Page 12 of Hold Me for Now

Whydon’twetryit from behind?” Dr. D. suggests. T lifts his head and meets my eyes. I see the reflection of my own misery.

“Fine,” T grumbles.

I flip over like a pancake and rise to my hands and knees. A glance over my shoulder shows T moving into position behind me. Luckily, he’s still hard and I’m still wet so he’s able to slide into me without too much fuss. He places his hands on my hips and uses them to guide me, pulling me back to him and then pushing me away. He thrusts into me slowly, like he’s building his strength back up. It feels good, but not great, definitely not enough to get me to the big O.

T leans forward, folding himself over so his chest is to my back. He brings his hands around and uses one to anchor himself to my hip. The other he uses to stroke my clit, which is swollen and sensitive.

This…this feels good…likereallygood.

“Yes,” I moan, the sound low as if it’s being ripped out of my throat. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

T kisses my back. He pushes his dick in and out, all the while rubbing my clit to the same fast pace. It feels good,hefeels good, but I can’t tell if this is affecting him the way it is me. I keep looking back, noting how he’s too in control, with his eyes locked on me like he’s memorizing every expression on my face, every sound I make.

Worried about T and his need for pleasure, I slow down. “Is…is it not okay for you? You can do other things if you need,” I offer. “You can hit me, pull my hair, call me names.”

T rears back like I just pulled a gun on him. “Jesus!” he yells, his face twisted with horror. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

Shame marks my skin scarlet. I don’t have to see to know I’m burning up with embarrassment.

“Some guys like it,” I answer defensively.

“Who?” he demands. He’s still buried in me but frozen in place like he can’t have this conversation and fuck me at the same time.

I hang my head low. “Guys,” I mumble, wishing I’d never brought it up.

“Guys you’ve been with? You let them do those things to you?”

Mute, unable to look him in the eye, I nod.

“Did you like them, those things?”

I shake my head, burning tears pricking the back of my eyes, as I remember all the demeaning and sometimes horrific things I’ve let men do to me. I sniffle but don’t cry. I never let them see me cry. It’s a rule I have. One I never break.

A quick glance shows that T’s brows have knitted together. He’s frowning. His grip on me tightens as he struggles to understand.

“Why, K? Why would you let them?”

My voice is husky, thick with the tears I swallow down but don’t let fall. “I thought maybe the reason I couldn’t come was because I hadn’t tried enough things, like different ways to have sex. I thought if I pushed my boundaries, tried to have rougher sex, dirtier sex, I’d find a way.”

“It didn’t work?”

“I’m here, so—no. It didn’t.”

“Oh.” T falls silent, but not an empty silence, one that’s full of questions, all of which I’m not ready to answer. I’ve left that part of my life behind, and I have no desire to revisit it.

“It’s nothing, really. I don’t do that anymore. Can we just drop it?” I cast a pleading glance at him.

T straightens, his mouth still downturned. He clears his throat. “Um, okay—sure.” He runs his hand over my back. “I like your tattoos,” he says, and I’m so grateful for his tactful change of subject that the urge to cry hits me again.

I battle it down and tell him a choked, “Thanks.”

“I wish you could tell me what they all mean.” He traces the ink on my back with his finger, like a blind person reading Braille. “But I guess we don’t have time for that, do we?”

Longing washes over me as my imagination takes over. A lifetime flashes by in a second. I picture T and me on a date, laughing at an outdoor restaurant. We’re at the movies, sharing a bucket of popcorn. We’re walking through a garden, lounging on a beach, traveling in a car, an airplane, a boat. He’s down on one knee, we walk down the aisle, a baby with warm brown eyes gurgles in my arms.

Stop it!I scream at my stupid, idiotic, messed-up brain. He’s already done those things with someone else—hiswife. The relationship he’s trying to fix. Good grief! What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve never been good at this—separating sex and love. This is the reason I’ve made so many poor choices in men, why I’ve been left heartbroken over and over by guys whose only goal was to get in my pants.

He's here to fuck you, not love you, you moron.

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