freedom.
Before Chad, I believed I’d be bored to tears without any sort of angst and drama. That nice, stable guys weren’t my cup of tea. My experience has always been that if a guy is too into me, I somehow lost interest in him. But I don’t feel like that at all with Chad. If anything, I am more infatuated than I’ve been in forever.
Why don’t I feel like that though? Shouldn’t his utter conviction and commitment to spending time with me be a turn off?
For the millionth time I wonder what he’s doing to me. How he’s doing it.
I swipe the screen and look at his text. I’ll miss seeing you tonight. Sing pretty.
I sing at The Whisky tonight and won’t be seeing him. I text back, I’ll miss you too.
It’s not a lie. I will miss him. Miss talking to him. Miss the way he kisses me. Touches me. The way I squirm as I silently urge him to take things further, even though I know he won’t. I’ve never been preoccupied by sex before. It’s strange, disconcerting and intoxicating. It’s like he’s an itch right under my skin.
A buzz on my phone. If you come tonight, I insist you call me and tell me about it.
A strange urge creeps over my skin. The urge to test. To see what he does. I don’t know what I’m hoping for but I don’t resist. And if I don’t?
I hold my breath, waiting for his response, not sure what I want him to say. His dominance lurks in the back of my mind, like a monster in a closet I don’t want to open but keep turning back toward, over and over again. In the time I’ve spent with him he’s never pushed me the way I have seen Michael and Leo push. Has never overtly ordered me to do something.
But there is…something…and part of me is waiting. I don’t want to deal with it because I’m certain it will be our undoing. I’m not like Layla and Jillian and never will be. Someday, I’ll have to confront it, but I don’t want it to be today.
Yet, here I am, testing to see what he’ll do.
While I wait, I look at Layla’s text, asking me if Chad and I are coming to dinner tomorrow.
My stomach flutters and I study my computer screen displaying the graphics for the ad campaign I’m working on. I’ve been avoiding. I swirl my mouse, and feign like I’m going to do some actual work, but really I’m waiting for the sound of my phone.
It comes five minutes later, and I about jump out of my chair before lunging for my phone.
Your orgasms belong to me now.
I stare at the words, reading them over and over until they blur together. Excitement and panic bounce across my skin, making me hot. How am I supposed to respond to that? And why do I like the way that sounds?
Chad has a way of describing things, of talking, that sends the type of lust I thought people made up, flooding through my system. Between his wicked tongue, skilled hands, talented mouth, and a patience that continues to shock me, my body is coming alive for the first time.
It makes me hope. And dread that day where he finally tries and I fail.
He repeats over and over again that doesn’t define me as a woman. While I appreciate the words, I don’t believe them. The truth is I want what everyone else has. I’m not saying it’s everything, but it is important. It’s something I can’t give him, no matter how hot he makes me. No matter how he makes me believe.
I read his words again. I have no idea how to respond so that’s what I text. What am I supposed to say to that?
His response comes a minute later. All you need to say is yes, Chad, I will call you.
I try and imagine what Layla might say, or Jillian, but I have no idea, and as much as part of me wants to test I’m not ready to confront that topic that sits between us. I type back. Okay.
Good girl.
I shiver and my stomach heats. The first time I heard Michael call Layla that I’d been appalled, the words were ones you said to a dog or a child in a cooing voice. But I can’t deny when Chad calls me that it morphs into the best two words to ever
Before Chad, I believed I’d be bored to tears without any sort of angst and drama. That nice, stable guys weren’t my cup of tea. My experience has always been that if a guy is too into me, I somehow lost interest in him. But I don’t feel like that at all with Chad. If anything, I am more infatuated than I’ve been in forever.
Why don’t I feel like that though? Shouldn’t his utter conviction and commitment to spending time with me be a turn off?
For the millionth time I wonder what he’s doing to me. How he’s doing it.
I swipe the screen and look at his text. I’ll miss seeing you tonight. Sing pretty.
I sing at The Whisky tonight and won’t be seeing him. I text back, I’ll miss you too.
It’s not a lie. I will miss him. Miss talking to him. Miss the way he kisses me. Touches me. The way I squirm as I silently urge him to take things further, even though I know he won’t. I’ve never been preoccupied by sex before. It’s strange, disconcerting and intoxicating. It’s like he’s an itch right under my skin.
A buzz on my phone. If you come tonight, I insist you call me and tell me about it.
A strange urge creeps over my skin. The urge to test. To see what he does. I don’t know what I’m hoping for but I don’t resist. And if I don’t?
I hold my breath, waiting for his response, not sure what I want him to say. His dominance lurks in the back of my mind, like a monster in a closet I don’t want to open but keep turning back toward, over and over again. In the time I’ve spent with him he’s never pushed me the way I have seen Michael and Leo push. Has never overtly ordered me to do something.
But there is…something…and part of me is waiting. I don’t want to deal with it because I’m certain it will be our undoing. I’m not like Layla and Jillian and never will be. Someday, I’ll have to confront it, but I don’t want it to be today.
Yet, here I am, testing to see what he’ll do.
While I wait, I look at Layla’s text, asking me if Chad and I are coming to dinner tomorrow.
My stomach flutters and I study my computer screen displaying the graphics for the ad campaign I’m working on. I’ve been avoiding. I swirl my mouse, and feign like I’m going to do some actual work, but really I’m waiting for the sound of my phone.
It comes five minutes later, and I about jump out of my chair before lunging for my phone.
Your orgasms belong to me now.
I stare at the words, reading them over and over until they blur together. Excitement and panic bounce across my skin, making me hot. How am I supposed to respond to that? And why do I like the way that sounds?
Chad has a way of describing things, of talking, that sends the type of lust I thought people made up, flooding through my system. Between his wicked tongue, skilled hands, talented mouth, and a patience that continues to shock me, my body is coming alive for the first time.
It makes me hope. And dread that day where he finally tries and I fail.
He repeats over and over again that doesn’t define me as a woman. While I appreciate the words, I don’t believe them. The truth is I want what everyone else has. I’m not saying it’s everything, but it is important. It’s something I can’t give him, no matter how hot he makes me. No matter how he makes me believe.
I read his words again. I have no idea how to respond so that’s what I text. What am I supposed to say to that?
His response comes a minute later. All you need to say is yes, Chad, I will call you.
I try and imagine what Layla might say, or Jillian, but I have no idea, and as much as part of me wants to test I’m not ready to confront that topic that sits between us. I type back. Okay.
Good girl.
I shiver and my stomach heats. The first time I heard Michael call Layla that I’d been appalled, the words were ones you said to a dog or a child in a cooing voice. But I can’t deny when Chad calls me that it morphs into the best two words to ever
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