could be as painful as a scream. “She makes me so angry.”
“I know.”
His hand stroked my hair. He didn’t know, not really. I’m not sure a man can ever understand the complicated matter of feminine relationships. He didn’t want to understand it. James preferred the surface, too.
“She never asks you.” I tilted my face to look at him. Water splashed, making me blink.
“That’s because she knows I won’t have an answer.” He traced my eyebrow with one fingertip. “She knows you’re the one in charge.”
“Why am I the one in charge?” I demanded, but I already knew the answer.
It was easy for him, being blameless. “Because you’re so good at it.”
I frowned and pushed away from him to reach for the shampoo. “I just wish she’d lay off.”
“So tell her.”
I sighed and turned. “Yeah. Right. That goes over so well with your mother, James. She’s so open to suggestion.”
He shrugged and held out his hand for a handful of shampoo, too. “So she’ll get a little pissy.”
What I wanted was him to be the one to tell his mother to back off, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. He, the son who could do no wrong, didn’t care if he made his parents angry. It wasn’t his issue. So, impotent and knowing it was my own fault, I swallowed my anger and concentrated on washing my hair. “We’re going to run out of hot water.”
The stream was already becoming tepid. We washed quickly, sharing the body sponge and the shower gel, our fingers tickling and doing more than just cleaning. James reached to pull the lever, shutting off the water, and I grabbed two thick towels from the stack in the closet next to the shower. I handed him one, but before I could use my own, he’d grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward him.
“C’mere, baby. Don’t be upset.”
It was hard to stay mad at him. James might be perfectly content in the knowledge he could do no wrong, but that allowed him to be all the more generous with his affections. He dried me carefully, squeezing the extra wetness from the length of my hair and patting my body. His towel-covered hands stroked my back, my sides, behind my knees. Between my legs. On his knees in front of me, he lifted each foot and dried it. When he set the towel aside, my heart was already thumping faster. I expected my skin, already flushed from the shower’s heat, to give off steam of its own. James put his hands on my hips and drew me gently closer.
When he kissed the small patch of curls between my thighs, I stuttered a sigh. He pulled me still closer, hands drifting around to cup my buttocks and hold me in place while his tongue crept out to flick my clitoris. One, two light licks and I bit my lip against a louder groan.
I looked down at his dark head. His strong thighs, covered with coarse dark hair, bunched with muscle as he knelt. The thick mass of hair surrounding his thickening penis was in stark contrast to the smooth hairlessness of his ass and chest, only the slightest hint of hair on his lower belly. He leaned in again to kiss me tenderly. His tongue stroked, lips caressed, breath tantalized.
Any woman who doesn’t feel the power she wields when a man kneels in front of her to worship her pussy must be lying to herself. I put my hand on the back of James’s head. His mouth worked my flesh with eager finesse, urging me to rock my hips forward. Tension coiled low in my belly. His hands moved on my ass, drawing circles I echoed in the shift of my pelvis.
When my thighs started to shake, he used his hands to move me one half turn, until I could lean against the edge of the claw-foot tub. The cold metal should have sizzled when my flesh met it. The curved lip bit with slight discomfort into my rear, but as James, still kneeling, spread my legs wider and dove into my pussy with his mouth and fingers, I didn’t care about anything else.
He moaned under his breath when he slid a finger inside me. I groaned when he added a second. James was a lover with a slow hand, just like the song. An easy touch.
I hadn’t always known how to respond to him. His slow and easy caress failed me in the beginning. I hadn’t expected anything else. I’d gone to bed with James because we’d been dating for a couple months and because he expected it, and because I didn’t want to disappoint him. I didn’t go to bed with him because I thought he could make me come.
Now he licked me slowly as he moved inside me, fingers curved just slightly to stroke the spongy bump of my G-spot. I gripped the bathtub, my back arched, thighs spread wide. In pain. Not caring. Later my fingers would be stiff and aching from holding on so tight, and my ass would be bisected with a red indentation from the tub’s metal lip, but now, with James between my legs, the pleasure overtook everything else.
The first time we went to bed together, he didn’t ask me if I’d come. Nor the second, not the third. Two months after we started, this time in the bed of a hotel room we’d taken for the weekend without telling anyone where we were going, he paused in kissing me to put his hand over my center.
“What do you want me to do?” His question was spoken low, but matter-of-factly, without boasting.
I’d been with boys who assumed a few moments of fingering were enough to send me into ecstasy. Going to bed with them had meant nothing, left no effect on me. Faking pleasure had become the shiny surface of sex with them, and I preferred it that way. It made it easier to find ways to break up with them by making them think it had been their idea all along.
James asked sincerely, clearly understanding that what he’d been doing so far didn’t work for me, though I’d never said so. He stroked my clit and labia gently, tickling. He looked down into my eyes.
“What do I do to make you come?”
I could have smiled and cooed, told him he was perfect in bed, the best lover I’d ever had. I could have lied to him, and a month later I’d have found a way to make him believe he didn’t want to see me any longer. I think I even meant to. I’ve never been sure why I didn’t, why looking up into James’s distinctive eyes made me say instead, “I don’t know.”
It was also a lie, but a more honest dishonesty than telling him he was doing everything right would have been. I’d opened my mouth to his kiss, but James didn’t kiss me. He looked thoughtful, his hand moving in slow circles over my thighs and belly, dipping down every so often to caress my clitoris.
“I love you, Anne,” he said then. It was the first time he’d ever said it, though he was not the first boy to ever tell me. “I want to make you happy. Let me.”
I wasn’t convinced I could do any such thing, but I smiled. He smiled. He bent to kiss me, his lips whisper-soft on mine. His hand moved, slow and easy.
James had spent an hour licking and kissing and stroking. I hadn’t resisted or protested, content to let him do what he wanted. Until, at last, unable to resist, my body had surprised me and pleasure overtook everything else.
I wept the first time he made me come. Not in sorrow. With utter release. Relief. James had given me an orgasm, but I hadn’t lost myself in him. I still knew who I was. I could say I loved him and mean it, and it didn’t consume me. I didn’t have to be afraid of drowning in him.
Now James shifted in front of me, his mouth leaving my flesh for a moment. The respite made me gasp and moan, the pleasure made more intense when
