Weather Girl(58)

I can’t take it anymore, not feeling skin against skin. Greedy, I lunge forward, eager to rid him of his shirt. And—he’s absolutely beautiful. I force myself to slow down, to take him in the way he did to me. I run my hands along the pink stretch marks on his belly, on the sides of his stomach, along the chest hair I’ve been wondering about since that night at the hotel bar. I kiss as much of his skin as I can, until he reaches for my panties and I’m all too happy to help him take them off.

Without the fabric in the way, he trails his hand up my thigh, parting my legs before sliding a finger where I need him most. Jesus. There’s that experimental touch again as he learns my shape, up and down and up, a second finger, up, yes, and I lean my head back against the pillow, arching my back.

All while his fingers are circling.

And circling.

And circling.

Every time I think I might be close, shutting my eyes and focusing on that building sensation, it slips away. He’s encouraged by my breaths, the way I grip his shoulder, but after a while, his hand slows, like he’s too tired or I’m not giving him what he wants. Or both.

Fuck. I was hoping this wouldn’t happen. Not with him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, positive he can hear the frustration in my voice.

“Hey. You have nothing to apologize for.” He sits back and looks at me, his other hand perched on my hip. “Is there anything I can be doing differently?”

I lift up onto my elbows, my face heated with both arousal and embarrassment. I was worried this might happen. I thought the excitement of doing this with Russell might get me there quicker . . . but no such luck.

“It’s not you.” I hope he knows I’m not just saying that. “I’m self-conscious with new people. I’ve always been that way. Like I can’t turn off my brain or can’t fully relax. Sometimes . . . sometimes it takes a few times. I’ve never been able to—the first time.”

I’ve been with guys who take this as a challenge, declaring that no woman has ever had trouble achieving orgasm with them, which feels great when you’re already naked with someone, imagining them pleasuring another partner. I’d love to be the type of girl who collapses into ecstasy the instant her partner touches her, but I’m just . . . not. And my antidepressants, as wonderful as they are, dim my libido a bit.

He’s quiet for a moment. I almost wonder if he’s going to say we should stop, that it’s not worth it. Or that we should full-steam ahead right into intercourse, which, sure, is plenty fun, but I’ve never had an orgasm that way either, even if I’ve faked it a good dozen times. I don’t want to do that with him.

When he speaks, it’s not at all what I was expecting. “So the thing is,” he says, his voice low. “I really want you to come. Tonight.” He might get me halfway there if he keeps talking like that. “I have an idea. And you can absolutely say no.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, thumb lingering on my cheekbone as he pulls away. “What if you made yourself come? Here. With me.” I must make some kind of expression, because he continues, “If you think it might be easier?”

His hands on me are so gentle. He’s not demanding an orgasm from me. He’s not frustrated—he wants me to enjoy this.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never done it in front of someone else.” This wasn’t exactly what I pictured when I imagined our first time. When I thought about what I’d do to him as my “welcome back to sex” gift.

But . . . there’s no reason it can’t still be mind-blowing.

“So you want me to—touch myself while you watch?”

He laughs darkly. “As appealing as that sounds, I could do it, too. If it would relax you.”

It conjures an odd mental image at first, but his face is so open, so earnest.

I really want you to come. Tonight.

“Okay,” I say, my heart pounding. “Let’s try it.”

As much as I can, I help him out of his boxer briefs, rubbing my hand along his cock as he sucks in a ragged breath. Russell is naked in my bed and waiting for me to pleasure myself. And . . . I’m deeply, breathlessly turned on.

My hand only starts shaking when I sit back up, palming one of my breasts, pinching at my nipple as I stare down the length of my body. “Should I just . . . start?”

“Whatever makes you the most comfortable,” he says, brushing his fingers across my waist. He’s very clearly ready, but he waits.

So I scoot to the top of the bed and lie down, with him stretched out next to me. It’s not until I let my hand drift between my legs as I’ve done so many times before, only never with an audience, that he wraps a hand around himself. And it’s no longer strange—far from it. I don’t dare break eye contact as he strokes downward, then up to the bead of moisture forming at the tip.

“How is that?” He’s already breathing hard, his question rough like gravel.

“Good,” I manage as I find a rhythm. I’m lying. It’s fucking amazing, and watching him while he’s watching me might be the most intensely sexual thing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t anticipate the sight of him touching himself being so erotic, but fuck, it is. The image of him with his hand around his dick, the tensing of his jaw and the shuddering of his breaths and the way he grips my ankle like an anchor with his free hand . . . yeah, that’s going to be burned into my brain for a while.