by Noelle Adams
I would never have said that normally, but he’s looking rather smug, and I don’t want him to think I’m helpless without him.
His lips turn up. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. My vibrator has been getting quite a workout.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Maybe you can show me what you do for yourself.”
“Maybe I can.” I can’t imagine doing so, but anything is possible with my new, less inhibited self. “But not right now. Right now I really liked what you were doing.”
“Then I’ll get back to you.”
He does. He teases me skillfully, building up my arousal until I’ve brought my knees toward my shoulders and am holding on to them desperately, tossing my head from side to side and practically crying out so loudly it could legitimately be classified as a scream.
I don’t stifle the sounds. I don’t want to, just like I don’t want to at home on my own. I want to hear them. And it doesn’t matter that we’re in the open air right now. The bungalow might be private, but there are other people at this resort. The possibility of someone hearing me doesn’t dampen my enthusiasm in the slightest way.
I’m not sure what it says about me, but the truth is the possibility of someone hearing my pleasure makes me even hotter.
Richard enjoys my uninhibited display. I know he does. He can’t stop smiling as he administers his erotic torment, and he’s gazing at me with hot, possessive ardor when I finally come, loud and messy and flailing with the power of my release.
If I thought this was the end, I’d be wrong. Richard isn’t finished yet. He brings me to another orgasm with his fingers and mouth, and then a third. Then he moves up to suckle my breasts as he fucks me with his fingers and takes me over the edge two more times.
I come loudly each time, until I’m literally hoarse from it. Nothing in my experience has led me to believe I could come so many times in one session, but my body just won’t stop.
Part of me is so exhausted after more than an hour of Richard’s ministrations that I want to tell him to stop, but the rest of me doesn’t want it to end. Never wants it to end. As if the end of our lovemaking right now will be one step closer to the end of our time together.
Richard has been turned on for a while, and finally his patience runs out. He turns me over on my hands and knees and takes me from behind. I come two more times before he comes himself, pushing into me so hard and fast that our flesh slaps together.
Richard takes care of the condom and then collapses onto the bed beside me. We’re both so wiped out from our efforts that we can barely speak. I’m sore. Really sore. And moisture from my arousal has dripped all the way down my inner thighs and has made quite a wet spot on the fabric beneath me. But the pleasure and pure satisfaction that’s overtaken my body far outweighs any discomfort.
I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I just want to lie here forever and enjoy this feeling.
When I turn my head, I see that Richard’s watching me. I can’t read his expression, but it doesn’t look bad. It’s exhausted and sated and proud and pleased and something else. Something I don’t understand. I smile at him. “I have no idea what to say about that, but I didn’t think that kind of sex was really possible.”
“Me either,” he says with a little smile.
“So you haven’t done something like that before?”
“I’ve done something like that. But nothing so intense. Nothing nearly so good.”
This makes me smile. How can it not?
“You feel okay?” he asks.
“I feel like I can’t move. And like I need another shower. And like I’ve done all the physical activity I can handle for the day. But yes, I feel amazing.”
“Me too.”
We lie in silence for a few minutes until I find the strength to get up and go to the bathroom to clean up. When I return, Richard has pulled a light blanket from a box in the corner of the patio.
I crawl into the outdoor bed and get under the blanket with him, moving over onto his side where there isn’t a wet spot. He puts an arm around me and holds me against him.
We both fall asleep like that. Feeling the breeze from the ocean and listening to the sound of the birds. Surrounded by the warm, tropical air.
I sleep in perfect peace for a long time.
THE NEXT DAY, RICHARD and I are back on the outdoor bed on the patio.
We’ve spent most of the past twenty-four hours taking it easy. Relaxing in our private pool. Eating a candlelit dinner on the patio—complete with champagne and a warm tropical breeze. Having leisurely sex first thing in the morning. We did spend a couple of hours snorkeling after that, but that wasn’t very rigorous exercise. Just enough to make me tired enough to nap. When we came back, we showered and ate a late lunch. Then we had sex again on the outdoor bed before we fell asleep together.
I wake up slowly, awareness sinking in gradually with a sense of delicious comfort. When I finally open my eyes, I discover that Richard is still stretched out beside me. I know he napped too because he fell asleep before I did, but he’s awake now and focused on me.
I catch his eyes resting on my face, and I smile.
“Did you have a good nap?” he asks in a husky drawl.
I make a face at him. “Don’t say it like that. You had a nap too.”
“I did. I’m not sure why. I haven’t napped in... in ages.”
“People nap when they’re tired, and you were tired.”
“Right. I was tired. Because I’ve done so much hard work for the past two days.”
I roll over onto my side and pick his hand up from the bed so I can play with it. I really love his hands. They’re a lot bigger than mine. Long fingers. Trimmed nails. No rings. They’re always really warm. “Well, you have exerted considerable effort in at least one capacity.”
His blue eyes warm up in that way I love. “I have, haven’t I?”
“Yes. You have.”
“You certainly seemed to appreciate the efforts, if all the uninhibited displays of enjoyment were anything to go on.”
I huff. “You seemed to enjoy it too.”
“I did. More than anything I can remember for a really long time.” He’d turned toward me when we started talking, but now he shifts to his back, staring up at the canopy above us.
“Good. So I don’t think we need to go on and on about my displays of enjoyment when you’ve given plenty of your own.” I give him a little poke on the side that makes him jerk and smile. “You’re just as loud as I am.”
He chuckles. “I’ll give you that, as long as you admit that yours is sustained for quite a bit longer than mine.”
“That’s just because you enjoy torturing me.”
“Torture, is it?”
“Something like that,” I reply with a sniff.
This makes him laugh again.
“So all this to say that you deserved the nap as a reward for all your efforts. It’s good for you to unwind a little.”
“What makes you think I don’t?” He turns his eyes back to me as he asks the mild question.
“I don’t know. What do I know about your life in between our weekends together? But something makes me think you don’t really relax very often. You eat great food and drink great wine and stay at all the best establishments and live a luxury life, but it’s like you’re...” I trail off as I realize what I’m saying. How presumptuous it is.
“Like I’m what?” He still looks warm and sleepy, but something has changed underlying it. Something urgent, like he really wants to know.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Like it’s all still work to you. Like you’re going through the motions. Playing a part or something. Like you’re not... you’re not doing it because it’s what makes you happy.”
He doesn’t reply to that. I didn’t really expect him to. It’s too intimate. Saying it was a huge risk even if he was the one who asked.
I wait in silence for so long that I�
�m afraid I might have ruined everything between us.
Then he finally murmurs, “Maybe you’re right.” He’s not looking at me, so I’m not really sure if he’s talking to me or to himself.
“It’s just the impression I get. It’s nothing I know for sure.” I want to move us back to the relaxed warmth of before, so I add, “Regardless, I really appreciate this weekend. I’ve never had a weekend like this in my entire life, and I’ll remember it forever.”
He turns his head toward me again, his mood shifting with my attempts to change the subject. “Really? So none of your previous boyfriends took you to the Caribbean for a sexy vacation.”
I laugh. It’s more of a burst of sound.
He frowns in response to it. “What does that laugh mean?”
“Nothing.” I’m embarrassed now. Like I’ve revealed too much. I look away from him.
He turns my face back so I can’t hide. “Gillian?”
“It’s nothing. Just that, no, I’ve not had any boyfriends who have taken me on sexy Caribbean vacations.”
“Have you dated a bunch of losers then?”
“Not everyone can afford vacations like this, you know. It doesn’t make them losers.” I’m evading, and I’m afraid he’s going to recognize it. My cheeks are starting to get hot.
He does recognize it. He’s far too smart and observant. “I know that. But if that was the issue, you wouldn’t have said it in that particular tone. Have you had bad boyfriends in the past?”
I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the gentleness of his tone, edged with something that sounds almost like protectiveness. Maybe it’s that. Or maybe I’m just tired of keeping this secret. It’s starting to feel wrong. Like I’m not treating Richard fairly. As if I’m not really being myself.
When myself is what I want to be with him.
So I let out a long breath and admit, “No. I haven’t had bad boyfriends. I haven’t had any boyfriends.”
His only response is to grow perfectly still. Except his eyes, which are searching my face. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? I haven’t had any boyfriends. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
“But you said...”
“I said what? That I’ve never had casual sex before? Well, I hadn’t before I met you.” I can see the questions and conclusions processing on his face, so I just say it. “I was a virgin before I met you. You were my first.”
His lips part slightly. He doesn’t say anything.
“It’s not that shocking,” I say in a rush, self-conscious and worried about his reaction. “I mean, I know it’s more common for women to have sex in their teens or twenties, but I’m sure there are a lot of women in my situation. Who are waiting for marriage. Or who haven’t found the right man. Or who just haven’t had the opportunity. It sounds strange because people don’t talk about it much, but assuming that everyone has had sex by the time they’re twenty-five is erasing a lot of people’s lived experience.”
“I know that,” he says, something gravelly in his voice. “I’d never judge anyone for the sex they’ve had or haven’t had. I’m the last person in the world who would ever do that.”
“Then why do you look like that?” My voice cracks on the last word. Suddenly I’m about to cry, and I hate that it’s true.
He reaches over to cup my face and hold it with one hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time and you’ve never... I didn’t know.”
I can see that it’s true. Occasionally I’ve wondered if he’s known all the time—if something in my inexperience or behavior clued him in, but he was graciously letting me pretend to keep the secret—but I can see that it’s not the case. He genuinely had no idea I was a virgin our first time. “I know. The truth is I feel kind of bad about it now. But back then, you were just... I mean, it was going to just be a onetime thing, and I had no reason to trust you with something so private. I wanted a real one-night-stand experience, and I was afraid if you knew I was a virgin, you would treat me differently. Or you wouldn’t do it at all.”
He’s breathing more heavily than normal. His hand has slid down to the side of my throat. “Were you... were you all right? Did I hurt you that first time?”
“No! Nothing like that. You were amazing that first time—and every time since. It didn’t hurt at all. I never would have kept meeting with you if I hadn’t been having an amazing time with you. Nothing that’s happened between us is any different than you originally thought. I just didn’t have any experience with sex until... until you.”
He swallows. Nods. Relaxes back onto the bed, pulling me with him so I’m tucked beneath his arm, my cheek resting on his chest.
He’s silent for a while, but that’s okay. I feel better. He seems to understand. He knows there’s not anything wrong with me. It’s just the particular life I’ve led. He strokes my hair.
Finally he asks, “So you never had sex with Matt? Isn’t that what you said his name was?”
It’s been months now since I told him about Matt. The first weekend we spent together. I’m a little surprised he remembers. “No. I never did. We had that one amazing date, but we didn’t sleep together. I would have. I’m sure I would have. I just didn’t... have the chance.”
“And there’s been no one else since then whom you’ve wanted to have sex with?”
“Sure, there have been men I wanted to have sex with. But they didn’t want to have sex with me.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Well, believe it. I’ve told you before. I’m used to being invisible. I’m not making that up. Guys don’t notice me much. The few that have are ones I wasn’t interested in. It just didn’t happen for me. Sometimes it’s like that for people. I finally had gotten to the point where I wanted to make it happen, so I did. I just did.”
“Yes. You did.” He leans down so he can press a kiss into my hair. “You’re amazing.”
I smile against his shirt. “Thank you. I don’t think I’m that amazing, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know.”
“Well, I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to... to feel like I knew what I was doing. So I... I played a part. Acted like someone who did. I feel like I’m doing that a lot. Pretending like I know what I’m doing. Like I’m competent and confident, even when most of the time I’m completely clueless and really afraid that today is the day when the world is going to finally discover it.”
Richard chuckles, his fingers still playing in my hair. “Imposter syndrome.”
“What?”
“Imposter syndrome. That’s what it’s called.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess that’s what it’s called. I feel that way all the time. Not just with sex. With everything. Like maybe I’m not really an adult. I’m just pretending to be one. Even in my work. I know I’m good at what I do. I know it. But I still sometimes feel... I try to do better, be more confident, but it’s hard to shake the feeling.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“How would you know?”
“Are you serious? You think you’re the only one to feel that way?”
“No. I don’t think I’m the only one. But I didn’t think you would feel that way.” Because this feels emotionally important to me, I pull away from him and sit up so I can look at his face.
“Why not?” His eyes are holding mine in some kind of unspoken challenge.
“Because you’re... you’re you.”
He exhales in dry amusement. “Right. I’m me.”
“Are you really saying you feel like you’re playing a role sometimes?”
“Sometimes?” He sits up too. His face twists slightly, so I know he’s feeling something deep. “Gillian, are you serious? You know better than that. Think about what you just said about me earlier. You were right. There was no maybe about it. You were absolutely right. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be someone different. Some
one smarter, more successful, more confident, more impressive than I actually am. But it’s all an act. It’s not really me.”
“So you’re saying...” My voice is cracking again. Emotion has risen in my throat and eyes, and I have to fight not to give in and let the tears come. “You’re saying you’re not really rich and successful?”
He gives a hard half shrug. “Yes, I have money. A lot of it. Yes, I’m good at my job. But you should know perfectly well that who you are in your job isn’t all of who you are.”
“Then who’s the rest of you?”
“I don’t know.” He’s staring just over my shoulder, gazing at something invisible as if the answer might be found there. “I have no idea. I’ve been running from him all my life.”
I reach down to take one of his hands in both of mine. I have to touch him. I have to. And his hand is the most easily accessible part. “Why have you had to run from him? You said you’re from a small town and you wanted to get away. Was your childhood really that bad?”
“No. Not compared to some kids. I was never abused or...” He shakes his head and adjusts his hand so his is holding one of mine. “My parents died early, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle in that small town in Maine when I was five. They were...”
“Were they bad to you?” I ask in almost a whisper.
“They could have been worse. They took care of me. They just didn’t love me.” He slants me a look that’s almost sheepish. “I’m not trying to have a pity party here. I was fed and clothed and educated, and I was never hit. But they didn’t love me. They didn’t want me. I felt like a burden on them all my life, and in some ways it... it shaped me. I felt like I had to prove myself. I felt like I had to be someone different, better. That I had to... deserve what everyone else seems to get without trying.”
“Richard.” I squeeze his hand.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m just trying to explain that you’re not alone. Everyone feels that way sometimes. Everyone feels that way for different reasons. We’re all trying to make our way in this world as best we can. Trying to make a place for ourselves, even when it feels like we might not be wanted. I think it’s part of being human.”