she feels so fucking hopeless all over again. She couldn’t tell him to stop, but he did anyway and she could sob for how grateful she is that he didn’t keep going. And then cry even harder because she still wants him, still needs him, and doesn’t want to give up on something that shouldn’t be so difficult.
“I dunno know what’s wrong with me.” She shivers, her voice small.
“Nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart.”
“Don’t leave? I don’t want to stop.”
“Not going anywhere.”
“I thought I was okay, but maybe it was too fast? I still want this. I want you.”
“Shhh.” He hushes her with a warm, gentle kiss. “We got all night. Lemme help you relax?”
She nods, and he slides down to work his tongue between her legs like he did before. It’s so much easier to melt like this, to let her mind drift and her body roll, to allow his thick fingers to take up space inside her again.
Ava has never understood what it meant to be taken care of. Never expected that anyone would allow her the time to ease into this, or be as patient as the man coaxing her to a gentle orgasm. Never imagined she could feel as safe as she does with Dean.
She’s coming before she even realizes it’s happening. He steals her breath with a soft suck on her clit, following her as her hips twist and her muscles clamp around his fingers.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, leaving her open and empty as he moves up again to cover her body. “You good?”
She nods and then he reaches down to line himself up, pressing the tip where she needs him and as he eases into her a second time, the burn isn’t as strong, her anxiety is only a figment, and accepting him only feels right.
They agreed to go slow, and he does. It’s a gradual process of inching into her, working the thick shaft deeper and deeper until she isn’t sure there’s anywhere left to go but then he pushes again and their hips connect, his pubic bone reaching hers.
She has never felt this full and despite her willingness it’s uncomfortable but then he’s kissing her again, rolling his hips to shift himself within her as his tongue pushes into her mouth and her body quakes with pleasure, nerves flaring and her desire offering him easy passage.
His movements are shy at first, testing out how they can fit together. Eventually, he settles on rolling thrusts that barely leave her at all, every push so fucking deep it could be too much, and yet she still hikes her legs up higher on his ribs, begging for more. All traces of pain are long forgotten and all she can feel is the delicious weight of him pressing her into the mattress, and his length buried between her legs.
She makes some sort of weird noise, a cross between a moan and a gasp that’s attempting to become a word. Doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, only that she can feel everything, and there’s a building release clustering just beyond her reach. She can’t come from this alone, and it’s almost maddening to think she might not get there until she reaches down to rub her fingers where she’s swollen.
The snap of his hips speeds up and her orgasm steals her breath. She tightens around the length of him, sucking him further in while she spasms, his chest flush with hers as she rides out the waves that crest and fall and crest again. When she finally stops moving, she realizes he hasn’t come yet. He is still hard inside of her even as she squeezes him tight, only now coming down from the high she felt.
She is languid and supple and her legs fall open away from his hips, laying wide for better access. Her mind drifts, a smile lifting her lips while he pumps in and out of her.
“I love you,” she whispers, knowing she shouldn’t say it now but unable to keep it in.
He shudders above her, muffling a curse into her neck, and then there’s a warm rush within her, coating her walls and leaking out around the base of him to drip down her ass cheeks. There’s a desperation in his thrusts, like he can’t get deep enough and she wraps her arms around him tight, soothing the final few trembles with even strokes of her hands down his back until he collapses over her.
How she feels now, in the aftermath of what they’ve done, is so different from what she’s used to. She’s hard-wired to expect shame and revulsion, to count the seconds until the body pinning her down will break free and leave her alone again. But in this moment she can’t think of anything worse than being separated from Dean.
When he pulls back there is something akin to awe in his eyes and his next words reach into her heart and make a home there. “Love you so much.”
So this is what it feels like. Songs are written about it and movies are made around it, this coveted thing that everyone goes on and on about but Ava always thought was a lie. Love. Such a precious gift she assumed skipped her over until now.
For the first time in her life, she feels like crying after sex because she’s so damn happy.
Their noses nuzzle and their lips mingle, and finally, he pulls free of her. She sighs at the void left behind, unsurprised when he sits back a moment to look at her because he really, really liked to look the other day. She lets him, humming out a lazy sound when he scoops up a few drops of semen from where it’s pooled at her opening and pushes it back inside her with a gentle finger.
“You can always add more later,” she teases, surprising herself at her bold comment.
“I plan on it.”
They curl into each other, pulling up the covers and sharing dual yawns.
“I make real good french toast,” he says into the silence of the room, giving her a squeeze.
“I love french toast.”
“Good, ‘cause I’m gonna make ya some in the morning.”
“With whipped cream and fruit?” she says hopefully.
“You got that stuff in your kitchen, right?” He gives her a bit of a side eye and she snorts into his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Then yes, all the fixings.” He bends to press a kiss to her forehead. “Damn, you smell good all the time. How do you do that?”
He sounds wistful and smitten, his words coated in post-orgasmic bliss. Ava’s pretty sure she doesn’t smell good right now, that the damp sheen of sweat they’d both worked up hadn’t done much for either of them in that department, but oddly enough she knows what he means. His pheromones curl into her nose and down into her lungs. He smells intoxicating and addicting, like a drug she can’t wait to take another hit of.
She has no response other than a tired ‘ditto’, and then they’re both drifting off.
She hopes that when they wake up, rested and refreshed, they can do this all over again before breakfast.