by Noelle Adams
“Oh!” I gasp. “How arrogant can you be? I’ll have you know I’m more of a challenge than you think.”
“Of course you are. Any man would be a fool to think you weren’t a challenge.”
“But you just said—”
“I’m just talking about lust. You’re talking about everything.”
I stare at him, suddenly realizing that he’s absolutely right.
Of course he’s just talking about lust. Simple lust. Physicality. Nothing more.
That’s all he’s offering me in the way of sex.
And me—being me—am complicating it unduly.
I’m thinking about everything. I’m wanting everything.
And I’m never going to get it from him.
My cheeks are flushed, but my voice is cool as I say, “I might not be as easy as you think in terms of lust.”
He chuckles. Rough. Sensual. “Give me a chance to find out for myself.”
I almost—almost—say yes.
Almost.
“Not tonight.”
He lets out a long breath and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Coward.”
“Bossy asshole.”
Both of us are smiling.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I’m once again awakened early.
That description makes it sound passive and rather pleasant, but there’s nothing nice about how I’m awakened.
It’s dark in the room when Hunter shakes my shoulder. The blinds are closed, of course, but I can tell from the darkness of the room that it’s still pretty early. “Wha—” I mumble, blinking at the unexpected touch.
“Time to get up.”
I hear the words and recognize the gruff voice. Who can it be except Hunter? But I turn my head to check the clock and see it’s not even six thirty, so I close my eyes again.
There’s absolutely no reason to get up at this time.
“Don’t go back to sleep,” he says.
“’Kay.”
He stops talking, so I do the only reasonable thing in such a situation.
I go back to sleep.
I have no idea how long it is before he’s shaking me by the shoulder again. Probably just a minute or two, but it feels like I’m really asleep again.
I don’t appreciate being shaken awake. “What?” I demand, my voice less groggy than before.
“Time to get up.”
“It’s not time to get up. It’s six thirty on Saturday morning. It’s time to sleep.”
“Nope. Not today.” He’s leaning over me now. I’m quite aware of his body, although I’m keeping my eyes closed intentionally.
“Why not today?”
“Because we’re getting started today.”
“Started on what?”
“Doing what you married me to do.”
I’m silent for a moment, my eyes still closed. Then I say, “I’m not having sex with you at six thirty on a Saturday morning.”
He chuckles. I can feel him smiling even when he stops laughing although I’m still not opening my eyes. “We can do that later. I’ve got something else planned for you this morning.”
Okay. I can’t hold out anymore. I finally open my eyes. “What do you have planned?”
“You’ll find out if you get your little ass out of bed.”
“Why do we have to do it so early?”
“It’s going to get hot later on. It will be a lot more comfortable this morning.”
I groan. “I’d rather be hot than get up so early.”
Assuming this concludes the conversation, I roll over on my side, showing him my back.
Hunter doesn’t seem to understand that the conversation is concluded. He lifts me out of the bed and sets me on my feet.
I squeal in surprise and indignation, and I’m convinced this is the only reasonable way to react to such an affront.
“I said—”
“I know what you said,” he interrupts. He’s dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, and he looks particularly big and bearded this morning.
Maybe that doesn’t make sense, but you’ll have to trust me. He does.
“So you should respect my—”
“I respect everything about you. But you agreed you’d do what I said about making your life more exciting. So we’re doing this and we’re doing it now.”
I groan and rub my face with both hands. I know he’s right. I did agree I’d do what he said regarding my desire to live life more fully.
I just don’t want to.
Not at six thirty in the morning.
“Go take a shower,” he says.
I frown. “I need coffee first.”
He shakes his head. “Shower first. I’ll make coffee while you’re in there.”
“Damn it, Hunter.”
“Are you gonna go take a shower or do I need to undress you myself?”
In the mood he’s currently in, I wouldn’t put it past him. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“You’ve got six minutes in the shower before I come in.”
I make a growling sound, but his threat is sufficient motivation.
I’m out of the shower in less than five.
I’M NOT IN A GOOD MOOD when we get into the car.
He still won’t tell me where we’re going, so he has to drive. I don’t mind his driving, but it’s barely seven on a weekend morning, and I should really still be in bed. Plus he’s just being obnoxious today.
But he pulls into a Starbucks, and I order a big sweet coffee drink, so that improves my mood.
Just a little.
We get on I-77 and start to leave Charleston.
“Where the hell are we going?” I demand for the third time.
“You’ll see.”
“This better be worth it.”
“It will be.”
He got a black coffee, which is boring as hell but seems to fit him. He’s sipping it as he slows down at the first toll booth outside town.
“Are we going to Beckley?” I ask.
He shakes his head as he pulls through and speeds up. “Not that far.”
“Good.”
“No wonder you don’t get up early if you’re always this grumpy in the mornings.”
“No,” I correct. “No. That’s not how it is. I’m grumpy because I was cruelly woken up hours before I should have been.”
“Okay.” He’s almost smiling, and it’s really pretty cute.
Way too cute. I’m having trouble holding on to my bad mood.
We drive for ten more minutes before he pulls off at an exit and takes two country roads to a long driveway that goes up to a big house on a huge property.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around. I’ve never been here before. That’s for sure.
“You remember Kyle Gerson from school?”
“Yeah.”
“This is his place.”
“Oh. What are we doing here?”
“You’ll see.”
I frown at him, which he (very annoyingly) ignores. He’s silent as he drives around the house and then pulls to the side.
As soon as we turn the corner, I see why we’re here.
There’s a big motorcycle parked in the middle of the large paved parking area.
I’m pretty sure it’s the one Hunter was borrowing last week and had to return.
“Oh,” I say, my heartbeat accelerating.
Nerves, not excitement.
I might like the idea of riding a motorcycle—just an isolated symbol of excitement that’s never been part of my life—but there’s no particular reason why I should need to ride one.
And I’m not sure I even really want to.
“I’m not sure...,” I begin, trailing off before I finish the sentence.
“I’m sure.”
“That thing is too big for me.”
“You can ride with me. I won’t make you do it by yourself on your first try.”
I take a ragged breath, although his words do make me feel better. Riding with him is better than rid
ing alone.
“Come on,” he says getting out of the car.
I get out too, much more slowly. My stomach twists as I get closer and realize the motorcycle is even bigger than it looked from a distance.
“Hunter.”
“It will be great.” He sounds perfectly confident, and he’s got his hand on my back now, pushing me forward.
“Shouldn’t we tell Kyle we’re here?”
“He and his family are out of town this weekend. He gave me the key yesterday. I thought you’d be more comfortable riding on roads out here, where there’s no one around, rather than in the city.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Come on. It won’t be nearly as scary as you think.”
“You can say that. You’ve done it before. I haven’t, and I’m not very brave.”
“Sure you are. When you were in high school, you stood up in front of the whole school and gave that speech for homecoming. You weren’t even nervous. I remember thinking you were the bravest girl I’d ever met.”
Okay. That’s nice to hear. Really nice. It makes me feel a little better. But I say, “That’s different. That was just using my brain. I’m not brave about anything that doesn’t use my brain.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
“I know I can make my brain do what I want it to do,” I explain. “But that’s not true about the rest of me.”
His expression softens slightly, like he understands. “Well, there’s nothing to be scared about in this. I’m not going to let you get hurt.”
“I’m not really afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid of looking stupid.”
He arches his eyebrows. “In that case, I have no sympathy for you. The only person around right now to see you look stupid is me, and I don’t give a fuck about that. Get your little ass on the seat, and I’ll explain how it works.”
I glare at him, but I do what he says.
He’s right, after all. I don’t want to look stupid in front of Hunter. I want to look smart and sexy and appealing in every way.
But he doesn’t think about me like that, and he’s telling me the truth.
He doesn’t care if I look stupid or not.
RIDING THE MOTORCYCLE is actually kind of fun.
At first, I’m too uptight to enjoy it. I sit behind Hunter on the seat, and I cling to him helplessly. He makes me wear the helmet, which is hot as hell. He’s right about getting an early start before the temperature rises. But eventually I grow more comfortable, and I can relax my hold. He slowly increases the speed, and I enjoy the view and the wind rushing over us.
And gradually I start to enjoy the feel of my body pressing so snugly against Hunter’s.
I’m not even aware of it at first, aside from the comfort I take in his being so big and strong. But as I relax, I become aware of him in a different way.
And the vibrations from the big engine don’t exactly help.
We ride to an overlook out on the mountains, where we get off, sit down, and drink a bottle of water. And on the way back I start to get turned on.
Really turned on, if you want to know the truth.
It’s kind of embarrassing.
I keep telling myself he can’t possibly know how I’m feeling. After all, my face is flushed from the wind and heat and motion, and the excitement of the ride will explain any other effects he might observe.
Driving home, I’m still kind of turned on, and it doesn’t go away even though we stop for a late breakfast.
It’s like my whole body is vibrating, pulsing, straining toward Hunter again.
I want to press up against him like I was before. But different this time.
When we get back to the apartment, I’m worried about how my body is feeling. Surely a physical reaction like this should have gone away by now.
“What’s the matter?” Hunter asks, kicking off his shoes.
“Nothing.”
He slants me a look.
“Nothing. Really. I just...” I think quickly and come up with something. “When is it going to stop feeling like the whole world is vibrating and rushing around in front of my eyes?”
He smiles. “It will go away eventually. I know a few tricks.”
“Really? What are they?”
“You should take a shower first.”
I nod, since this makes sense. Even going so early, I got hot and sweaty beneath my clothes. I’ll feel better all-around after I take a shower.
I go to the bathroom, peel off my clothes, and wait for the water to warm up. Then I get under the spray and start to lather myself up.
I’m rinsing off when I’m suddenly aware of a blast of cool air.
I squeal as Hunter gets in.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a shower.”
“And you couldn’t wait until I got out?”
“I thought you wanted to know what will make how you’re feeling go away.”
He’s giving me a particular look now. An intentional smoldering look that takes my breath away.
I take a step back as he takes a step forward.
“I know exactly how to take care of how you’re feeling,” he murmurs.
“I can’t have sex in the shower.”
“No problem. Shower first. Then sex.” He’s standing right next to me now.
My eyes dart down and see he’s already partly aroused.
My whole body throbs excitedly.
“Hunt-er.”
His expression changes as he meets my eyes. “I’m assuming you want this, angel. And that you’re just nervous. But you need to tell me if I’m wrong. If you don’t want this—I mean, really don’t want it—tell me. Tell me right now.”
I gulp. Take a breath. Gulp again. “I... do want this.”
He smiles hotly. “That’s what I thought.”
Four
MY FAVORITE POEM IN the entire world is “Kubla Khan.” In college, when I was taking a Romantic poetry class, I used to read the poems out loud to myself in my dorm room. Occasionally, I would wake up in the middle of the night, turn on the flashlight I kept near my bed, get out my poetry anthology, and read “Kubla Khan” to myself in a mostly dark room.
That’s the way to really experience the poem, if anyone is wondering.
I love the way the description of the pleasure dome builds in rhythm until there’s practically a poetic orgasm on the page as the fountain explodes.
Read the poem again when you get the chance and be sure to look for the orgasm.
That’s how I feel at the moment. Like I’m at the climax of “Kubla Khan” and all the delicious, sensuous building of anticipation has finally burst into visceral fruition as Hunter kisses me right there in the shower.
I’m so full of excitement and befuddlement that I can’t even begin to concentrate on what I’m doing. I know I reach up to cling to his shoulders. My fingers are slippery against his wet skin. And I know my lips part slightly because his tongue ends up in my mouth.
And I know my body is pulsing in response to the kiss, his hands, the press of his body against mine.
But other than that, I’m aware of no details. Just Hunter kissing me.
Hunter kissing me.
He pulls away eventually, his blue eyes hot and watchful and slightly amused. “So what d’you think?”
“About what?”
“About the kiss?”
I rub my sensitized lips. “It’s pretty good.”
“Pretty good?”
“Yes, pretty good. What do you expect me to say?”
“I expect better than pretty good, especially since it looks like your knees are about to buckle.”
I gasp. “They’re not about to buckle.”
This is a manifest untruth. I have to hold on to his arm to keep my balance.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, tilting his head toward mine again. The water is pounding down on his back, little drops bouncing off his skin in a hot mist. “It was better than pretty good.”
&nbs
p; His mouth is tilting up at the corners, his expression irresistible. I’m having trouble not smiling back at him.
I exert a massive effort and keep a straight face. “There’s no call to look so smug and pleased with yourself.”
He blinks wetly. “Why the hell not? My wife is naked in the shower with me, and we’re gonna have sex for the first time. Damn right I’m pleased.”
Okay. I’ll admit it. The fact that he says this—and particularly that he calls me his wife—pushes all my buttons.
My good buttons.
All my buttons.
I swallow hard.
But there’s an implicit challenge here, and I’m not going to fold to his sexiness just because he wants me to.
Just because I want to too.
So I arch my eyebrows. “If we’re going to have sex, then you’re going to have to use some soap. You got really sweaty this morning.”
“And we’ll get even sweatier in just a minute. That’s what makes it fun.”
Shit. My whole body gives an excited clench.
I’m afraid he sees it, but I make a valiant effort to keep my composure. “Even so.” I pass him the cucumber-scented bodywash I use. It’s the only soap in the shower, so I assume he’s been using it too. “I’m not having sex with a guy who stinks.”
He doesn’t actually smell bad. Even before he stepped under the shower spray, he smelled like the outdoors, not like body odor. But at least this shift in conversation has kept my knees from buckling.
With a naughty quirk of his mouth, he squirts some of the bodywash out onto his hand and sets the bottle back on the built-in shelf.
Then, instead of starting to lather himself up, he swipes his soapy hands up and down my abdomen.
I give a silly little squeal. “I meant you!”
“If you want me soaped up, you’ll have to do it yourself.” He’s teasing. I can see the warm laughter in his eyes, even through the steamy air. But his hands are still moving up and down over my body, sliding over my belly, my arms, my sides, and then up to my breasts.
I make a hissing sound as the heel of his hand skims over one of my nipples, triggering way too many sensations for me to hide the pleasure.
He grunts softly, clearly pleased by my reaction. He puts more soap on his hand and starts lathering me up again, spending a lot of time on my breasts. So much that I’m aching almost painfully between my legs when he finally pulls me under the spray to rinse off.
