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Please, kiss me!
Love me, just dosomething.
My silent pleas are answered when he traces his finger over my collarbone.
He always loved kissing me there, nipping at it. He used to tell me how hard my collarbone made him. I thought it was a ridiculous thing to fawn over. Now I’d sell my soul to hear those words again.
I hate myself sometimes for not being more grateful back then.
His touch doesn’t just send small shivers through my spine; it’s pouring burning fuel over it, matching gasoline deep inside me.
When you haven’t been touched in years, the smallest heat can violently set your skin on fire. I’m still hovering over him when his thumb grazes the top swell of my chest,igniting goosebumps all over and waking up my arousal from hibernation.
I’m drenched, soaked. So ready for this. Ready for him. For us.
Please, please don’t stop.
He doesn’t.
His forefinger reaches for one side of my bra strap and gently pulls it down. I’m staring into his eyes, waiting for his next move, for his command. Waiting to make sure he won’t reject me again. Hoping he’ll follow through.
There’s so much the heart can take.
I love you.
“Gemma . . .”
No. Stop—no.
Don’t do this to me again, Harvey.
The words don’t come out. They rarely do. They’re stuck in my head like a floating thought.
I’m desperate. Too desperate.
My fingers reach behind me for my bra clasp, and it lands on the carpet. He looks at my tits with an uncertainty that shouldn’t be there.
“You don’t want to touch them?”
He’s fixed on me, his hand now placed on the side of my waist. “Never said that.”
“Then don’t stop. We can go slow. Whatever you want.” I sound like a woman begging a lord for a sliver of attention.
“Gemma . . .”
I’m exhausted. The tone of his voice is a warning. I won’t continue to put myself through this. The scar from previous times has liquefied; my heart and my pride bear fresh wounds.
I raise myself higher, reaching for his hair, something I long to do. I comb my fingers through it before I run my hand down his chest to his jeans. Then I unbutton them, dragging down the zipper.
Because I’m going down.
I feel it everywhere.
It’s another notch on my belt of rejection.
I’m aware that an incomplete L2 spinal cord injury may affect his ability to reach an orgasm, get hard, or ejaculate. Sometimes it can work, sometimes it doesn’t.
And that’s okay. We can find a million ways to please each other. He can kiss me every night for the rest of our lives, and I’ll sleep happily.
