Damage Control

He means no condom, because he trusts me with my birth control. And while it seems a small thing it is not. It’s trust, he gives me. That’s what he’s telling me. He has, and does, trust me. And trust is a powerful, sexy thing. “Can you please hurry,” I whisper, my body suddenly achy and empty, in a deep, burning way.

“Say it,” he demands.

“I want you inside me. I need you inside me.”

“Need,” he repeats. “I like that word.” He kisses me again, a deep passionate kiss that is over too soon. “I have on too many clothes.”

He lifts off me and I ball my hand between my breasts, willing my racing heart to calm and trying to think, but he is already back. He is leaning over me, the thick ridge of his erection pressed against my sex, the heavy weight of him on top of me absolute perfection. And he stares down at me. I swear I can see what he wants from me in his eyes, and it’s everything. He wants everything, and that should scare me, but right now, I want that too. Right now, I feel like it’s possible. Seconds tick by, and questions and answers flow between us, and they all end in one place. How right we feel with each other. How connected.

He leans in, his lips at my ear. “Everything has changed,” he says again, and I don’t need to ask what he means, nor do I have time. He presses inside, filling me, stretching me, completing me in ways no other man has or ever could. He’s different. We’re different and the many ways that is true, are not all good.

“Shane,” I whisper, burning with the need to hold him, not to lose him, and he responds, leaning back to look at me.

“I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, but you need to say the same thing. No more running. Not from me.”

“I’m not.”

“Say it.”

“This isn’t a fair time to—”

“Ask me if I give a fuck about fair right now. Say it.”

“I’m with you.”

“You’re staying.”

“Yes. I’m staying, Shane, but you—”

He kisses me, and there are no more words. There is only passion. So much passion. It’s like someone snapped their fingers and we exploded into want and need. His fingers are in my hair. Mine are in his. Our bodies are moving and swaying. And we don’t start slow. We press our bodies together. We touch each other everywhere, anywhere. The feel of his taut muscle under my hands makes me want more. The feel of his cock driving into me makes me want him deeper. Harder. I think I say that. I do. I say it. I say it over and over. Except, I still feel like this is good-bye, like this is the only time I will ever touch him again.

Too soon, I feel the ache in my belly that I know is another orgasm, and I pant out, “Shane,” trying to get him to slow down, but he answers with a deep thrust, and then another, and his tongue—his talented, demanding tongue—licks into my mouth, and I explode. I tumble over into the depths of pleasure, and my sex clenches around his shaft, and the sensation of him inside me, still pumping, still pushing, is almost too good to allow me to breathe. Then he is shuddering, a low, guttural growl escaping his lips, so raw and animalistic that it can only be described as pure sex.

When finally we collapse together, we don’t speak or move. We hold each other, absorbing everything that has happened between us, but I do not feel anger from him. I don’t feel accusation. I feel … us. I feel closer to him than I ever have and I don’t know how that’s possible. I lied to him.

He lifts his head, kissing my forehead in a tender act I feel as readily as I did that orgasm, but this time in my heart. “Stay still,” he orders. “I’ll get you a towel.” He lifts off and out of me, and I can already feel the sticky warmth of his release, but there is so much more going on with me in this moment. I start to shiver, and I do not believe it’s from the cold air blowing from somewhere in the room. I hug myself and images I’ve suppressed for weeks on end come at me. My father’s casket. My mother’s casket. And that night. The blood. So much blood. Nausea and panic overcome me, and I shoot to a sitting position, hunching forward.

Shane is there instantly, pressing the towel between my legs, and then his shirt is suddenly over my head, falling down to drape my body, a shelter that I want, but cannot have. A cold breeze blasts over us again, and he glowers in its direction. “Why the hell is the air on in the middle of the winter?” He stands and walks toward the thermostat in all his naked, leanly muscled glory, his backside a work of art. He is perfect, and not just his body. The way he controls everything around him. He is sex, power, and passion.

He adjusts the thermostat and grabs his pants, shoving his legs inside them before snatching up my sweats and bringing them to me. “Put these on so you can warm up.”

I don’t argue. Why would I? He’s protecting me, and in this, I can actually accept the gesture. Reaching for my pants, I maneuver to pull them on and then he is on the bed in front of me again, and in his eyes, there is possession I should reject, but there is more. There is this sense of him feeling I am his to protect, to please, to hold on to, and somehow, that feels right and good. But I am wrong to feel this, to jeopardize his safety.

“No,” I say, as if he has spoken those things, my hand settling on his chest, his heart thundering beneath my palm. “I can’t pull you into this. It’s wrong.”

He covers my hand with his. “You aren’t pulling me into anything. I’m here of my own free will.”