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West laughs as I try to wriggle away.
He holds my leg so I can’t move any further. “I’ve just fucked you with my tongue, and you come over my face, yet you don’t want me to clean you. Now hold still,” he instructs.
I think I just orgasmed again.
He works with such focus as he gently wipes my skin clean. Every stroke of the cloth, every touch of his fingers, sends sparks of sensation through me.
“West,” I say softly, “do you want to have sex?”
He pauses, looking up at me with those intense pale eyes that seem to see right through to my soul. “Seeing you come gave me my high,” he replies, and I detect pure honesty in his tone. “Now I want to hold you.”
He wants to hold me.
My heart swells. Sometimes we feel as fake as our relationship is, but at times like now, we feel like more than a casual arrangement.
I lean closer, resting against him as he finishes cleaning me up.
The warmth of his body radiates against mine; it’s so comforting that I’m craving more of him. “You don’t want to?”
“I do,” he interrupts gently. “But not yet.”
My stupid emotions are dancing between disappointment that he doesn’t want me and sheer relief that he’s not pushing me.
“Okay,” I whisper, surrendering to the moment as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his embrace.
We lay there together, side by side, but his warmth surrounds me. I breathe in the smell of fresh linen and that scent that is distinctly him.
It smells like home.
With his arms wrapped around me, he feels like home. He doesn’t know he’s grounding me in ways I haven’t felt in years.
“Do you want to talk about your parents?” His voice is a soft rumble against my ear.
I turn to him, my fingers brushing against his hard chest, over the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
I shake my head. “Not right now.” I’m still processing everything. Before today, I was so afraid of opening up about my life. Now I’ve started to open up; it feels overwhelming.
He nods, accepting my answer as he holds me close. Silence wraps around us like a comforting blanket; it feels natural.
West brushes his fingers along my arm, tracing lazy patterns that send shivers down my spine. “You’re safe here,” he assures me. “No one will hurt you.”
I believe him. It’s strange how quickly I’ve come to trust him. Maybe it’s because he sees beyond the surface that I give the world. He can see the broken pieces.
Pieces that are stuck together with weak glue.
Pieces I’ve tried to pretend are whole.
He leans closer, brushing his lips against my temple in a tender kiss that ignites every nerve ending in my body.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers against my ear.
I bite my lip, contemplating how different things feel since stepping into his world. No longer do I feel invisible; with him, I feel alive.
I turn to him and say, “Thank you.”
Knowing something has shifted inside me. Like I believe someone for the first time in years.
And I can hope my broken pieces might come together again.