Page 11 of Hold Me for Now

Warmth bubbles up, but not from my core—no—this is in my chest. Affection, not just attraction. The last emotion I ever thought I’d feel in this cold, white room. Stunned, I halt mid-thrust. T grips me harder, yanks me down, and we both groan.

“I can’t wait to make you come, K.” Apparently, he’s in a talking mood now. His hands urge me on, faster and faster, building the friction between us. “It’s going to feel so good. It’s going tobeso good to watch you unravel on my cock.”

His words travel straight to my core, slickening it, making it ache for him. It occurs to me that he’s not just thinking about his pleasure, but aboutmine. Before I almost saw him as my opponent. Like we were on opposite sides of a chess board, but now I see we’re playing on the same side. If I win, he wins, and vice versa.

What happens when you put two people pleasers together?

They want to please each other.

That might not be a bad thing.

There’s the crackle of the microphone turning on, but before Dr. D can speak, T waves his hand, a shooing motion to the mirror, like Dr. D is a pest right now.

“I know, I know. Tell her what I want.” T beats Dr. D to the punch. His eyes are glued to my breasts, which sway with each thrust. In a calm, clear voice, he says, “K, I want to suck on your tits while you bounce on my dick until we both come screaming.”

Wow. That was…wow.

T sits up, wrapping his arms around my back, and folds me close to him. He takes my breast into his mouth, sucking on my nipple, swirling his tongue over the tip, while I move up and down on his shaft. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth on my breast and his dick in my pussy combine into one large pulse of desire. I wind my arms around his head and hold him to me.

“Oh, yes,” I gasp. Gathering the things we learned about communication, I tell T, “I want you to squeeze my other breast. Hard.”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles the breast he’s been working on, then goes back to sucking on it while his other hand comes to clasp the unoccupied one. A pinch to that nipple turns me on even more. We move together, our hands growing bolder, our voices steadier. The more we talk, the easier it gets. A whispered request. A quiet moan in response.

It’s working.God, it feels like it’s actually working. For a moment, I forget about Dr. D, forget about the sterile walls, the lack of windows, and the clinical lights glowing dimly above us. It’s just T and me, warmth spreading between us like an ember catching flame.

T moves his lips from my breast to my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin. “That good?” he murmurs. His fingers are back on my clit, just like I told him.

“Yeah,” I whisper, almost surprised by how much I mean it. “Really good.”

We keep going, following the rhythm we’ve fallen into, and I’m almost there.Almost. But then—

Something shifts.

T changes the angle, just slightly, and suddenly the heat fizzles. I try to ignore it, try to focus on the way his hands feel on me, but the moment is slipping, like trying to hold onto water. I grab for that feeling once more, that slow climb to orgasm, but my hands come up empty.

T’s breathing changes too. Hesitates. Quiets.

The pressure that was building between us fades. When T lets out a deep sigh, I know he feels it too.

Finally, we slow down. He presses his forehead to my chest, his breath shaky. “It’s not working, is it?”

I want to lie to him, to spare him, to keep this fragile thing we almost had from falling to pieces completely. But this exercise was all about communication, so I force myself to shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

T’s body stiffens. His fingers go slack, fall away from my body and into his lap.

I pull off of him, exhausted, and collapse onto my back, draping a hand over my eyes.

Neither of us speaks. The room is too quiet. The absence of our gasping breaths makes the silence oppressive. I turn my head, searching his expression. T stares at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, his lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. A muscle in his cheek ticks.

I reach for him, but my hand stalls inches from his skin.

When he doesn’t look at me, I let my hand fall away.

That’s when I hear it—his small, barely-there whisper of defeat.

“Shit.”

Chapter eight

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