Page 8 of Brood
I’m wearing a simple white camisole under my shirt, and I keep it on. I stand so I can slide off my pants. Wearing only my camisole and underwear, I lean over to grab my pants from the floor and drape them neatly on top of my shirt on my bed.
When I turn around, he’s watching me. His eyes move up and down my body. My hair is still braided, but a few strands have slipped out. I tuck them behind my ears, hoping I don’t look too sloppy.
I’m taller than most of the other women on this level and quite a few of the men. My arms and legs are long. My breasts and hips aren’t impressive. I’ve always been told that curvier is better for having and nursing babies, and last year they increased my allotted daily calories because they thought I was too skinny. At last month’s physical exam, Dr. Cameron told me I’ve filled out nicely and should be in good shape for pregnancy and breastfeeding.
I’m deeply self-conscious about my body as Chief Will stares, intently focused on me for the first time.
“Take off the top too,” he says.
Men like to look at breasts. That’s what I’ve been taught. They’re more likely to get aroused if they can see them.
I pull my camisole off over my head and drop it with the rest of my clothes. My breasts aren’t huge, but they’re rounded, with rosy-tan nipples that tighten from the cool air in the room.
More of my hair has slipped out of the braid now. Frustrated, I pull it loose. I’ve started to rebraid it more neatly when Chief Will says, “Leave it.”
I take a shuddering breath, setting down my elastic and smoothing my hair. Not that it helps. It’s always been thick and wavy. It looks rumpled and messy if it’s not braided. I hope the gold lighting makes it look less white.
He’s doing more of that staring, his eyes focusing on my breasts, my legs, and my hair. It feels like a long time—but it’s probably just a couple of minutes—when he finally says, “Okay. Come over here.”
He’s still seated on the edge of his bed. I take several steps over until I’m standing in front of him.
Chief Will is the one who has had sex before. I never have. Because I was identified as a potential breeder after I had my first period, recreational sex was off-limits to me. I assume he’ll tell me the best way to do it.
My skin breaks out in goose bumps, and my cheeks are way too hot. I’m struggling to keep from trembling, and I’m standing directly in front of him when my breath catches in my throat with a weird, ragged sound.
His eyes shoot up to my face, and he frowns with his brows and his mouth. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not?—”
“Put your clothes back on.”
I gasp and step backward, a flash of resentment overriding my nerves. “I’m a little nervous because I don’t know you and I haven’t had intercourse before. I’m not so scared that I can’t do this.”
His eyes dart down briefly to my breasts before they meet my indignant gaze. “We can wait.”
“I don’t want to wait. I’m fertile right now. I want to have sex so I can get pregnant. If you don’t want to do this, just say so. We can wait if you prefer. But that will be your choice. Not mine. Don’t you dare blame it on me.”
I sound far too bad-tempered because my emotions are spiraling defensively. It’s not a good way to begin this relationship. I know that much.
But what am I supposed to do with such a silent, frowning, difficult man?
He peers at me for another minute before he says, “Fine. Take off your underwear.” He reaches into the top drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a small bottle. He removes the cap and squeezes out some thick, clear liquid onto one of his hands.
He’s rubbing the liquid between his palms while I lean over to pull my panties down my legs and over my feet. I drop them near the rest of my clothes before I turn to face him.
He pulls me closer to where he’s seated. “Spread your legs.”
I do as he says, holding my breath as he touches between my thighs.
His hand is wet with the lubricant. He spreads me open and rubs the liquid everywhere, all over my outer lips, my clit, even back toward my bottom.
I gasp because it’s cool and unexpected, and I’m sensitive down there.
He checks my face.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Keep going.”
I’m not sure I’m fine. I’m having to struggle to keep my hands and knees from trembling. But I’m determined to do this, and so far it doesn’t feel bad.
