Page 31 of Wall

I think he wants me. Again. Still?

It hurts too bad, so I don’t often let myself think all the way back to the beginning. I was in high school. I’d had a boyfriend, but he was crap in bed. No offense to him. He didn’t have much experience, either, but he had way more than I did, so I sort of thought the way he did it was the way it was done.

John didn’t try anything with me until I turned eighteen. Just sometimes, he’d bail, out of the blue. We’d be hanging out in my parents’ basement—they didn’t much care what I did as long as I didn’t make a racket—and he’d say, “Er. Goodnight.” And he’d be gone.

And then for my eighteenth birthday, he took me to a fancy restaurant in Pyle. It overlooked the river, and the waiter talked for a good five minutes about where the fish was sourced and how long the filet was aged.

Then he took me for a walk along the Luckahannock, and he gave me the diamond ring we’d picked out together a few weeks before. He’d wrapped the box; did a real terrible job. I had laughed. He’d slipped the ring on my finger and said, “Haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

I said no, and I swear, it was like he heard a starter pistol in his head. We were in a cab, then at the hotel, and then his face was buried between my legs in no less than ten minutes flat. I couldn’t keep up, but it didn’t matter because everything felt so, so good. He wasn’t checking boxes until he could score for himself. He was going totown.

My face is flaming hot thinking about it.

John’s kneeling on the bathroom floor, patient as can be, his hand wrapped lightly around my left calf. He’s shifted back so he’s resting on his heels. There’s a question in his eyes.

I can see his pants now. They’re definitely tented.

I ease my thighs apart just a little. Not on purpose. Not really. His gaze drops instantly. A grunt, almost a pant, escapes from his lips.

It probably doesn’t mean anything. He’s a red-blooded man. I’m in my underwear. I could be anyone.Stephanie.Anyone.

I go to press my legs back together, but he’s so fast, his hand slides up from my calf to my uninjured knee in a split second. He’s not applying much pressure, but he’s bracing my thigh right where it is.

His breath comes quicker. “Don’t stop, baby. Let me see a little more.”

I shouldn’t. He’s intent on the crotch of my panties. There are little tufts of hair spilling past the elastic. It didn’t occur to me to shave—‘cause I would never in a million, zillion years be flashing John Wall my cooch, right?—and I’ve never had the money or the gumption to wax. So, it’s clear I’ve got a bush, and the gusset is damp. He can see it all.

His nose twitches.

And smell. Oh, what am I doing?

I’m turning him on. I think.

He urges me to open up with the lightest pressure. I let him widen me up. His gaze flies up to my face, as if he’s checking I’m really okay. Like he can’t believe this is happening. That hungry look is there, but he’s restraining himself with an iron control he never had before.

Maybe because he’s older now. Thirty-two.

Maybe because I’m older now, and not nearly as thin and cute. There’s an obvious belly pouching out of my panties, and I don’t do highlights or manicures anymore.

I tighten my grip on the tub, and my palms slip. They’re sweaty.

“Let me see, baby.”

His hand’s still resting on my good knee, but he’s looking at my boobs now. He moves, gently stroking the top of my thighs down to my calves, careful to avoid the bandaged cut.

“Take the sweater off for me.”

I couldn’t do that. But his eyes are darkening. He licks his lips, and he shifts forward. Now his knees are between my ankles, spreading my stance even wider. My pussy lips part with a wet pop, and more cream drips into my panties.

I’m getting soaked.

“Come on.” His voice is deep and gentle, calm and demanding. He takes my hand and places it to the hem of my sweater. “Show me, baby.”

I knead the faux cashmere in my fingers. I love this sweater. It’s soft and machine washable.

Almost without thinking, I fist the hem and pull it over my head like some bold woman from a movie. Static electrifies strands of my hair. I drop the sweater in the tub and try desperately to smooth my hair back into place, much good it does.

I glance down. My boobs are heavy, puffing over the cups. I have very dark areolas, and my nipples themselves are pretty big when they get hard. There’s plenty visible through my bra.

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