"Want you," he whispered into my hair. "Want that pussy."
"That word isawful," I said, cringing. "Say something better."
"Bite your tongue, wife," he said. He brought my ring finger to his lips, kissing it as if he could force me to acknowledge that our vows were authentic. That they were more than a dark-of-night dare. "And now I want you to explain to me what's wrong with pussy."
His hand slipped under my shirt and moved down my belly with all the leisure in the world, and his knuckles brushed back and forth over my panties. I didn't like that word either.Panties. Ick. It sounded delicate and precious andgirly. And it wasn't that I abhorred girly things or took issue withbeing a girl,but I did hate the stereotypical nature of it all.
Pussies and panties and the rest of the socially ingrained shade machine that stomped all over the strength and power of women. It was amusing how much of the universe was on board with regulating and governing all over women without recognizing that weallcame from pussies. It was good enough to give you life, but not good enough for a little dignity, right?
The goddamn patriarchy. Fucking obnoxious.
But here was the problem with all that: I wasn't upset about panties or pussies right now. It was moments like this one that made me wish I wasn't aware of the inner workings of my every thought and reaction. At least notthismuch. If I was blissfully ignorant, I wouldn't know that I was winding myself up with this self-righteous rant because then I could gather my indignation and breathe through the tightness in my chest.
It was easier to argue and lash out than it was to admit that I was afraid. Afraid that he was a solid wall of muscle, and could hold me down without trouble. Afraid that he'd be different this time. Afraid that I'd read him wrong and he wasn't a kind man. Afraid that I was new to relationship sex (also, relationships), and doing it all wrong. Afraid that I wanted this, and I wanted to enjoy it.
Afraid that I liked him. Maybe a lot. Maybe more than I could manage.
I was scared and that wasn't an emotion I willfully accepted. I'd spent years kicking fear's ass and purging it from my life, and I didn't give a single fuck if that meant I'd pushed everyone and everything far enough away that I never had to risk feeling anything.
And within the span of a single night, a necklace brought me to my knees, my sister blew a hole through my confidence, I'd revealed the worst of myself to a stranger, and then I married him. Fear was everywhere.
"You're going to give yourself a headache if you keep thinking that hard," he murmured. He tucked me into his side and ran his thumb down the center of my forehead, smoothing the tension bunched there. "Now I'm the curious one. What's wrong with pussy?"
I shrugged, and my shoulder bumped against his hard chest. "I don't like the sound of it. If you're going to talk about my dewy petals—"
"Oh, stop right there, darlin'," he interrupted. "Dewy petals?"
"Yep," I said, peeking up at him with a teasing smile. I softened a bit every time he called medarlin'. There was nothing to be afraid of when I was someone's darlin'. "Petals sounds so much better than pussy. Whenever I hear pussy, I think of warm pudding. That's not sexy. Have you ever met warm, sexy pudding? I haven't. I want to be a flower instead."
Nick's arm curled around my shoulder and pressed me flat against his chest. "I want to study your brain," he said, laughing. "You're accessing regions the rest of us don't even know about."
His fingers were drawing circles on the small of my back and his cheek was on my head and his heart was beating against mine and my breath caught as I felt everythingfaster faster faster. I was trembling from the inside out. It started under my breastbone before engulfing my stomach, and it was about to take over my entire body. It had all the makings of an anxiety attack but instead of breaking out into a cold, clammy sweat, I melted against Nick.
This wasn't panic…it was anticipation. I wanted to be here with Nick. I had to reach far back to get my hands around that sensation, and in doing so, I recognized that I'd neverchosento be close to someone in this way. Not the right kind of choices, not really. Only Nick. This was different, and completely overwhelming.
"Wouldn't that involve cracking my skull open?" I asked, struggling against the quiver in my voice.
Nick's head bobbed against mine. "Nah, we don't need to do that. Technology, it's advanced a bit," he said. "Now tell me about the other words you don't like."
"Twat is awful. Pure awful," I said. "It's a rather shabby term. It's not particularly dirty but it also doesn't carry any reverence. My dewy petals"—he snickered at that—"deserve more respect than twat. When most Americans say twat, it sounds like they're choking on a chicken nugget. It sounds better with certain accents, but that's not the word for me. Twat is in the same category as snatch, as far as I'm concerned. At least cunt is revered."
His hand moved down my back, slipping under my undies to caress the skin there. "You're saying you prefer cunt?"
"Shannon hates that word," I murmured. "But you probably know that."
"Don't do that," he said. "I've never told Shannon that my grandmother believed, right up to the day she died, that my mother was trying to have her deported. I've never agreed to steal a lobster boat with Shannon, and I definitely haven't married her either."
He ran his nose along my neck with a needy growl. Fuck, I liked that sound. It screwed with my feminism to admit this, but I liked reducing him to his basest instincts. I liked him hungry for me, and desperate to kiss and bite and growl and fuck. Or maybe that was exactly how feminism was supposed to go.
"Can we go back?" I asked. "What were we talking about before the pussies?"
"Me wanting you," Nick said. "I always want you."
"How can you say that? You met me last night, and—"
There. I'm doing it again. Burning everything down before it begins.
I nodded to myself and blinked up at the ceiling before grabbing another condom from the drawer.
