Page 47 of Cohen's Control

I feel it. Standing fifteen feet apart, in the empty studio, no one here, no one but us.I feel it. The buzzing between our bodies, the invisible tie that binds, the thing that makes me fall asleep in his lap and want to touch myself again.

Whatever it is, the hard to hold, difficult to explain, and even more challenging to find… I’ve found it. And it bounces back and forth, wrapping around us, tying us together each moment that passes.

It’s terrifying. My cuts haven’t healed, and therewillbe scars. Scars that need aftercare, and things I’ll need to do for myself before I can belong to anyone else, trust anyone else.

But maybe two great things can exist at once.

Maybe healing and great love can coexist. Maybe they can feed off of each other or even coil together, merging to create something so full of depth and complexity that it supersedes any other fears or challenges. Experiencing those canonic moments simultaneously, maybe that can happen. And we’ll survive it, richer in character, stronger in soul, happier in heart.

I’d risk it for him. Even if I don’t think I’m ready, my heart pounds as his feet move toward me. It chants to me, whispering, echoing through my veins;trust him, take him, heal him, own him, love him.

“About to call it a day?” I ask, noticing that his eyes veer to my mouth just once, and my stomach drops in response. I live now to gather his crumbs of interest, to exist in them and bask in the feeling of being cared for by him.

There’s no question if I want him; I do. But what man, gentlemen or not, is going to start a relationship with someone who isn’t quite sure if they can be intimate?

I want to touch myself, yes, but that’s not the same as giving myself that way.

I’m afraid. Of what, I don’t know. But nonetheless, I’m afraid. And I want him, but my fears scream in my ear that wanting is not enough.

“Yes,” he says, unclipping the utility belt slung on his waist. He walks toward his office, but not before linking our hands together. Wetness spills from my center as his solid fingers wrap my palm tightly. I love that he doesn’t just weave our fingers together. He actually holds my hand.

Beneath my hoodie, my nipples harden, and I’m sure they’re hard enough to pierce even a sweatshirt at this point. I want him. But being horny and turned on after a long spell of believing I couldn’t orgasm doesn’t mean I can actually give myself that way with a man this soon.

They forced their way inside me when I didn’t give my consent, and sometimes, I wake at night, legs thrashing. Fighting back the way I wanted to but couldn’t then.

He pulls the chair out from his desk and motions for me to sit. I hadn’t intended we stay in his office long enough to need to sit, but when he sticks his arm out that way, chivalrous and silent, a loyal knight at my beck and call, I sit.

Hanging the belt on a silver hook behind his desk, his fingers work the length of his shirt, popping open each button. He peels the blue and emerald flannel off, exposing a fitted black t-shirt, clinging everywhere just perfectly.

I’m almost concerned I’m going to leave a wet spot on his office chair at this point. I clench my thighs to send pulses through my pussy, hoping to egg on the tingling or bring it to a stop. But this continual buzzing inside me is torture.

“How was your day?” he asks, pinching the collar of the stripped shirt under his chin, bringing the arms together, folding it. He unzips his open bag and layers the shirt over something else black inside.

“Good,” I reply, my voice hoarse, my pulse throbbing in the hollow of my throat. “I’m tired, though. You know, a lot of standing around today for casting and promotional shots.”

He blinks, scratching at the side of his jaw. Then he lowers to a knee, taking one of my feet between his hands. Slipping my sandal off, he rests my heel on his kneecap and proceeds to softly knead my sore, tired feet. Beneath my sweats, I’m soaking wet, my sex clenching and pulsing each time his thumb slides up the top of my calf.

“How was your day?” I ask, my voice husky and thick. I know my cheeks are flush, but his eyes hold mine like he’s none the wiser.

“Good. But the days here are always good.”

God, that response isn’t helping. A few minutes of comfortable silence and he switches to the other foot. “Do you want to go buy couches after this?” My heart is racing and I’m about one deep tissue knot away from coming, right here, right now.

“We do need furniture. I was thinking a dining table is a priority, but you’re right, a couch would be good, too.” He lowers my foot to the floor after a few more minutes, and slides my sandals back on. “Yes,” he says, “if that wasn’t clear, I want to go with you.”

Unsure if the moment is right or if it’s all wrong because we’re at work, unsure if he wants me this way, unsure if I’m ready, unsure fucking period—I stand and step to him, looping my arms around his neck.

“Cohen, you need to kiss me now,” I tell him, and his lips are against mine within a moment. My mouth opens for his tongue, and despite the denim he’s wearing, I press my body to his and feel a distinctly hard ridge pressing deep into my thigh.

My sex pulses and contracts, and as I’m teetering on uncharted orgasmic territory, he steps back, his head falling to one side.

“Let’s go get a couch, and then dinner.” He outstretches his hand, and the warmth in my belly goes from delightful to incinerating as I slide my small hand into his big one.

“I think we should consider buying pans and plates. Probably cups, too. We’re kind of fucking the environment out of our laziness,” I say, letting my head fall against his bicep as we stroll through the building toward the exit.

“That’s always how it happens, out of laziness,” he agrees.

We decide to leave his car there, then he drives us in mine. I pass him the keys with ease, and wonder how l got so lucky to have this amazing man under my nose.

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