Believe: Not Until You, Part 7. Roni Loren
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dirty, tempting things he was so good at saying. The image warmed me from the inside out, making a flush creep over my skin.
Unconsciously, I pushed up from the floor and clicked off the TV. I lowered myself onto the couch, closing my eyes and letting the fantasy run, sinking into it. Foster always had such a slow, deliberate way of kissing every part of me, his mouth leaving trails of heat on my skin. Without thinking too hard about what I was doing, I let my body and the images take over. My hands slid up my stomach beneath my shirt, and I cupped my breasts, imagining it was his big hands instead of mine. The feel wasn’t quite right, my touch too soft, too feminine to be his. So I pinched and plucked at my nipples like he would’ve, making sure to do it hard enough to cause a snap of pain. Yes, that was better. I sighed softly, opening my eyes briefly to see the silver glinting against my ankle.
Moisture and heat gathered between my thighs, the sight of jewelry pushing some lever inside me. I let my eyes drift shut again and trailed my hand down my stomach. Foster liked to tease me, to move his fingers along my folds but not quite stroke my clit yet. And his touch was always so sure, like he knew exactly how to bring me right to the edge and hold me there, hanging by my fingernails. I imagined him lowering his head between my legs, my arms tied above me, and the feel of that five-o’clock stubble moving against the tender skin of my thighs—the abrasive, scritch-scritch sound that made.
In my mind’s eye, he was there with me, calling me angel and whispering lovely, filthy things to me. My fingers moved inside me, my hips rocking against the stimulation. I moaned in the silent house, lost to the fantasy and to the man who I’d never touch again, and came hard.
Slowly, my breath returned to me, and I blinked out of the haze of the dreamland—my heart still pounding but my body cooling. My living room came back into view. The boxes. The ugly walls. The emptiness. Despair rolled through me.
I pushed myself off the couch and dragged myself into the shower, sitting on the floor of the tub and just letting the hot water pound against me.
Afterward, when I caught a view of myself in the bathroom mirror, I barely even recognized the person staring back at me. I’d changed out of scrubs into pajamas, but other than that, I didn’t look much different than when I’d woken up this morning. No makeup. Hair hanging limp around my cheeks. It was the face of a girl who had totally given up on being presentable.
I stared at my reflection, my hands gripping the edge of the counter. Was this what my life was going to be? Sitting around in my half-unpacked, That ’70s Show house, fantasizing about some guy who I hadn’t talked to in over a month? I’d become a goddamn cliche. All those times I’d rolled my eyes at movie heroines who ended up on their couch with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, watching Lifetime network, and now here I was. The only thing different was that I’d chosen Hungry-Man potpie instead of Ben & Jerry tonight. Pathetic.
I flicked the light off, getting rid of that girl in the mirror, and strode into my bedroom, grabbing my phone off the charger. Enough of this shit. I scrolled through the numbers, looking for the one I needed, then hit Call.
“Cela?”
He was clearly surprised to be hearing from me. But before I lost my nerve, I let the question fall from my lips. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to tell me?”
“I’m saying yes, Michael.”
I could hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all night. Pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready.”
And hopefully, I would be.
Sixty-seven, sixty-eight …
Foster counted in his head as he lowered back down to the floor for another push-up. Sweat slid down his neck and bare back as he repeated the motion again and again. The numbers ticked off in his head as he breathed through the count. A flash of Cela tied up in the garden came to him. Fuck.
Seventy-three.
That night she had counted aloud for him, her tawny skin glistening with the exertion of receiving the stings of his crop. But she’d been counting down. Not up. Not like he was doing. This had nothing to do with that day. His cock stirred. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Eighty.
He lifted one foot off the ground, trying to increase the difficulty of the push-ups and block out any thoughts of her. Music blared in the background, his new neighbor probably hating him already for all the noise.
Eighty-one.
She’d wanted to come so bad that night, she’d fallen to her knees and would’ve begged him for it, would’ve given him those doe eyes and pleaded. He’d wanted to break his plans that night. He’d wanted to spread her right out in that bed of flowers and fuck her until everyone inside the restaurant heard her scream. He gritted his teeth as his cock went from intrigued to full, throbbing hard-on.
Refusing to relent, he pushed through to hit one hundred. Afterward, he rolled onto his back, his stomach rising and falling with exertion, but the ache in his dick not relenting. He tucked his hands behind his head and with a locked jaw, started a round of sit-ups. He would not fucking give himself the satisfaction of thinking about her and jerking off. If he wanted to get laid, he could damn well go find a willing partner.
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