“That’s not fair,” I whine as I lower myself to the much lower mattress. “If you’re not going to come down my throat, then I’m not going to come down yours.”
He works his way between my thighs, his long body sprawling out mostly on the carpet. “You can go at least three to my one, and for the love of God, why are you fighting me on this?”
That’s a really good question. “I’m sure you can go more than once. You’re a fit, young stud.”
“I don’t know,” he answers with honesty ringing in his tone as he takes his time caressing my thighs with his lips and tongue. “I’ve never tried before. But with you? I very much want to see how far I can go.”
With every word, his hot breath fans against my throbbing center, intensifying my need for release until I’m certain I’ll die without it. And the sexiest man alive is trying to have a conversation with me from between my thighs. Not going to lie, that does it for me. It does it in ways I could never have imagined.
I grip his hair in my fingers the same way he did to me and give a little tug to be sure I have his full attention. “James, I’m telling you right now, go all the way.”
He grins, but it’s only because he has an ace up his sleeve. He plays to win after all. The bastard doesn’t go for the gold. He doesn’t give me exactly what I need. Instead, he takes his time to explore. Every fold, crevice, plane, and valley, his tongue maps. He tastes me instead of devouring me.
“James, please,” I beg. Yes, I’m begging my sworn adversary to give it to me good.
“Oh, Sophie.” He chuckles, the rumble of his voice better than any vibrator. “I’ve been alone in my patience. I’m giving you a free pass to catch up because I am going to take my time now that I finally have you.”
He won’t be swayed, no matter how much I tug his hair or grind my throbbing center against his face. He doesn’t even care when I try to squeeze the life out of him with my thighs. He’s hell-bent on torturing me, and I can only give in.
“Are you edging me?” I cry. “Is that what you’re doing? Is this something you learned from someone else?”
“Shh,” he whispers against my lips. “I’m savoring. That’s something I’ve never done with anyone else before. Not even you.”
How can I complain when he says things like that to me?
I’ve only ever felt wrung out before from an actual orgasm, but somehow, that’s exactly what he makes me feel without it. My body has been kept so close for so long that I’m sure I’ll never come again. Every nerve ending is a blur of sensation.
Until he thrusts a finger into me while his tongue continues to circle my clit at the slowest possible tempo. Just when I think he’s pushed me over the edge, he continues his exploration. Shallow, deep, moving around so slowly to map a new world with the pad of his finger. He hums, and I give myself over to the agony. He inserts a second finger, and I accept without argument. A third, and then he begins stroking in a more methodical way.
He adds another new sensation to my repertoire.
The bliss is immediate and strong. I can’t describe it. The sensations are like nothing I’ve ever sexperienced before. No, it’s not a word. I made it up. It’s only fitting. At first, I’m terrified he pressed some weird, magical button that will make me piss into his mouth, and maybe that’s a kink he grew into when he was banging other women, so I fight against it, but in the next second, I’m coming without thought, my throat constricted in a soundless scream that goes on for an eternity.
I lied. I never knew what wrung out was before.
He slows the punishing rhythm of his fingers and tongue to ease me out of crazy town. Only I don’t think I’m ever leaving. I don’t think I can. I’m not entirely sure I want to.
He takes his time, as promised, kissing his way up my spent body before settling his hips between my thighs I’m not certain will ever close again to him. “Can you give me more, Sophie? Can you give me everything? I’m playing to win this time. I don’t want you for a night. I don’t want you for a world-class blow job. I want you forever. I love you.”
This is the part where I’m expected to say it back. To promise him in return everything he’s promised me. Only I can’t. I’m playing to win, too. And the line between hate and love isn’t as thin as everyone would like to believe.
Changing the way we see someone isn’t as simple as hitting the mental reset button in our brains. No, to change perception is a much more nuanced, conscious effort. One involving looking at their worst traits in an entirely new light. And I’m still not convinced either Jim or I have seen the worst in each other. We’ve only ever given our best. Even in competition. Especially in competition.
A sob I’ve been holding back for three years finally wrests its way free. “I can’t. I can’t promise you those things, Jim.”
“Shh, honey. Sophie.” He kisses my leaking eyes, my tearstained cheeks, my constricting neck, my heaving chest. “You don’t have to feel weak. You don’t have to say the words. You’re showing me, even now.”
Maybe I am. Maybe the final act of simply crying in front of him is exactly what he claimed he felt when he fell asleep on me. Showing trust in another with the weakest, most susceptible part of oneself.
“Can I make love to you?” he whispers against my ear, his erection pulsing at the apex of my thighs. “Will you let me inside—for you and no one else?”
His words strike a primal chord in me. He’s asking for me. Not the vicarious version of me.
“Please, James. Please be inside me.” Please be inside me for no one else. Not for your brothers, not for my sister. Because you want me.
He shows me his respect with words. “You’re on birth control? I’ll put on a condom.”
“Yes.”
He leaves me long enough to roll protection for us both onto his length. “I love you,” he swears. “I’ll never be stupid again. Never hurt you again.”
He pushes in with his full length as if he knows I’ve been woman enough to take it before. If I thought I was completely spent, I was wrong. The sensations of him pushing into my body light every nerve I thought I would never feel again on fire.
“Sophie, Sophie,” he murmurs against my ear with every thrust.
I clutch at his back. I wrap my legs around his waist. It’s not a competition anymore. The very deepest part of me wants to be as close as possible to the very deepest part of him. If that’s only physically, then so be it.
He whimpers with every thrust like he feels not good enough. “I can’t hold back anymore.”
“Let go, James,” I whisper the advice against his ear that I mean for myself. “Just let go.”
But he doesn’t listen. Ever the worthy competitor, he thrusts into me as deep as he can go several more times before he really can’t hold back. He breaks. Beautifully, brokenly, with a cry of anguish I’m sure will haunt me to my grave.
“You’re beautiful, James Fossoway.”
“You’re beautiful too, Sophia Reston.”
No truer admission of love could ever be conveyed with three little meaningless words.