Taking Turns (Turning #1)(37)

“This is fun.”

He looks up and smiles. “We have these rules for a reason. They heighten the pleasure. Everyone’s pleasure. You’ll have a better time if you give in. I promise.”

I believe him. Because it’s already working. But I still have questions. “So you’re never going to f*ck me?”

“What did I say about that word?”

“What? It wasn’t an adjective. It’s a verb. To f*ck.”

He scowls.

“You’re never going to have sex with me?” I amend.

“I didn’t say never. I just said for now.”

“But when Quin comes on Sunday night—or Monday, if he’s not that into me and can’t stand the thought of that extra time—then he can fu—have sex with me? What’s his rule?”

“You’ll talk it out with him.” Smith looks up at me and then stands up, his task complete far too soon. “Don’t confuse us, Chella. We’re very different people. We want very different things out of this game. But we all like to win. Even you, I’m sure.”

“What is winning?” I ask.

The look on his face takes me by surprise. “Happiness, of course.”

“And not touching me makes you happy?”

“Did you like what I just did?” He sets the razor down on the bench.

“Yes,” I say. “But I’d like it more if your hands were touching me.”

“Maybe one day I will touch you, Marcella Walcott. But that’s a long way down the road. So it’s better to get used to the way things are done now. Are you finished?”

I shake my head. “No, I have to rinse my hair.”

“Hurry up then. I’m tired and I need you to fall asleep before I do.”

He opens the glass shower door, grabs a towel off the rack, wraps it around his waist, and then walks out of the bathroom.

What do I think of this new development?

He can’t touch me, but he can use other things to touch me.

Yes, this could get interesting very quickly.

Smith, I think as I rinse my hair. He’s not really what I expected.

I expected the * he’s shown me he can be. The one who creeps around, breaks into my house, makes himself a key, and changes my alarm code.

But this no touching stuff. Why? And then to demonstrate how nice it can be by shaving my legs? Again, why?

“Chella,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’m f*cking tired. Hurry up.”

What will he do now? Will he sleep next to me? How can he? If he can’t touch me, surely he won’t get in the same bed with me?

I turn the water off and step out, dry myself off with a towel, then wrap it around my hair and walk out into the bedroom, naked.

He’s sitting in a chair, his back to the window. His usually slicked-back dark hair is all tousled and wet. A few pieces of it fall over his eyes in long, soft curls. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he does have on a pair of sweats, the waistband tugged below his huge balls. And his hand is on his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watches me watch him masturbate.

“If you think I’m not gonna jerk off to you every chance I get, you’re insane.”

“And me?” I ask, unable to stop looking at his hand on his cock.

“I sincerely hope you do the same. I’ll be very disappointed if I watch you tonight and you don’t put on a show.”

So this is how it is.

My time with Smith will be nothing but self-pleasure.

No, that’s not all it is. It will be self-pleasure while he watches me.

“Put on the lingerie, take that towel off your head, and get in bed, Chella. Lights are going out in two minutes.”

He’s serious about the two minutes thing. I’m still messing with the alarm on my phone when he reaches over to the lamp next to his chair and flicks it off.

There’s a little bit of light from the street lamps outside, but he’s all shadow. “I can’t see you,” I whisper.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “I can see you and that’s all that matters.”

“Will you get in bed later? Or will you leave?”

“I won’t leave,” he says. “But I won’t sleep with you either. It’s too much.”

“Too much trouble?”

“Too much temptation. Now tell me what you think of the game so far.”

I smile up at the patterns of light on the ceiling. “I think it might be fun.”

“Come for me, Chella. Come for me and I’ll come for you.”

We do that. I have my hand between my legs. My breathing is rapid as I try to create enough friction to orgasm. But in the end, it’s not my hand that gets me off. It’s him. From across the room. It’s Smith’s heavy breathing. His moans. His groans.

And when we come together, I get it. I understand what they’re trying to tell me with this rule.

We are all responsible for our own happiness.

I don’t need him to make me happy. He doesn’t need me to make him happy.

We make each other happy.

And we do that by making ourselves happy.

I fall asleep. A deep, deep sleep. One second I’m awake… and then I’m out.





“Chella.” Smith is talking to me, I know this. But I can’t seem to make my eyes open. “Chella, come on. We’re having an early breakfast, remember? I already picked out your clothes. They’re hanging in the closet.”