“Try me. What’s the worst that’s gonna happen? We find out that, despite pining after each other for fifteen years, we’re not sexually compatible, and we continue to take out our mutual frustration in the form of petty jibes and competitive board game tournaments.”
“You’ve been pining after me for fifteen years?” I scoff.
“Since the day I met you, princess. Now tell me the damn fantasy. How does it start?”
Sweet baby Jesus in a cornfield.
Fifteen years.
I mean . . . I knew this, right?
This buzzing between us has pulled us together since day one.
And I’ve hated it. Hated the undercurrent of sexual tension that has been simmering betweenus because I’ve sometimes hated him. Hated that he was the one who made me feel this way. No one else compared, and any step toward another man only took me down the road of comparison. It’s like we were two embers glowing, threatening to destroy everything if the lightest of breezes came along to blow us together.
I swallow the pride that’s built up in my chest over the years. Cutting through it like an explorer uses a machete to cut through the dense overgrowth of the jungle. Creating a new path in uncharted territory. It’s a leap of faith. Trusting...hoping that a panther isn’t going to come and swipe my feet from under me.
“I’m usually walking home or in my house alone.” His throat produces a raspy hum, and I continue. “I hear footsteps behind me, loud ones. The person isn’t trying to be quiet. He want me to know that he’s there.”
Jonesy’s thumb presses hard just above my hip bone, and his breathing loses its rhythm.
“When I look around, I see the person, and they don’t slow down. I can't see his eyes, but I can see his grin. He’s happy I’m looking back. He’s happy that I’m scared. I start to pick up my pace, but the thud of his boots quickens. I get my keys out ready, and as soon as I reach the gate, I start to run up the path, but he’s on my heels. I can’t stop him from coming into the house because he stops me from locking the door.”
I feel Jonesy shift beneath me. He gives me noverbal confirmation that he’s unsettled. In fact, the only confirmation of any reaction I get is the hot, hard length of him pressing into my stomach like it’s trying to make an announcement,“I’m here! I can help with this situation!”
“Then what?” His hoarse voice scratches against my skin.
“I run to the bedroom, and I hide.” My voice is so thick I barely recognize it.
“Where?”
“Under the bed, in the closet, the bathroom sometimes.”
“Close your eyes. Tell me what you’re imagining now.” The gravelly texture of his voice travels through his chest and vibrates against my cheek.
I suck in a deep breath, steadying myself as I come to the crux of my issue. The torment of holding this in for so long just so it can come spilling out to him seems impossible. Like pouring gasoline on a fire, it’s threatening to shoot out uncontrollably. The heat in my lower belly is pumping around my body, and the feel of his large hand, anchored against my back, keeps me present, keeps me bound to him and this moment.
I do as he says, closing my eyes, picturing the scene unfolding, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as the heavy thump of footsteps fills the silence of the room. They’re slow and meticulous. Like the man is in no rush, like this is a game that he’s happy to drag out.
“Under the bed,” I whisper, shifting my thigh so it drapes over his. I move my hips ever so slightly so the coarse fabric of his army-issued pants caresses my center in a tortuously rough kiss.
“Mhm. Keep going, princess. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “He follows me into the room, standing at the foot of the bed. I can see his shoes. He’s so close I can smell the leather. He always pauses, doesn’t rush, until suddenly a hand snaps around my ankle, dragging me out from under the bed. I try to kick him off, I scream, I scratch—anything to get him off me.”
“But he’s too strong?”
“I don’t stand a chance. He throws me on the bed, and it’s then that I see his eyes, the rest of his face covered with a mask of some kind. He spreads my legs, gripping both my wrists above my head, and I feel him grind his erection against me between my legs.”
Jonesy shifts, the steel pipe betweenhislegs pawing against my stomach like it’s looking for a home to settle into. I feel his hot breath against my ear, the smell of paint and plaster filling the air, and yet his manly shower gel clings to him with a layer of clean sweat that only comes from true physical labor. I grind against his thigh, using the corded muscle to ease the ache between my legs.
“I try to kick him off, but he laughs. He likesthat I fight him, and even though I know I should be begging him to stop, pleading with him not to hurt me, I’m silent.”
“Because you don’t want him to stop?”
“In the fantasy...no,” I admit. “I understand that in real life, I’d of course react differently. If it wasn’t a game, I was playing with somebody. I obviously don’t want to be assaulted and murdered.” I rush out the words, feeling like I have to. Like I need to explain the difference between fiction and reality.
He moves his hand in long, languid strokes down my back. “Shh, you’re okay,” he whispers, sensing my unease. “You don’t have to defend or justify any of this to anyone. Least of all me.”
