738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  “You’re on the outside, no weight on top of you, and you can pull away at any time,” I point out calmly. But I’m not going to talk her into it. If she doesn’t want to, we’ll find another way.

  But after a moment, she edges to the couch, kneeling next to me first, then stretching out beside me. “Hi,” she whispers, resting her palm against my chest, before leaning in to kiss my skin above her fingers.

  I’m such a fucking goner. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself.

  25

  Amanda

  I’m not sure about this. But lying next to Chase voluntarily isn’t nearly the same as being pressed down against my will, which is what triggers panic in me.

  And right now, the level in my head has the bubble firmly in the green-go zone. So, okay.

  I miss moving with him, though. It felt like it was building to something. But it wasn’t scary, at all, to my surprise. Just exciting, with a level of safety preserved. Like heat lightning in the distance.

  But this, this has the potential to bring that lightning much closer, which makes my heart trip in my chest with both anticipation and nerves.

  Seemingly sensing that, he caresses my cheek and leans in to kiss me softly, no tongue, just lips and gentleness.

  I lift my hands to the back of his neck to press him closer, to deepen the kiss. But he holds off.

  His hand drifts to my hip and then lower, his fingers alighting for a brief second at the hot spot of sensation between my legs. Just that fractional touch makes me wiggle toward him.

  “I want to touch you here, my hand against your skin,” he says, watching my reaction carefully. He’s been so attentive, I feel almost guilty, doing all the taking and virtually no giving. Not that it seems to bother him. “I want to make you feel good.”

  The idea of his hand between my legs sends a bolt of want through me, followed immediately by uncertainty. I honestly don’t know. Will it be … clinical, uncomfortable? That’s been my only experience with that action.

  I decide to follow the lust, and besides, nothing he’s done so far has felt even remotely distant or cold, or like a violation. And if I don’t like it, I trust him to stop.

  I trust him. The sentiment is solid, throbbing in my chest like my heartbeat, no shadow of doubt or hesitation.

  I clear my throat. “Yes.”

  He exhales shakily and kisses me, his tongue delving into my mouth until I’m clutching at him, arching awkwardly against him.

  “Put your knee up on my hip,” he whispers in my ear, his mouth grazing my cheek in an open-mouthed caress.

  I do, and for a split second, the feeling of being vulnerable chases away the heat and desire.

  But then his fingers graze my leg, stroking the hollow where my thigh meets my body, and that feeling of vulnerability disappears under the chant of more, more, more in my head.

  He braces himself on one elbow, and I feel him pull aside the layers of material between us, and the slightly cooler air touches my overheated flesh.

  The first touch, just the backs of his fingers, pressing lightly, sends a jolt through me, and I’m pushing into him, the reaction automatic and instinctive.

  He groans softly. “You are so wet.”

  I might have been embarrassed by the frank statement of my condition, but my heart is throbbing in my chest, like an overinflated balloon about to pop.

  Then he turns his wrist, and his fingers skate over the damp and aching flesh. His fingertip presses lightly against the tight bud of sensation at the top of me while the rest of his fingers slip through the wetness, parting me, holding me open to his touch.

  I squirm against the sensation. It’s not the same as rubbing against him—this is more focused and in that way more torturous but good.

  “So soft,” he whispers. “You’re so soft and wet, and I…” His words cut off in a groan, as he drops his head, his jaw muscles clenching visibly beneath his skin.

  His touch remains gentle but persistent, though, and soon I’m writhing against him, wanting something more. Instinct tells me to close my legs over his hand so I can keep that pressure there, just so.

  But then he lifts his head to kiss me, his hand between my legs stilling, much to my frustration.

  I move my hips toward him. “Don’t stop,” I plead. My whole being is encompassed in this moment, in his touch.

  That’s when I realize one of his fingers is resting at my entrance, pressing lightly but not quite penetrating.

  He hasn’t stopped; he’s asking a question.

  But then he goes further. “What do you want, Amanda?”

  I blink up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are dark with want. Chase Henry Mroczek is watching me like I hold the answer to everything he wants, to the whole universe.

  He told me that I would know what I wanted and that I would ask him for it. And he was right.

  The idea of saying the words out loud sends a brief flash of self-consciousness through me, but the embarrassment is a feather compared to the weight of want in me right now.

  “I want you inside,” I say, holding his gaze steadily, despite the creeping heat in my face. “I want you to put your finger inside me.”

  His nostrils flare as he bends forward, his mouth hot and open on mine. Then he gives a shuddering breath that I feel against my cheek, as his finger slides in.

  Reflexively I tense up, expecting pain or at least the sense of being invaded.

  He stops immediately. “Amanda?”

  “Just getting used to it,” I say quickly.

  Which is true. It doesn’t hurt. It just feels different. There’s no painful or invading sensation; his finger is just a warm, persistent but not unpleasant presence inside me. It sends a shiver through me. He is in me. Part of him is inside me. And I like it.

  He holds his hand steady against me, not thrusting or pushing, his warm palm cupping between my legs.

  Then he ducks his head and nudges the edge of my shirt aside with his chin and cheek to trail his kisses along the top of my breast.

  The rasp of his stubble against my skin makes me ache. Then his hot wet tongue laps against my nipple before he closes his mouth over it and sucks.

  Instinctively, I push my hips toward him, sinking his finger deeper inside me. I gasp.

  He stops, lifting his head from my breast with an audible pop.

  “Yes, I mean, it’s good,” I babble.

  He returns his mouth to my breast, his blond head bobbing before me, and the sight of him like this, combined with the sensations, only sends a flood of warmth through me.

  And it doesn’t take long before I’m pushing up against him, riding his hand while he remains still.

  It’s what I need and yet somehow not enough.

  A whimper escapes me against my will. “I need more,” I beg before he can ask. Because I think I’ll die if he stops now. There’s a constant roar of need in my head. That sense of something building has returned, but with it, more frustration. It’s like reaching for the top of a shelf and being just a few inches too short.

  His tongue swirls over my nipple as I feel the pressure of a second finger pushing inside me, next to the first. It’s tight but it feels so good, more filling. Not as much as I want, but better.

  His hand rocks against me now, his fingers moving in me and it’s … so … yes.

  I tighten my knee on his hip, tucking my foot behind his leg, trying to pull him closer.

  Wet sounds, the audible proof of how excited I am as he moves his fingers in me, break into my awareness.

  I turn toward him and bury my face against the arm he’s using to support himself, embarrassed. “God.”

  He gives a strangled laugh. “That’s good; it’s so good.” His voice is rough, unsteady. “It means you’re close, that you’re feeling it.”

  He shifts, changing the angle of his hand and curling those fingers inside me, and a helpless moan escapes me.

  He bends his head toward me, his breathless voice closer to my ear
. “And hearing that, feeling how wet you are for me, makes me so fucking hard. Because it means when you’re ready, I would be able to slide in and get so deep and make us both feel amazing.”

  My eyes flutter open, and his gaze, so familiar to me now, is pinned to my face, but those dark blue eyes are but a sliver of color. The pupils have swallowed the irises whole. His cheeks are flushed with color.

  As I watch, his mouth opens slightly, those perfect teeth sinking into his bottom lip, strain written across his features.

  Looking down, I see the cords of muscle in his forearm tensing and relaxing as he works in me.

  And suddenly I can imagine what it would feel like, moving with him inside me, connecting in the most intimate way possible.

  Before I can say, I want, or even whisper, Yes, a sudden chill spreads over my skin, raising goose bumps, and then that building, reaching feeling hits a peak, catching me off guard. And it all falls, falls, falls down and I’m shivering and shuddering, helpless against the waves.

  “That’s it,” he whispers in my ear, what sounds like pride, not for himself but in me. “You’ve got it; just keep moving.”

  My hips push against him automatically, and the clutching feeling slowly fades away, leaving behind a growing sensation of contentment and warmth. I feel boneless and relaxed in a way I haven’t in, I don’t know, maybe ever.

  “Okay?” he asks as I sag into him.

  I lean back to peer up at him, a ridiculous smile spreading across my face. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. “Yes.” The word is slurred with pleasure.

  He laughs, a deep rumbling in his chest that I feel, and leans down to plant a quick kiss on my mouth. “Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

  He pulls his hand away from me, and satisfied though I am, a complaining noise escapes my mouth. Less for the specific action than the loss of connection.

  “Greedy you,” Chase teases, kissing my forehead.

  “Yes.” He’s kidding but I realize he’s right: I am being greedy. Just not in the way he means.

  Glancing down our bodies, I see the front of his faded jeans straining, pulled tight against his erection, which looks so large as to be possibly painful to him and definitely intimidating to me.

  But at the sight of him like that, a craving unfurls in me and spreads, like an itch in my blood. I want to touch him. I want to see him come undone, see his face slack with pleasure. I want to see all that control he worked so hard to maintain for me unravel spectacularly.

  But to do that …

  I bite my lip, and contemplate what that would mean.

  Grinding against him, against it, isn’t the same. That, I could do. Have done. But somehow the idea of touching him, of undoing his pants, feels like too much, like skating too close to the edge.

  A tiny trickle of dread wends its way through my post-orgasm bliss, and I hate it, the fear eating acid-like at my contentment.

  Fuck fear. I’m so sick of it. It’s just a body part, a penis. So what? My first experiences with one were traumatic and horrible, yes. But that doesn’t mean that every encounter will be the same. Chase has already proven that in general in a dozen ways since I met him.

  Why would this be any different?

  And he won’t do anything I don’t want him to. If he was that kind, he would have done it already. A closed zipper—or button fly, in this case—is no deterrent.

  “Hey,” Chase says, nudging me gently. I look up to see him frowning, sensing the change in my mood. “Where’d you go? Is everything—”

  “What about you?” I ask, heart pounding so hard it’s making me tremble.

  His brows draw together in confusion. “What?”

  “This.” Tentatively, I reach out and run my hand over the hardened bulge behind his fly.

  He sucks a breath in a hiss through his teeth, and his hips jerk forward into my hand, his face a fierce mask of want.

  A heady rush of heat and power surges through me until I’m almost dizzy from it. I made him react that way, I made him want, but I’m in control. I could almost laugh from the relief and giddiness.

  He tilts away from my hand. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it later.” He gives a shaky laugh. Those crinkles at the edges of his eyes make my chest throb with emotion, sending a wave of powerful affection through me, so much so that it feels as if the undertow will pull me under to drown, and I’ll go happily.

  I push up and kiss the lines I can reach, on the right side of his face. The next words pop out before I can stop them, before I can change my mind. “Can I watch? I mean, if that’s okay with you,” I add hastily. It seems like a good compromise to me—I might not be ready yet to take on my reluctance directly, but watching him touch himself might help with the intimidation factor, not to mention then he won’t be so miserable.

  It all sounds very practical to me, but it evidently sounds like more to Chase.

  His breathing stops abruptly, only to emerge in a harsh exhale against my throat. “Now?” He sounds hoarse, and that power-high returns.

  “Yes,” I say. After that reaction? Oh, hell, yes.

  “You don’t have to—” he begins, and I sit up because I want him to see me and hear that I mean it.

  “I know that,” I say calmly. “I want to.”

  He swallows hard, and I hear the click of his dry throat. Then he gives a jerky nod. His cheeks are flushed and he’s biting his lip. I’m not sure if that’s uncertainty or restraint. Either way, it is possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  “Are you sure?” he asks as I settle next to him, stretching out on my side and propping myself up on one elbow. But he’s already tugging carefully at the top button on his jeans, knowing my answer even as I nod.

  Dark gray boxer briefs emerge from behind his fly as he yanks the rest of the buttons free. The shape of him is much clearer without his jeans in the way. Longer than my hand and thicker than I expected, too. That makes the tremor of uncertainty in me increase a little.

  Before I have a chance to potentially panic, though, he lifts up and shoves his jeans and boxers down his body in one smooth motion, revealing everything the fabric was hiding.

  The hair there is not quite the brighter gold he has elsewhere, and it’s trimmed close to his body. His penis stands slightly away from his abdomen, the skin darker with the flush of blood. The rounded tip is wet, and I’m fascinated by the sight.

  I touch lightly with one fingertip, unable to resist, and his penis twitches toward me, like I’m home and it wants nothing more than to come inside.

  He moans at my touch. “It’s not … I won’t last … if we were together, it would be much better than this,” he tries, his words coming out garbled, half finished.

  “I’m not worried,” I say, then I follow an impulse and lean forward for a quick second to swipe my tongue across his chest before retreating.

  He groans and locks his hand around himself at the base.

  “Keep looking at me like that, and I won’t have to do anything at all,” he says in a thick voice.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Really?”

  He pulls up and down in a motion I recognize, though it’s rougher than anything he did to me.

  “When you came to the door, I thought you were wearing my shirt without anything under it. I almost lost it,” he says.

  Interesting. The revelation sends flutters through me, centering between my legs.

  “Is that what you want to see?” I ask, feeling daring after his confession and the heated expression on his face.

  Without waiting for his answer, I lift my hips and shimmy out of my sleep shorts and underwear. His shirt covers me anyway, and it’s actually a relief to peel the damp material away from my still-aching-in-a-good-way flesh.

  His eyes go wide and then squeeze shut. “You’re going to kill me,” he mumbles.

  I can’t stop myself from grinning.

  When his fist is on the downward motion, my boldness resurfaces and I reach forward to close my fingers lightly
over the head of him.

  He arches hard toward my hand with a groan.

  “Can you tell me what to do?” I ask in a whisper; my insides are quivering with nerves and excitement.

  “You’re asking me to talk when your hand is on my cock?” he responds in a strangled voice, removing his hand from himself.

  Instinctively, I move my hand down to take its place.

  “Keep doing that.” His hand closes over mine, guiding on speed and pressure until I’ve got it. The heat of him is intense and when I squeeze a little tighter around him, he grits his teeth and pushes harder through the circle of my fingers.

  “Seems like it should hurt,” I murmur.

  “It doesn’t, not like that. But it would be better with lubrication.” He gives me a direct look that lights something on fire in me. He means me, all the wet I couldn’t control. He wants that on him.

  I shiver in delight at the graphicness of the image he’s put in my mind.

  He rocks his head back against the couch, his lip pinched between his teeth. When he releases it, he licks his lips and opens his eyes to meet my gaze. “Can you open your shirt? So I can see?”

  The words alone send a primitive surge of heat in a lightning bolt between my legs.

  Instead of answering him, I maneuver the arm that’s supporting my weight to tug at the material of my shirt until the cool air licks my skin.

  My hand is working on him, but he’s staring at me. “You are so beautiful. Everywhere, inside and out.” He leans forward and kisses me, his mouth demanding and hot.

  I give him everything he asks for in that kiss, everything I can.

  When he pulls back, his hand closes over mine again, tugging harder at himself than I would have dared. Impossibly, he seems to grow harder and his breath is coming faster and faster.

  “Amanda,” he says, my name more a suggestion of sound than an actual word.

  Then his whole body shudders and he gasps, his eyes wide but unseeing for a moment. Warm fluid splashes against my arm, startling me, but I ignore it for the moment, caught by the sight of him.

  He looks so vulnerable and alone, this man who came to get me, the one who stands between me and anyone or anything that scares me. I want to pull him against me and hold him, giving him shelter and strength.