“Let go!” he roars and slams into me, reading my mind or body, I don’t know which. And I do. I let go with a gasp, completely and entirely. This is pure, unadulterated pleasure. I feel him release his orgasm inside of me. I grip his back, and slide my hands down to cup his ass. I grip and push him against me. I continue to writhe against him. I can’t stop until my climax is spent, but it won’t end. This moment seems to stretch and last forever. I wrap my legs around him, eager to draw the feeling out to its full potential.
I don’t want him to pull out, I want him to stay right here, stay inside me. I tilt my hips and push against him, wrapping my hands around his biceps; I dig my nails into him until finally my orgasm has run its course. My sex is throbbing as my body comes down from it’s high. I’m nothing but a tight bundle of nerves. Every part of me is tingling and singing with satisfaction.
I collapse. My legs slide away from his back, and plop back onto the bed, my hands in my hair. He settles down on top of me. I can still feel him, slick and wet, inside of me, his erection, soft and languid.
We are a sweaty, wet mess. But I don’t care. I think we both doze off. When I come to, he lifts his head, and begins trailing kisses up my neck, chin and up to the corner of my mouth. But I feel strange, awkward and afraid. Distant.
What just happened?
That was the best thing that has ever happened to me. Yet now I feel strangely—panicked. What happens next? What should I expect now? Will he be done with me after tonight? Fuck. What does this all mean? What am I even doing?
“Stop, Lenore.” He places his hands on either side of my head. His brow furrows with concern as he studies me. I try to focus and center myself as I stare back into his impossibly blue eyes. There is softness in his expression that I’ve not seen before today, before this moment, actually. He continues gazing at me longingly. I can feel him trying to get in my head; he’s trying to get me to let him in. And I just can’t.
My breath accelerates again, I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack, or like I’m going to cry. I’m terrified, terrified of letting him in, of what I just did, of what it all means, and of him seeing me in this state. I begin hyperventilating and my body goes rigid with tension. How humiliating, I think to myself, but my body and my emotions are out of my control right now. I take in deep and jagged breaths, over and over, in an effort to steady myself. Shit. Shit. Shit! This is embarrassing.
“Shhh, shhh...stop. Take deep breaths, Lenore. Everything is alright,” he says in a voice as smooth and soft as silk, as if this is something typical for a woman to experience after sex. But he’s so calm and soothing. Is this something he’s accustomed to dealing with? Do women often experience an anxiety attack after sex with a gorgeous god-of-a-man? I close my eyes, attempting to still my rapidly beating heart.
He rolls off of me, drops to my side and wraps his arms around me, cradling me against his chest. I fight the urge to bury myself against him.
“Just listen to my breathing,” he whispers to me softly, cradling my head against his chest.
And then…I do. I stop my mind from going one-hundred miles per hour, and I listen to the sound of his deep and even breaths, the soft thud, thud, thud, of his heart, until my breath eventually matches his. I close my eyes and absorb the feel of his damp smooth skin against my flushed cheek, the sound of his deep and calming breaths help to steady me. It sounds like the ocean, like quiet and far away waves rising and crashing…
After some time, I feel better. Embarrassed, but better and calmer. I prop myself up on my elbows, my hair falls around my shoulders and across my breasts. I reservedly turn to look at him.
He looks unruffled and unfazed by my panic attack. He’s perfectly cool and calm though I can still see he’s more than a little concerned for me. To top it off, he has great sex hair. His brown waves look intentionally disheveled and sexy, like he’s about to pose for a photo shoot for an erotic magazine.
My hair, I’m sure, is a huge mess, my makeup is probably smeared, and here I am next to this gorgeous, immaculate man. I couldn’t feel more inadequate than I do now. I feel unbearably shy and apprehensive as fear and shame swamp me.
“I have to work tomorrow,” I mutter, and look away. “I should go home.” I close my eyes, and attempt to get up out of the bed. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me back.
“No,” he says firmly. I flinch at the harshness in his voice. My eyes flick back to his face for a fleeting moment, but he looks determined.
“No. You’re staying here—with me, in my bed. I’ll feed you in the morning and then I’ll take you home,” he adds, in a softer tone.
“No. Vincent. I...I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want to complicate things.” I feel my panic slowly rising again. My throat begins to tighten.
“What’s so complicated? I want you here. You’re staying.” His tone is so matter of fact, and sincere. But surely he’s just being polite.
I flop back onto the bed, defeated, and throw my arm over my eyes. I’m in over my head. I don’t want to have feelings, and have those feelings crush me. What was I thinking? I’m too emotionally inexperienced for what I’m doing. I seriously don’t know what possesses me when I am with him.
It’s called being horny, my subconscious whispers to me.
He leans over me, and I hold my breath anxiously as I peek out from beneath my arm. I breathe in his unique and intoxicating fragrance as he slides open the nightstand drawer and pulls out a book and a pair of glasses almost identical to his other frames.
He opens the book with his left hand, slides his glasses onto his perfect face, and scoots his right arm under my head and pulls me into him. My head rests on his strong sculpted shoulder. Then he begins to read. Like I’m his child and he’s reading me to sleep or something!
I’m shocked for the first few moments, but then listening and feeling his chest rise and fall, feeling the deep vibration of his alluring voice, I eventually give in. I throw my arm across his chest and curl up as a deep relaxation settles over me. I can hear the smile in his voice.
Oddly enough I begin to feel comforted by him; his presence, his voice. The words he’s reading help to dissolve my anxiety and fear. I don’t think I have ever felt comforted by anyone, or anything. At least not in a long, very long, time.
I’m vaguely aware that he is reading Walt Whitman as I let my eyes droop...
‘“This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, death and the stars...”’
And those are the last words I hear before the night swallows me completely.
Chapter 11
I wake with eyes wide-open, sunlight wrapped all around me, enveloping the room. Vincent really needs to get curtains; this is not the way I want to wake up. Two seconds after I adjust to the intrusion of light, the dread I experienced after sex last night seizes me once more. Oh. My. God. I fucking spent the night. And Oh. My. Fucking. Shit…I had sex with Vincent! An array of feelings wash over me as the memory of last night relives itself in my mind. But the overriding feeling is most definitely panic.
If I am to survive this—this Vincent and Lenore thing, I need to set boundaries. I need to protect myself. Spending the night with him, letting him read me to sleep, allowing myself to feel comforted by him...this is dangerous and will no doubt lead to disaster. I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t let him think we’re embarking on a relationship, if that’s even what he thinks or wants.
I thought I would be smarter than my mother, but allowing myself to trust someonethat’s not something I have the luxury of even considering. It wouldn’t be smart on my part. My past is too complicated. I don’t want to explain that to anyone, or to have Vincent look at me with pity, to form an opinion based on my shitty, sad past.
Fuck. What am I doing?
I don’t know how old Vincent
is, where he grew up, or what college he went to. I know relatively nothing about him. I need to keep it that way. If I can just lay down the gauntlet and let him know we can’t move forward, unless we both agree to keep it purely physical, then I might just be able to survive this thing happening between us. No more dates, or getting to know one another, no sweet, soft, flowery romance.
I think I’ll stick to romance via books and black and white film. It’s safer that way. This sinking, twisting, gnawing feeling growing inside of me is just too much. I don’t want to head in that direction with him. I’m too inexperienced for a man of his caliber. I can’t become the emotionally fragile person my mother became. She let love tear her apart; she let it drive her insane.
I slowly get up and out of Vincent’s bed, careful not to wake him. I take a moment to gaze at him. He looks like a male model. His white sheets are pooled around his waist, a look of tranquility settled on his face.
Mmm… He’s all thick rippling muscle. Not the type of muscular build that you see from those guys who live in the gym, but that of an athlete. I could stare at him all day.
Shit! There I go again. I shake my head to shake his image from my mind and just as I’m about to tiptoe away from his bed, I see the blood. I look down at myself and see a little bit of it is in between my legs, and a small pool stains his crisp, white sheets.
Fuck! Could this be more embarrassing? I’ve ruined his sheets! Not only will I have to get him new ones, I’ll have to explain to him why I’m bleeding! If I get to a pay phone, I can call Jordan and have him pick me up before Vincent wakes. I can leave him a note or something. I can’t face him now.
I walk past his partition, and pick up his white shirt from the floor to cover myself with. I need to shower. I move quickly, gathering my belongings from the floor, tossing them back into my bag.
Just as I put my heels in my bag I’m hoisted up into the air. I let out a scream, and I’m slammed back onto his bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls in my ear. He kisses my neck, and pins my arms to my sides. I should have buttoned his shirt up, it’s wide open, my breasts fully exposed. As I struggle, my breasts sway provocatively, catching his eye.
“Mmm, I could watch you struggle awhile longer,” he smiles a wicked smile, and places his inner thigh between my legs, pushing against my sex. It offers the perfect amount of pressure, and I’m turned on, again...for a minute, and then I remember the blood and I blush ten shades of red.
“I need to get to work, Vincent. And, um...I need to shower.” He leans down to kiss me, clearly not listening to a word I just said. I turn my face away.
“Kiss me and I’ll let you up,” he whispers huskily against my ear. I turn my head and give him a quick kiss, which he tries to deepen. He laughs at my resistance, but I can feel his disappointment at my reluctance.
“Vincent, no. You—uh, need to change your sheets,” I mutter quickly. I’m so humiliated, but I need to tell him now, before he discovers it on his own.
“My sheets? Who cares about the sheets?” he mutters, clearly confused. I can see it on his face, until he finally notices, and he pulls himself up. I sit up and cover myself, quickly buttoning up a few buttons. He looks at the blood on his sheets, and then, with a crooked smile on his face, looks back at me. I think he’s the one who is embarrassed now.
“Oh, a surprise visitor?”
“No. Not a surprise visitor,” I mumble. I couldn’t be more mortified. He narrows his eyes, and then widens them. I can’t look at him. I turn my head toward the windows desperate to avoid his scrutiny.
“Oh...Waitdid I hurt you?” He asks in a panic. Worry mars his perfect face. I stare down at my fingers. I don’t think he gets it.
“No, Vincent. You didn’t hurt me. Well…maybe a little, but not like that.” I turn back to meet his eyes. He’s still confused.
It takes him a few moments—but then he finally he gets it. Ding! He eyes go wide. His mouth pops open but no sound comes out. He lays down flat on the bed, grabs a pillow, and shoves it under his head and stares at the ceiling for an excruciating amount of time. He’s thinking...I can see the wheels turning. He bends to look at me, and I look away again, sheepishly.
“You...you weren’t a virgin, were you?” I think he is in shock.
I take a deep breath, let it out slowly and nod meekly, and then look back down at my intertwined fingers. I really want to go home. I stand up, and grab my bag and head into his bathroom. I lock the door. I need a minute to myself. I undress quickly, and start the shower in an effort clear my mind.
It’s nice in here. It’s all smooth gray concrete like most of the loft; everything but the sink, commode and large tub that is. They’re off-white. It’s warm and inviting, despite how very minimalist, modern and clean it is.
I step into his shower, encased in glistening clean glass, and let the water cascade over me. Great, he has no conditioner. My hair is going to be insane.
I wash my hair with his expensive looking shampoo and lather my body with his soap bar. Hmm…this very same soap bar has been rubbed all over his fine, fine body. I close my eyes and try to push the thought of a naked wet Vincent from my mind. I wash between my legs carefully. I feel tender, and sore. It’s such a strange sensation.
I feel slightly detached from myself, and from this situation. I need to do my best to remain this way. I need to tell Vincent that this is going nowhere unless he is willing to do as I wish. Which is to make no attempt at a relationship with me. I can’t do it. Sex, if that’s all we do, I think I’ll be able to manage. I can’t say good-bye to that, can I? No. I don’t think I can. Last night was…astounding.
I take a deep breath, and keep my emotions at bay. I get out, towel off, and braid my hair. I throw on my leotard and black leggings again, sans underwear. I hope they’re opaque enough to conceal my ass in the bright light of day. I peek at the clock. It’s only 6:45 a.m.
Why? Why must I always wake so early? I don’t open shop until ten so I can take my time, but I find myself rushing anyway.
I apply my eyeliner; add just a touch of blush and a nude lipstick. I look refreshed despite the dread and fear etched around my eyes. After I lace up my oxfords, I step out of the bathroom. I hope that I’ve given Vincent enough time to process and digest the information he was just given.
It’s ominously quiet. I see no sign of Vincent. Should I just leave? Call Jordan? No, let me at least say good-bye. I walk back over to where his bed is, and make my way around his half wall. He’s still in his bed, naked, the blanket just barely covering his manhood. He’s still staring at the ceiling; obviously he not over the shock of hearing that I was a virgin up until a few hours ago, and he is the person responsible for “de-flowering” me. I clutch my belongings in my hand.
“I haveto get going, Vincent.”Long awkward pause “Thank you for dinner.” I sound clipped, and cool; the complete opposite of the searing hot turmoil that is blistering inside of me. I turn, like the coward I am, and begin to leave.
“Lenore?”
I spin back to face him, dreading whatever it is he’s about to say.
“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I I had no idea. I thoughtyou seemed, um...more experienced. A lot experienced actually.”
I frown at him. What the fuck does that mean? So I acted like a floozy?
“NO!” He reads my mind...again, or perhaps my angry expression. Maybe I’m more of an open book than Jordan and Kazumi think. His eyes widen with sincerity.
“That’s not what I meant. I just mean I didn’t think you were a virgin. The way things happened last night…I didn’t even imagine or consider it. I wish you would have said something; given me a clue at least,” his voice is deep and laced with remorse.
Well if he thinks I was going to make a big thing out of it...he’s wrong. It would have tainted our evening. He wouldn’t have been quite so savage, which I very much enjoyed. It would have been...I don’t know, emotional or something. He wouldn�
��t have been so overcome. I flush at the memory of last night.
“Why would I tell you that? It would’ve changed everything. I don’t want to complicate things.” I pull my shoulders back in an attempt to seem bigger, stronger...or something.
He sits up all the way, his elbows rest on his thighs. I try to keep my eyes away from the sheet that is just barely concealing his penis. I see a bit of pubic hair peeking out at me, and I have to close me eyes.
Oh, fuck. Be strong, Lenore…
“Why do you keep saying that? Complicate what exactly? What are you worried about?”
I hate that we’re even having this conversation. I should have lied and said I got my period. He seems so hurt. This isn’t going well. This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. This…confusion, these feelings…conversations like this.
“I...I’m not looking for anything serious, Vincent. I um...” The sheet shifts and everything inside of me clenches.
Get it together, Lenore! It’s only skin...bare, smooth and—I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.
“I think this would be best, for you and for me, if we just kept this physical. I don’t want, um...” My voice is shaky and unconvincing. I am not doing a good job of laying down the gauntlet.
Where is the voice of the Lenore from last night? It’s like I’m two different people sometimes, and they’re exact opposites.
“You don’t want to get hurt, Lenore. I know, I can tell. It’s obvious. Is this all new to you? Or is it that you’ve been hurt in the past? What is it? Is it me?”
Why does he want an explanation of things? I mean, isn’t this what every guy wants? A girl, all to himself, that only wants him for sex? I’m in over my head.
“Why do you need me to explain things? I don’t owe you an explanation. If it’s not for you, then fine. You can just walk away.” I sound angry, and bitter. Not what I was going for. The words I just spoke, that’s not even how I feel! In spite of what I so foolishly just said, I don’t want him to walk away. I’ve found something in him that makes me feel alive. For the first time in my life, I feel alive. But the emotional connection that my brain is trying to fuse together is what has me panicking. The physical side of me is clapping her hands in delight.
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