Wes seems to hear in my voice that this is no longer a game. He stills completely, waiting. Sweet, wonderful Wes. He’s been waiting for me for so long. I know he’d wait for me forever, if I asked him to.
Still with our faces pressed close together, so I can’t see his expression and he can’t see mine, I tell him quietly, “I’ve started taking birth control.”
I feel him twitch in surprise at that, before he goes still again. “Okay.” I can tell he’s trying his best to not put pressure on me, to not react too strongly. It would almost make me laugh, if my heart wasn’t racing so fast.
“I can still get a condom, if you’d like,” I continue. “Unless ... ?”
“No, I’m fine without,” he says quickly. “Whatever you want.”
What I want is to feel him inside me, no barriers, as close as two people can be. “Wes,” I whisper, “you can touch me now.”
He moves so fast that I might fall off him. But he reaches out a quick arm to grab me and fasten me securely onto his lap. Then his hands are everywhere, everywhere, as if they can’t quite decide where they most want to be. My hair, my back, my naked torso. Up my flimsy excuse for a skirt so he can take hold of my ass and pull me tighter against his still-clothed cock.
“Wes.” I gasp at the friction this causes, then again when he leans forward and his mouth finds my nipple through my curtain of hair. “Wes!”
We rock against each other that way for a long, frantic moment, until it isn’t enough anymore. “Take off your pants,” I tell him, lifting up so he can do so.
He releases me just long enough to obey before reaching for me again—desperate, so desperate, to be touching me. He tries to slide a finger into me, but I push his hand away impatiently. “I don’t need that. I’m ready.”
I’vebeenready for weeks. I know it won’t always be this way, but I’m so slick with pent-up want that I don’t need any prepping. Lifting up again, I work together with Wes to position my entrance at the tip of his cock before sliding down.
Even with how aroused I am, it takes a moment of adjusting before I’m fully seated. Once I am, my gaze startles to his, finding him looking back at me, watching me, some fierce blend of want and love and need and lust in his eyes. “Fuck.Nina.”
I move. He moves. His hips thrust up encouragingly as I slide up and down his cock, my walls instinctively tightening around him. It’s been a long time, for both of us. We both need it. I can see him, feel him, trying to hold back as I do the same, trying to prolong the pleasure as much as possible. His head falls against my chest, his tongue lavishing worship onto my breasts. One of his hands snakes between us, finding my sensitive, aching center and stroking, coaxing, caressing it as warm pressure builds in my core.
I’m the first to break, with a loud, urgent cry. Wes follows closely after me, fisting my hair, grabbing my ass, calling out my name likeit’s a prayer.
Afterward—when we’ve cleaned up, then unexpectedly gone for another round in the shower, then cleaned up again and climbed into the bed so we can spoon and snuggle—I brace myself, waiting for the onslaught of shame. My therapist told me it might still happen, that it could take some time to reprogram my responses. To reconstruct my relationship with my sexuality.
But at least this time, I don’t hear any negative voice or feel any guilt or regret. All I feel is happiness—to be here with this man, so adored there’s no room to doubt it, so desired I’m going to have a hard time walking straight tomorrow. To have found so much happiness after so many years of thorns, so thick that I’d long lost sight of any path that might lead me out of them.
Wes pulls me in tighter. “O captain, my captain,” he murmurs into my hairline.
I giggle at the familiarity, the intimacy of the nickname, especially now that it’s taken on a sexy new layer. “Yes?”
“I was just realizing ... there’s still another hour earmarked on my schedule for our meeting.”
My smile blossoms on my face, a wild, untamable thing. “Yes?” I prompt him.
“Just so you know, for the record, you have my permission to come onboard any time you like.”
From anyone else, it would be a line worthy of breaking up. From Wes, it makes me laugh so hard, I can feel the bed shaking. Rolling over to face him, I pretend to consider it. “Well, you know, we haven’t christened the bed yet ...”
Grinning, Wes leans down to close the distance between us.
Epilogue
BEKAH
“Stewie!” I call from the sofa as I turn up the volume on the telly. “Hurry up! It’s starting!”
Poor, longsuffering Officer Stewart (Stewie for short—note, a nickname assigned by me, not suggested by him) trudges into the room. The man truly had no idea what he signed up for when he was given detail at my safe house. I’m not allowed to leave. I’m not allowed to scroll social media or post anything online. I’m not much of a reader, even less of a cook. My only current outlet is watching all of the reality television that we get access to on the basic government cable package we’ve been provided. Tight bastards didn’t even splurge for streaming.
So far Stewart’s suffered through three old seasons ofThe Bacheloretteand more seasons than I’d care to admit of variousHousewivesspin-offs. Tonight, though, should be a special treat, and not just because I’ve made one of the few snacks I feel confident whipping up in the kitchen—Oreo popcorn.
“What is it this time?” Stewie asks as he takes the seat beside me on the sofa.
He can groan and complain all he wants about my telly choices. It’s all just an act. I happen to know he got cross with me when he missed Rachel Lindsay’s finale because Officer Mulligan (aka Mullie) was on duty the day I watched it.
