“I have some if you need it but turn around.” He sets his bottle on the counter and motions for me to turn my back to him.
I do it reluctantly because as much as I would like some relief from the pain, I’m equally nervous to let him touch me. The way my body reacted to him earlier made my brain imitate a Pollock painting, and I needed to not make stupid decisions.
I hear him rub his hands together behind me, warming them after he’d touched the cold bottle and then he places them on my shoulder, slowly and gently massaging the tender muscles there. The second he starts I know it’s a mistake because warmth blooms on my skin everywhere his fingers touch and beyond, but I don’t stop him.
He starts at my neck and works down my shoulder and then back up again. First on the right side, and then moving to the left. It’s hard to express how ridiculously good it feels in my current state, and I stuff another couple of raspberries in mouth to keep from moaning.
Then his hands trace down my spine in small circles on either side, to the center of my back and out between my shoulder blades before he returns to my neck again; the pain melting away under his ministrations. This time I can’t help myself and a little groan of relief pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. I put my fingers to my lips to cover it.
“Sorry, that just feels so good.” The words come out like a breathy whisper, and I feel his fingers slow as he runs them up and down my neck.
“Yeah? Feel better?” he asks in a rough whisper. One that’s so sexy, if it was any other guy, I’d have a very different response than silence. But it’s him, so I can’t, taking a sip of my water instead.
“Yeah,” I say at last, swallowing the extra thoughts with my water.
His right hand drifts forward, sliding up the column of my throat until his fingers reach my jaw and he turns my head gently to the side, stroking beneath my jawbone with his thumb. I can hear his breathing change and my own heart is skipping beats in my chest.
He takes a breath, like he’s about to say something when the door to Joss’s room opens and the hallway fills with light. I jerk forward, grabbing my bottle back off the counter and tightening my grip on the container of raspberries before I drop them.
“Thanks, all better. Goodnight.” I move so quickly, I can barely get the words out before I dodge around him, headed for my bedroom.
I hear him call after me, but I ignore it, closing and locking the door behind me. Face planting into the bed as soon as I set my food and water down. I start mentally lecturing myself about who he is and how much younger he is than me, and how there are a million other guys out there and I don’t need to be thinking about him.
Except when I close my eyes, he’s all I see, and I can still feel his fingers sliding over my skin. It makes me imagine them elsewhere. I am so screwed if I don’t get a hold on this.
EIGHT
Violet
A coupleof nights later I lay back on my bed, putting my earbuds in to listen to some white noise while I get some reading in. It’s been a long week, and as much as I love Joss and Ben being around, I’m happy to have a few hours of quiet to myself.
My eyes catch on the book I’d purchased for my media class research. I’m still annoyed Joss got me to agree to take this class. It’d been at a weak point right after Cam had announced he wanted to take a break and try an open relationship for a while when he realized he was going to be out of the country for up to a year. I’d wanted to do something different, bold, strange. I’d wanted to take the opportunity to break the glass box around me. Because if he was going to do something different, so was I.
Except instead of going out to a bar and fucking a stranger I’d signed up for a semester long course on Sex, Media, and Art, and then signed up for a project on the female gaze in popular culture. Not exactly wild and crazy.
Meanwhile Joss was photographing naked male models for the project. One of us clearly was braver than the other, and that meant I was stuck deep in theoretical analysis that involved reading everything from Foucault to contemporary romance novels.
I glanced at the book on the shelf. I could do without Foucault and his discipline and punishment musings, but the last part wasn’t terrible. I’d only gotten through a few, but the latest one was something the shelf at the indie bookstore had recommended as “dark romance”.
I’d gotten through the first couple chapters, following a mafia boss and his arranged bride whose engagement was going exactly as well as you’d expect. He was a dick to her and fucking with multiple other women, and she absolutely wanted to murder him to get out of the whole situation.
Hard relate, sister. Same page here.
I open the book again, skimming the pages to figure out where I’d left off. I shouldn’t be working tonight. I should take the night off, watch TV or call one of my cohorts and see who was going out for drinks. But I was tired, already in my PJ’s, two glasses of wine deep, and murderous mafiosos were calling my name.
I was lost in a scene where the two of them were yelling at each other, and his temper snapped. He’d put her down on her knees in front of him and started unzipping his pants, telling her she was going to make it up to him like a good little girl.
And reading his filthy thoughts on the page sends a tingling awareness through my body, a tightness that blooms until I can feel myself starting to get wet. I glance at the door. It’s shut and it’s still early, and Ben and Joss should be out for hours. I bite my lip and roll it between my teeth. It had been a long while since I’d had anything close to an orgasm, and as I close my eyes the thoughts of a dark eyed dark haired mafia boss invade my senses. I can almost imagine his hands on me as I slide my hand under my shorts, letting my fingers explore, my breath hitching as I hit a particularly sensitive spot.
I open my eyes again, focusing back on the words. Trying to find the passage that had sparked my interest. Rereading his demand for her to get on his knees. I give myself a tentative little stroke, and my body responds in kind. My nerve endings, desperate and neglected since Cameron had left months ago, send little zips and sparks of awareness through me. I hate that Cameron comes unbidden into my mind. So I close my eyes again for half a second, trying to reimagine the mafia boss’s warm brown eyes before I continue reading. Recentering myself and giving another small stroke to my clit has me moaning softly in anticipation of more.
When I open my eyes again to read, I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. My door is open, and a figure is there leaning against the door frame. His eyes are locked on the spot where my hand moves under my shorts, and for a moment I imagine it’s the mafia boss. He looks so much like the man I’d just seen in my imagination anyway, except the suit has been replaced by a T-shirt and sweatpants.
Then I blink and reality hits. I’m not imagining the person there. He’s very real. Very corporeal. And it’s Ben. Watching me.
“Fuck!” I curse, and I slam the book down over my face in an effort to cover my cheeks that are blooming bright red with embarrassment. I rip the ear buds out of my ears, cursing myself for having them in and therefore missing the sound of him coming home.
He’s still silent, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. Another moment of silence passes.
