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We don’t say anything, and I feel like we should be talking. We should be making plans or doing anything that will distract me from where my mind wants to go.
When Nate groans, a low rumble from his chest, I realize my fingers have a mind of their own, tracing over his skin.
“Should I stop?”
“Please don’t,” he whispers. “It’s like the best torture in the world.”
If he thinks it’s torture for him, then he doesn’t have a clue what touching him like this does to me. I’m restless, my legs shifting under the covers. I want so much from this man, and I never guessed we’d be here, alone in a room with this chemistry raging around us.
Desire isn’t something I’m familiar with. Sex is for utility, not pleasure. Its function is procreation. It’s why I never once asked Cory to use protection. We weren’t having sex for pleasure. It was to make a baby. It’s why I was so crushed when he wasn’t happy when he found out.
But sex can also be pleasurable. That’s something Nate told me when I confessed that I hadn’t had good experiences. I didn’t worry about it back then because I was taught that it wasn’t meant to be fun.
I could never tell him that I want something like that from him, that my body is begging for something I don’t fully understand. I’ve never felt like this. Plus, I’m already pregnant, so that reasoning can’t be used.
Or is that wrong? The teachings I learned growing up never seemed quite right, especially not with all the whispers I heard while going to a public school. I don’t know what to believe, or whose rules I should be following.
“You’re going to end up vibrating off the bed,” Nate whispers, his arm tightening around my back. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m excited to see you,” I tell him, because truly I am.
“Excited or excited?” He emphasizes the second, and it’s clear what he’s referring to.
I’m glad we’re in darkness because I could never look at him right now.
“Both,” I whisper in honesty. I may not be able to speak up on my own, but I can handle telling the truth when prompted.
He groans, the bed shifting when he pushes his head back into the pillow as if he’s pained. It’s like I’ve told him there’s cake for dessert, but he has to wait until after dinner to enjoy a piece.
“Rub on me.”
I scoff. The nerve of this man.
“Not like that, April. I know what you need. Just throw your top leg over mine and rub against me.”
Doing that would be worse than touching him like I thought he was suggesting.
I shake my head against his chest, contemplating running into the bathroom and hiding there until he falls asleep. He mentioned being tired, so it shouldn’t take but an hour or two.
“Don’t be shy, gorgeous.”
He pulls away, and I feel like I’ve made a mistake by indicating that I can’t, but then the bedside lamp flips on. I try to bury my face against him when he moves back, but he keeps his upper body just a hair out of reach.
“Don’t be embarrassed. We’re married, remember? It’s perfectly allowed.”
“I can’t.”
I have to look away. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his blue eyes.
He shifts, rolling me to my back and settling between my thighs. My eyes flutter, but I manage to look up at him as he lowers his weight on top of me.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes.”
He presses his hips against me, and I swear my vision is going blurry. “This?”
“Yes.”
“I love that you’re wearing my favorite t-shirt, but can I see more of you?”
I search his eyes, and I know that if I told him no, he’d back off. He wouldn’t pressure me or make me feel bad for him having an erection. He wouldn’t blame me for his body’s reaction or taunt me until I felt guilty and gave in, because Nate isn’t Cory. Like he’s mentioned before, he’s a man not a teenage boy who only has a one-track mind.
He leans back, putting some distance and breathing room between us, and it’s the very last thing I want.
“Shirt?” he asks, his hands still on the bed at my waist.
I nod, my teeth digging into my lower lip before turning my head.
“Don’t look away, baby. Be here with me.” His fingers tangle in the hem of the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing, and he slowly inches it up my body. “You have the softest skin.”
The fabric rests just below my breasts, his fingers traveling over the bump that’s nearly invisible when I’m lying on my back. He traces my belly button, my ribs, and his hand dips under the edge of the shirt grazing the bottom of my breasts before pulling it up higher.
I thought it would be impossible for my nipples to tighten more than they already were, but the combination of the cool air in the room and his eyes on those parts of me, draws them tighter.
