“Oh god, Wes!” I cry, and I can’t keep my voice quiet anymore. The desperation is upon me, instantly.
I need his touch. I need more. I reach up and back and clutch his head, scratching my fingernails over his scalp, through his hair. Then drop them and reach back to grab at his buttocks. Pull him against me—I feel his manhood against me, sticky, a thick lump between our bodies, nestled against my backside. I like it. I like everything about this. About Wes. His body. My body. Touching. The sensuality. The thrill. The heights of pleasure and the delightful, incredible journey to climax.
I can’t wait for the next step—I’m eager for it. But I like the process, too. Each step is its own beautiful journey.
And this, in the shower, exchanging orgasms? So beautiful.
His fingers press so lightly against my clit that I can barely feel it, but it drives me wild. I gasp, whimper. Press my hips forward in a plea for him to do something more. Oh, he understands my needs all too well. His hand drops from my breast and delves between my thighs, and then a finger slides into my sex and fills me and his other hand is busily touching my clit with slow circles, and now I am comprised entirely of sensation, of his touch. All of me is him—his fingers, there. I can’t even breathe and I don’t care to—all I want is touch.
My knees buckle, and I dip—sinking his finger deeper into me. When I manage to get my knees to lock once more, he adds a second finger…and then a third, and I’m stretched to capacity around his fingers, and they slick into me and curl and retreat, and my knees quake, and his fingers circle. And oh god and oh god and oh god, this is everything. He gives me a rhythm, then, and it’s heaven on earth. Fingers slide into me, again and again, in a slow press and pull, curling as they enter me to rub against my inner walls in a way that makes eyes cross and a moan escape my lips, and the other fingers press more firmly against my clit and circle faster, and now my body moves, instinct takes over. My hips behave as his did—flexing and thrusting as if on their own. Pressing me into his touch, demanding more, demanding he give me more and more and more.
He does. Incredibly, beautiful more. Faster. Deeper.
Until my thrusts are fast and rough and wanton and I’m whimpering in time with his circling fingers and plunging fingers and gasping as waves of intense pleasure wash over me and the need to explode deepens, heightens, intensifies.
“Oh god, Wes,” I gasp. "I’m…I’m gonna come.”
He just growls in response and continues his rhythm.
And then it hits me.
All at once, and in a barrage of waves.
I cry out, and then the wave becomes a vise grip of climax crushing me into paroxysms, and the cry becomes a scream, and my hands claw roughly into his butt and my hips press forward and freeze, and my knees give out and my spine arches and my mouth is open wide and the scream goes silent as my lungs empty.
An eternity passes as the climax rips through me, tears me to delicious pieces and leaves me wrung out and panting, and then my legs truly give out and he catches me, holds me. Twists me to face him and clutches me against him. I taste shower water on his skin, and I taste skin and I feel his manhood against my belly, just above my sex and he’s holding me and kissing my temple and the top of my head.
I tilt my head up and wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down and demand his mouth. I kiss him and tangle my tongue against his and my other hand is pawed into his butt and I’m clutching him with all my strength and kissing him with every last ounce of my need and passion for his body and his touch and his everything and I understand utterly and into my very soul that to finally unite with Wes in the final stage of this sexual awakening will be beauty and harmony and wonder and perfection made flesh, made real, and I want it.
We kiss and kiss and lose ourselves in it. The water beats down on us. We’ve stumbled backward and the spray is partly on me and partly on him, and it’s warm rather than hot and I feel his sex wedged between our bodies and I want to touch him again and make him come again and get messy and sticky and feel him need what only I can give him.
I grasp him, and feel him respond.
“Jo?”
I pull away from the kiss and meet his eyes. “Hmmm?”
He grins. “One more long drive and we’ll be home. At my house. And we’ll have all the time and privacy in the world to do everything we want, as much as we want.”
I let him go, with great regret. “I like touching you, Wes. I…I feel like you…like we…like I can’t get enough.” I settle for touching his strong shoulders instead. “Of touching you. Of being touched.”
“I can’t either, Jo, I promise I can’t. But number one, the water is getting cold and I’m still a little sticky. And number two, we need to eat. So as much as I’d rather stay here in the shower with you and let you give me another amazing handjob, I think we’d better clean up and get moving.”
I reluctantly let go of his muscles. Take a dollop of shower gel and wash him. Twist the water as hot as it will go, which isn’t very, not after all the time we’ve been in here letting it run. I wash him, and he rinses while I run shampoo in my hair and scrub a few places even his attentive and loving touch couldn’t quite get. The more…err, personal places, if you know what I mean. He does the same, and we rinse in now-cool water. And then Wes steps out and grabs a towel from the rack and wraps it around me. Another for himself, and we dry off.
I like the intimacy of this—showering, drying off.
It feels like a crash course in the daily minutiae of being a couple.
It makes my heart sing.
The towel wrapped around my torso, I watch him scrub his skin dry with the towel then toss it on the floor by the shower, standing naked and confident. He opens the door and steam writhes out, replaced by a sudden wave of cool air.
He wipes the mirror clean with a hand towel, peering at his reflection as he runs his fingers through his thick blond hair.
He catches me watching and smirks at me. “What?”
I shake my head and shrug, then find my own confidence enough to let the towel drop and just be naked with him. “Nothing,” I say. “You just…” I bite the corner of my lower lip, closing my eyes as I blurt out the truth, consequences be damned. “You just really make me so happy.”
He turns, cups my chin in one hand, thumb brushing my jawline. “Good. You deserve to be happy. There’s nothing I won’t do to make you happy, Jo. I mean that, from the bottom of my heart. This feels wild and crazy and reckless and impulsive and way too soon and way too fast on so many levels and…I don’t even freaking care, like at all. Because it feels right. So…you tell me what I can do to make you happy, and if it’s within my power, I’ll do it.” A pause, a breath. “Because you make me happy, too. I hope you understand that.”
“I…do?” My throat is tight and hot and thick.
He nods. “You really, really do.”
“All you have to do is what we’re doing, Wes. Just being…” I swallow hard. “Just being us. There being an us to be, if that makes any sense. That’s what made me smile. Just watching you, being like this, the casual intimacy of just being people together.” I whisper it. “Feeling like…like a couple. It’s something I never thought I’d feel in my life, and having it with you is…it means more to me than I could probably ever put into words, Westley.”
He blinks hard. “Dammit, woman, you’re making me emotional.” He says this with a self-conscious laugh.
“That’s okay,” I say. “More than okay. It’s good. I like it.”
“Is there anything you don’t like?”
I laugh. “Bad days. Feeling like there’s not enough time.” A pause, and another chuckle. “Broccoli.”
He laughs. “Noted.” He touches his lips to mine in a brief gesture of affection. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here.”
“Sounds good. I could eat a horse, at this point.” Right on cue, my stomach growls noisily.
I select an outfit, a favorite pair of short, loose,
soft athletic shorts which I have in several colors, and a plain V-neck T-shirt. I put on a pair of underwear—nothing fancy, since I don’t own anything like fancy underwear—and the shorts, then pause.
“Wes?” I ask. “Weird question for you.”
He’s halfway dressed himself. “Shoot.”
“Do you…um, particularly care whether I wear a bra? Because I don’t normally. With these little things,” I cup my barely there breasts, “there’s not much point other than hiding my stupid poky nipples, which I don’t really care if people see. It drives my mom nuts—she hates when I don’t wear a bra. She’s always trying to make me wear one, and says it’s immodest when I don’t, especially in public. But I just hate them.”
He laughs. “Couple answers, here. One, you’re not a child, you’re nineteen and an adult and therefore have the right to decide what you wear, especially now that you’re not at home with your parents. When you’re living with them, I suppose an argument could be made about showing respect for their rules when living with them, but that’s neither here nor there, since we’re hundreds of miles away from them. Two, I’m personally of the opinion, in general, that a woman can dress however she wants. Granted, if she chooses to show a certain amount of skin, she can’t expect men to not look, but the flip side of that is that men can’t act like that’s some kind of invitation—she’s just dressing to her comfort, for herself and no one else. Three, regarding you in this specific context? No, I don’t mind if you don’t wear a bra. If you want me to go further, I kind of like it when you don’t. But you do what you’re comfortable with. Wear one, don’t wear one, it’s totally up to you.”
I huff. “That was a lot of an answer.” With a sigh of relief, I toss the bra I’d gotten out of my suitcase back into it. “In that case, no bra it is.” I shrug into my shirt and glance down—sure enough, as always, my nips are prominent. But whatever. They’re just nipples. It’s not like I’m prancing around topless.
You’d think I would be more modest, considering the conservative, sheltered way I was raised, but the no bra thing began as a kind of teenaged rebellion, in one part. The one way I could show a little spirit, a little pushback. But the other side is more practical—I just have never seen the point. They’re uncomfortable and my boobs are small enough that there’s just not much to support, and why should I care if people see my nipples? Everyone has them. It’s just been this ongoing battle with Mom. Jolene Park, put on a bra! No one needs to see those. Nipples, nipples, nipples. Who cares?
And now that I’m with Wes, it just feels…different. More sensual, where it was purely practical and for comfort before.
Maybe it’s an aftereffect of the orgasm, but everything feels more sensual, and all my senses feel more heightened.
I’m just hyperaware of my body and Wes, and his body, and the things we’re hiding under our clothes.
We pack up, check the room for belongings, check out, and have breakfast. The waitress recognizes Wes even with his “celebrity disguise,” but she’s cool about it and doesn’t make a scene. When we’re done, he tips more than double the total of the bill—his signature on the line is illegible. He signs the back of the other receipt as an autograph, with a little note saying thank you for letting him eat in peace.
We head out, then, and it’s great to be back on the road.
We’re a good half an hour into the drive when my phone dings—I’d let it die while I was sick, and it’s charging in the console cupholder.
The message is from Mom: You said you’d call, Jolene. Are you okay? Things with Wes are good? I miss you.
I glance at Wes. “I should call her.”
He nods. “Go for it. Normally I’d try to give you privacy, but there’s not much I can do about that while I’m driving. If you want, I can pull over and stand outside?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine.”
I call her, and she answers before it rings once. “Jolene! I miss you so much, baby girl! How are you?”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m good. I’m great!”
She laughs. “Okay, good, or great? Which is it?”
“I didn’t call because I had a couple days of not feeling well. But I’m better now.”
She knows what that means. “How did he handle it?”
“As well as could be expected. It hit like it always does, pretty suddenly. But he stayed with me and wasn’t, like, weird about it. We were at a hotel, so there wasn’t much for him to eat or to do, though, so hopefully we’ll get to his place in LA before I feel like that again.”
“Are you…” A pause, as she considers how to say what she’s thinking, and I can almost hear what she’s going to ask before it comes out. “How is everything with him? You’re in the car with him, I assume.”
“It’s amazing, Mom, and yes, I am.”
“Am I on speaker?”
“No.”
“Is he…he’s not…” She drops her voice. “He’s not pressuring you to do anything you’re not ready for, is he?”
“Mom, no. He’s not. It—he—this—us, this whole thing…it’s better in every way than I could even have dreamed of.”
She’s silent a moment. “Are you…are you being safe? We didn’t talk about that, specifically, and we should have.”
“God, Mom.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, first, and second, don’t god, Mom me about this. It’s important.”
I huff, glance at Wes, who’s doing his dead-level best to pretend he’s not hearing everything I’m saying. My instinct is to whisper, because part of me is embarrassed. But I don’t.
“Mom…” I sigh. “Okay, fine. Here’s the truth. We haven’t quite gotten to…that, yet, if you must know. But when we get to that point, we’ll have that conversation. Okay?”
“It’s not really a conversation, Jolene. You use protection. It’s very, very simple.”
I groan. “Actually, Mom, it’s not. Not for me. You realize I’ve spent the better part of eleven years undergoing chemotherapy and radiation.”
“Yes, Jolene, I know. I was there for all of it.”
“Well, you do realize that that means my reproductive system is fried, right? Like, I’m totally sterile.” I wince, because that feels harsh and unpleasant to say out loud, in front of Wes, like this. “Dr. Miller and I talked about this, the appointment before last. So, for me, Mom, it’s really not that simple.”
“There are still diseases, and no matter what doctors say, there’s always a chance, even a remote one, of—”
I cut her off. “Mom, you just have to trust me, okay? I will be safe in everything I do. I promise.”
“Okay, okay. You’re right.” A silence. “Well, I love you, and I miss you. Call me when you stop, or when you get to LA, or something. And maybe call Grandma, too. We filled her in on what’s going on, but I know she’d like to hear from you.”
“Yeah, I was thinking about her while I was resting. Is she…I imagine she doesn’t approve of what I’m doing.”
A laugh. “You know your grandmother.”
“Meaning, she doesn’t but she’d never say as much.”
“Right.”
“Well,” I say, “I’ll call her. I love you, Mom. And…don’t worry, okay? I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing with exactly the person I want to be doing it with. Not to say I don’t miss you and Dad, but…”
She laughs. “I was nineteen and in love once, so I understand. Just don’t forget to call us once in a while. You know we’ll worry.”
“And you know you don’t have to.” I have to say it. “If anything changes, I’ll call you right away. Or I’ll have Wes call, if I can’t. Okay? I promise.”
“All right. Well, I love you. I’ll let you go.”
“I’ll call again soon, I promise.”
“Tell Westley I said hi.”
“I will. Bye, Mom.”
I end the call and set the phone upside down on my thigh. Glance at Wes. “
You don’t need to pretend you didn’t hear.”
A shrug. “I’m not. That conversation was between you and your mom. Not my business.”
“Certain parts of it do pertain to you, though.”
He nods. “True.” He eyes me, bobs his head to the side. “I did wonder. About…um, your fertility, and the treatments and all that. But it felt a bit forward to ask.”
“Understandable. It wasn’t something I was super eager to talk about. But, yeah, you heard. I’m sterile.” A shrug, more nonchalant than I feel. “I, um, I think I always have been, seeing as I’ve been getting regular treatment since before adolescence. I’ve never had a period. My body went through some parts of puberty. You know, body development and stuff like that.” I laugh self-consciously. “Although, I think I got stunted in that department.”
“You’re perfect and beautiful.”
I smile, shake my head. “You’re blind, but sweet. Thank you for saying that.” I wave my hand. “But yeah, I’m…infertile. No periods, no fertility, none of that.” I hesitate. “Which Mom was asking about because she was telling me that we need to be careful. To use, um, protection.”
He nods. “I mean, I guess I assumed we would, if and when we got to that point.”
“My point I was making to my mother was that there’s not any real need, in my case.” A long, quiet look at him. “Other than, um, protecting against, like, STD’s and such, I guess. Which I was sort of figuring it would be safe to assume wasn’t an issue with you.”
He nods. “You’d be correct in that. I’ve always been safe, the actual kind of few instances where, um, it was…necessary.” He looks at me a moment, then back at the road. “I didn’t want to assume that would happen with you. I’m still not assuming anything. I have to admit I hope it does happen with us, at some point, but that’s a big step and I understand if you…have some reservations, or want to take your time taking that step. And I certainly had assumed we’d use protection.”
Wish Upon A Star Page 16
