Page 59 of Cohen's Control

A moment passes and our eyes come together over the heated mess between us. “Thank you,” I tell her, my voice husky and unfamiliar.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t…” she trails off… still playing with the now drying mess. I catch her hand, stilling her, and shake my head.

“You lead, remember? And anything you give me is perfect. And that was…” I look down at the sea of cum on my torso, drying now but still visible. “Well, look at me,” I laugh, and she laughs, too. And we both just laugh for a minute or two, tears forming in the corner of her eyes, my lungs burning as I struggle to breathe.

My laughter ceases and I bring my hand to my chest, draping it on my heart. My cum is sticky against my palm and Scarlett watches the movement, laughter draining from her face.

“Are you okay? Was it too soon?” she panics, pushing off the couch to her feet. She kneels at the side of the couch, running the back of her hand down the stubble on my cheek. “What’s the matter?”

I shake my head. “It’s just… my lungs burn because I’m laughing so hard, and I haven’t felt that in years. At the pool, I feel it there. I cause it there. I invite it there. But this is…”

“A good burn,” she finishes before leaning over and pressing her soft lips to mine. Then she’s gone, running water in the bathroom down the hall, returning with a towel. Straddling me, she pulls the wet terrycloth through my release, cleaning me up. I watch her with affection, and in comfortable silence, she takes care of me.

When she’s done, she brings our breakfast plates back and I pull her into my lap. I continue feeding her, and then I eat as she curls into my chest, snuggling me while I do.

My chin on her head, her warm breath tickling my chest, she asks, “Did your celibacy extend to self-pleasure?”

She pulls away, blonde hair sticking up, cheeks still flush from our excitement earlier. She’s never pink like this after scenes, and it dawns on me that’s because with me, what we just did, everything was real. Nothing was acting.

“Yes,” I admit, almost disbelieving of myself. “There were… inadvertent releases,” I say, recalling the dozen or so times I woke up in a sticky, wet mess, my cock pulsing, my release clinging to my skin and the borrowed sheets. “But my mind could never really go there. I lost… all interest.”

She nods, her lips turned down in sweet sadness. “Do you take anything?” she asks, and I know despite the fact we’re talking about orgasms, she’s asking about my depression. Because loss of interest in the things you love, like sex and orgasms, is a clinical sign.

I clear my throat, wanting her to know everything, but also not wanting her to see me as weak. Lifting my chin just slightly, I nod. “Yes. I have been on an antidepressant for four years. I actually changed my dose about a year ago.”

“Up or down?” she asks quietly, curiously, trailing her fingers over my chest in a way that makes talking about anything feel possible.

I swallow thickly. “Up.”

She nods.

“Is what you said true?” I question, my voice still rumbly.

Sliding off my lap, she drifts down the hall, reemerging in a robe tied loose at her hip, and a blue bottle in her hand. Sitting next to me, she drapes her legs over my lap and slowly turns the bottle around between her hands. “I was in the grocery store, buying the steaks and salads for our dinner. You know, the night we got Italian,” she starts, and I nod, imagining her long blonde hair trailing down her back, hands wrapping the red cart handle as she garners stares from everyone in that store, housewives included. She’s so beautiful, and I’m protective of her and that beauty.

“We should shop together,” I state, “I don’t like the idea of you going out alone. Not while he’s still trying to contact you.”

She smiles. “I’d like that.” She flips the lid up on the bottle, and brings it under her nose, the beachy fragrance making it my way. “I saw this,” she says, cheeks flooding with pink, bottom lip pinched between her teeth as she casts a shy, seductive look at me. “When I left my old place, I only took what I could in a day. I only had a day before he’d realize I was leaving, so Aug and a few others came over, grabbed the boxes I’d packed, and that was that. I only took a few things, and a few documents.”

I nod, transfixed by the bottle between her hands, wondering what one thing has to do with another.

“I hadn’t wanted to touch myself in so long. And at work I’d just be acting, forcing the orgasm face, pretending to experience pleasure. But the truth was that after the last time Pete had told me I wasn’t cut out to be a mother because—”

I curl my fists at that, and her eyes flit to my balled hands before coming back to my eyes. “Something shifted. My brain just… shut off to pleasure. And the scene I did after that, I didn’t come. Didn’t even come close. And I figured it was just my mood that day. But then one scene turned into a few, and a year later, I believed I couldn’t orgasm anymore. That I was so psychologically fucked up that my body just… wouldn’t do it.”

“Could you have an orgasm alone?” I ask, getting a flash of her touching her clit while swaying over my cock. Another erection begins stirring, and my heart stutter steps a wild beat in response.

Her eyes are unwavering on me, and her response is clear, sun piercing through heavy clouds. “Not until you.”

She holds the bottle up. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and the way you treat me. You’re such a gentleman, but so strong and caring and…” she lets out a heavy but comfortable sigh, and I feel it in my belly. The release of shame, the sharing of information, the bonding through words. It feels good to finally admit things, share things, and I imagine she feels the same.

“If you can believe it, I don’t actually have any toys. When I left P—like I said,” she corrects, leaving his name in darkness where it belongs. “I only took a few things. And anyway, why does a woman with a broken vagina need sex toys?” I tug her legs, bringing her closer.

“You’re not broken.”

She holds up the bottle. “No, I’m not. But I needed to meet you to realize that.”

That’s a powerful statement, one I share. “Do you mean that?” I ask, feeling insecure in needing to hear her say it again, but my ego needs it. I need to know my queen needs me in the same vein that I’m hungry to serve her. Nearly obsessed with her at this point, which only slightly terrifies me.

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