Page 73 of Cohen's Control

Vitamins still in my hand, I blink down at her, hoping to God or whoever, that this isn’t going to be bad, or about us.

“I’m just... I’m thinking about what you told me earlier. About wanting to touch yourself, and how that’s the first time you’ve really felt that since…” she trails off, and I’m relieved it’s not bad news, but I’m still unsure.

“I’m here for everything after the buts,” I remind her, trying to make open communication as easy as possible. I learned that in therapy, a few years too late. But I won’t make the same mistakes twice.

I will protect the woman I love, and protect the life I’m building, and I will communicate my needs, my pain, all of it.

I won’t fuck up my life again.

“I want to have sex with you Cohen. So fucking bad. I mean, neither of us knew if we could even fuck before we started dating,” she breathes, her words and energy gaining momentum with each toppling thought. “But I want to talk to my therapist first, because… well, I think I’d be okay, but... I care so much about you. I just don’t want to fuck it up, you know?”

I nod. “I know exactly.”

“Sooo,” she says, a little smile twisting her lips. “I was hoping maybe you could just… be inside me for a while tonight.” She steps closer and her breasts press against my chest, and I turn to steel behind my zipper. “Like before.”

I groan. “Yes, we can do that.”

“You groaned,” she points out. “Tell me about that.”

I pull a hand down my face with a heavy exhale. “I may need about forty seconds in the bathroom first,” I admit, “because of that scene today. You were…”

“Lucywas,” she corrects, cupping the back of my head with her hand, rising to her toes to kiss me. “And if you like Lucy… you should see what Scarlett has up her sleeve.”

Jesus fuck.

“And no bathroom time without me. Be strong,” she teases, walking her fingers up my chest between us, still holding me by the back of my head, fingers swimming dreamily through my hair. I’m so hard already. “You’ll make it. Just…don’t come.”

I lick my lips as I look down at her. “I won’t.” She doesn’t want me to, I won’t. It’s as simple as that.

“But first…” she says, peeling off her clothes until she’s naked and I’m aching. “I thought I could help you make dinner. At your place.”

“I don’t mind cooking for you. You had a long day. If you want to take a bath or relax, I’m happy to cook,” I let my eyes roam her perfect body, loving every soft curve, all the carved slopes. “If you haven’t figured it out, serving you pleases me.” I shake my head, because that’s not quite right. “Serving youfulfillsme.”

She reaches out, cupping my erection with a grin. “Your servitude will be rewarded.” Leaning in, she presses her lips to mine and holds them there, speaking instead of kissing, “My devoted man.”

Something about those three words, what they bear and their intent—I pull her naked body into me, pressing my hand to her lower back. “That’s it, Scar,” I say, having never simplified her name into any personal or intimate term, but loving how it sounds, and what it means. “I’m here to serve and protect you.”And love you.

Her eyes fill, and I realize I went from silent and stoic to emptying my bag of feelings, but this is better, this is healthier.

“You’ve freed me from the darkness I thought I’d live in forever. Do you know what that makes you?” I ask, my voice hoarse. She drags her fingertips up my cock, eyes still on me as she shakes her head silently.

“It makes you my queen.” I scoop her up, bumps lifting on my neck as she squeals against me. I get her phone and keys with one hand, and move through the breezeway between our places in just two steps. Once she’s inside my place, I lock her lips, then I lock us in.

Her hair cascades down her back, light and shiny, the extra pale strands picking up the dull overhead light. She turns the lights to gold, like every room she’s in, she makes the small, poorly-lit apartment kitchen better, more beautiful. Worth being in.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask her, trying to focus on the fact that I’m going to cook a meal. Not on the fact that she wants to just feel me inside of her even though she’s not ready for sex. Jesus fuck, I’m dripping in my briefs at the four-second flash of it in my mind.

“You know I like pretty much everything,” she muses, her fingertips sliding along the edge of the counter. I think I’m harder than that tile countertop right about now. Her ass moves so gracefully, hips swaying so subtly, I’ve never been a man who’s fantasized about asses or anal sex but I think I’d make a deal with the devil right about now just to get my face between those cheeks.

“I have some chicken that’s already cooked. How about a protein bowl? Quinoa, chicken, some white beans, diced veggies, stuff like that? Sound okay?”

She beams and places a palm on her belly. “So good.” Her smile slides into a sultry pout, her tone dipping. “Will you feed me?”

“Yes.” A groan bounces around in my chest, but I contain it because if I’m going to feed her and give her what she needs, I’m going to need a lot of self-control.

Being celibate for years did nothing for my discipline; I never had to exercise it because I was without urges. Now, though, my drive has returned and my dick is excited.

I keep my back to her as I make the food, talking to her the entire time. Asking her about the scene today.

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