Page 109 of The Heart We Guard
It isn’t that I was taught to be ashamed of sex, so much as I never cared much about it and never had reason to engage in conversation about it with other women like this group of friends do.
It’s all I can think about when we finally leave. I’m not a prude, but I tend to think of the body in an anatomical context asopposed to a sexual one. But I find I want to try embracing more of that side of me.
As I wander past one of the small boutiques on the way to Butcher’s truck, I notice they have a beautiful display in the window. Fall clothes in equally fall colors. A moss-green skirt and chunky brown knits. Pinned to the wall is some gorgeous underwear.
It’s a deep burgundy, with practically see-through cups, and small panties with the same motif. But more than how pretty they are, what draws me to them is imagining Butcher’s look of surprise if he came home and found me wearing them.
As much as I love my expensive, breathable cotton, guaranteed to keep all kinds of fungal infections away, there is something altogether different about considering my underwear through Butcher’s eyes.
The club girls spring to mind. “I bet they know how to wear them,” I mutter to no one.
Feeling brave, I step into the store, and I leave twenty minutes later with them in my size. When I realize I’m rushing because God forbid I bump into one of the other women with my intimate haul, I force myself to slow down.
I’m just through the front door of Butcher’s home when I receive a text that he’s leaving the clubhouse soon.
“Damn,” I mutter. It’s not enough time for all the things I had planned, but it’s certainly enough time for the world’s fastest shower, if I don’t wash my hair.
Remembering what Raven said about her and Wraith’s sexting, I get inspired.
Me:Come find me in bed.
Okay, so not the sexiest. But I can either stand here and overthink this or just crack on with my plan.
Butcher:???
I’m certain my message is unexpected.
Me:I’ll be waiting for you to unwrap me.
Butcher:Be there in fifteen. Got me hard thinking about it, babe.
I don’t even mind thebabe. It feels like I did something right.
I run up the stairs and throw off my clothes before racing through a fast shower.
Arousal and attraction are funny things, but I’m starting to realize there are ways to help me ready myself for sex that are actually enjoyable, when I remember to do them.
And anticipation, knowing I need to be ready before Butcher gets here, is one of them.
I vigorously dry myself off, then snip the tags off the underwear before sliding into it. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the dresser. The burgundy looks stunning against my hair color. And my body is flushed, although it’s hard to tell if that’s the work of thinking about Butcher or his lack of fabric softener when washing his towels.
Moving to the bed, I throw back the covers and…
“What the heck do I do?”
Every possible variable comes flooding into my mind like one of those movie montages where the hero grabs a pen and starts writing equations on a glass wall. Lie on my back or my stomach? Legs open or closed? Wait, should I add lying on my side to the lying on my front or back options? Coy with only my chin above the covers? Or above the sheets so he can see the underwear?
The roar of the motorcycle forces my decision, and I opt for lying on my stomach over the covers, in the hope it makes my butt look good. I bend a knee and lift one foot off the bed. Then, I pray it looks sexier than it feels, because my foot’s cold and I suddenly wish I’d gone for an option beneath the sheets.
Familiar sounds just increase the anticipation. The key in the lock, the slam of the door, the thud of boots being removed, and the creak and groan of the stairs.
All of them add to the tightening in my core and the ache in my clit.
When the door pushes open, I’m fit to burst with all the tension flowing through my body.
Butcher strides through wearing his jeans and a black long-sleeve Henley and then stops. Suddenly. Like he had some altogether different action planned when he arrived, but the sight of me caused that to slip from him.
“Jesus, babe.”
