Page 50 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
We stay like this, quiet for a while, and then she breaks the silence with, “Are you still going to see Alana in New York?”
“No.”
“Are you going to end things with her?”
“Yes. I’ll call her in Chicago. Are you going to go out with Rupert?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you should.”
She stops rubbing my hands. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
Okay, new plan.
“Because he can’t make you feel good the way I can.”
“He can’t make me angry and confused either.”
“You’re only angry and confused because you’re resisting it.”
“Resisting what?”
“Me. And all the things I can do with these hands.”
She releases her grip on me altogether, and I take that as a sign that she wants me to be free to use my hands.
So, I do.
I press into her back a little more, grip her hip with one hand, and stroke the side of her thigh with the other. Down and up. Down and up.
“I mean, I don’t recall anything in your guidelines that would restrict me from using my not-at-all skinny fingers to make you feel good...”
“Don’t talk.” I can tell she’s squeezing her eyes shut again. Her body is so tense.
I’m going to do something about that.
I’m going to do a number of things about that.
But first, I remove my jacket so I can have more mobility. I place it over the blankets, closer to the foot of the bed.
And then I slide the palm of my hand down the side of her thigh, up the back of it. I cup her ass and squeeze it, and Birdie’s loud gasp is so satisfying. My left hand works its way under her sweatshirt, slowly, as my right hand takes the high road over her hip and down between her legs, over her sweatpants.
She twitches just a little when I touch her there. And it’s already damp there. She’s been wet for a while now already, and that is all the encouragement I need to move my left hand up farther and to apply more pressure with my right hand.
She squeezes her thighs together, wriggling around, making cute little kitten sounds.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“I’m not going to stop until you come for me, Birdie.”
“Big talker,” she mumbles.
