Secrets

Gasping, I say, “I want you. I want to feel you. Please, Edward. Touch me.”



He smiles that beautiful smile that I love and his fingers press against the bare skin between my legs. I slide against his hand, my jeans pulling tighter as his hand moves. Edward dips his lips to my breast and he nips me gently, tugging my nipple with his teeth. A moan escapes my lips. I’m burning up inside. I want him. I want to feel him. I want to ride him and be with him.



His fingers circle the tender flesh between my legs, gently rubbing and stroking until I can’t stand it. The heat flashes through my stomach as I arch my back, begging him to touch me. He slides a finger into me and I moan, pushing back against his hand. Teeth nip my breasts, and his tongue teases me through the lace bra. I gasp, saying his name. With one hand he continues to stroke me, making me wetter and wetter. My body moves against his hand, craving more. His other hand finds the closure on my bra and flicks it open. The lace loosens and he pulls it away. His lips kiss me gently at first and then harder, drawing my tender flesh into his mouth, sucking. Writhing, I come against his hand. He pushes into me hard as he feels me pulsate, his lips still on my breast. Every time his hand pushes into me, I moan.



Edward kisses me gently and pulls away. He jumps up and walks toward the door, “Be right back.” He grins at me.



Breathing deeply I watch him, wondering what he’s doing. I never let him touch me like that before and I didn’t expect him to get me so riled up and then stop. I thought this was foreplay, but he’s left me alone. Sweat is covering my body. The air feels too cold with him gone. When I look up, he’s standing in the doorway with a towel in his hands.



It takes me a minute. I’m dazed with a lust-induced stupor, but I figure it out and ask, “You washed your hands?”



He nods and tosses the towel aside, closing the door behind him. “Yeah. Why? Does that bother you? Most girls like that I want to be clean.”



I arch an eyebrow at him. My pulse is slowing, my senses returning. He just said several things that bothered me, but getting up and leaving me there to wash his hands was the worst. I can’t even process what he just did so I latch onto the obvious, “Girls? How many have you been with?”



Leaning on the bed, he drapes his arm over my waist, “Enough to know what I like. Enough to know I want you.” His eyes rove over my body like he’s still filled with desire, but the way he washed me off his fingers broke whatever spell he wove. The illusion is shattered. Maybe getting up and washing in the middle of having sex didn’t bother other girls, but it bothers me. I pictured my dream guy loving my scent, burying his face between my legs like he couldn’t get enough, licking me off his fingers and then begging for more. That isn’t going to be Edward. He ran to the bathroom before we were even done.



Edward eyes me lazily and leans forward, sliding his hand into my waistband. Placing my hand over his, I stop him. He looks up into my eyes. I can’t let it go. I have to know what I am dealing with. Is he mental or was this just a precaution since we haven’t been together very long?



I ask, “If you found the right girl, the one you wanted in every way possible, would it be different? Would you want the scent and the feel of her on your hands?” Would you want to taste her? Would you swallow? I wonder, too afraid to ask . The questions rush out. Suddenly, this conversation feels very awkward.



Edward sits up and withdraws his hand from my waist. He looks confused. I pull my shirt over my head so my breasts aren’t just out there.



He watches me carefully, knowing he blew his chances with me tonight. He runs his fingers through his hair, “It bothered you.” He breathes deeply, shaking his head like he’s annoyed with himself. “I’m sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, it’s just that—”



I waive my hands at him, shaking my head, “You didn’t hurt my feelings,” the words are falling out of my mouth before I can stop them. It did bother me. It seemed like he couldn’t get me off his skin fast enough. I was offended, but my mouth is saying I wasn’t. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just tell him what I want? I’ve only been with two guys and neither of them did what I was hoping for either. I am barely twenty-two, but I know what I want. At some point I started to think that the things I want are strange. And I can’t talk sex with Emma—not when it’s sex with her brother.



Looking relieved, he touches my cheek gently. “Good, I’m glad. I don’t know what it is, but the idea of having someone else’s fluids on me just makes me feel like I need to wash it off.” He shivers like it’s gross—like I’m gross—and my heart sinks.



I can’t look at him. The bedspread is twirling between my fingers, my voice soft, “So, you probably don’t like the idea of tasting me. There.” The question is in my voice. I sound frail, like his words could hurt me. Maybe they could. I want him to say yes. I want him to want me.



Edward notices my tone, but he misreads my question. “I’d taste you there. I could do that.” He doesn’t sound eager. “Honestly, the idea of you doing that to me is more appealing.” He fumbles his words, laughing nervously.



I blink hard. What a dick. Did he really just say that?



Another question bashes me in the brain before I can think—why didn’t I notice this before?



Carefully, I ask, “So, I could go down on you and swallow, and you’d like that?” He nods at me, like he’s ready to do it now.



This is what I was afraid of, he doesn’t want to touch or taste me like that. It’s one-sided. We can’t do the things I want to do. Sex with him will be very limited if he doesn’t like sweat and other slippery substances. The pit of my stomach drops. This relationship wasn’t going to work. Damn. I’d asked him if he had any sexual preferences I should know about. Clean-freak didn’t come up. I lean my head back against the headboard and stare at the ceiling. I know there’s no future for us, but I can’t admit it. Things can’t be this way. Not again.



“Anna?” he asks, his hand sliding over my knee.



“Hmmm?” I can’t look at him. It feels like my insides have been carved out. I feel the loss of things I thought I’d have with him, things that will never be.



“I love you,” he whispers. My neck snaps and I blink rapidly, staring at him. My heart rate shoots up to stroke territory. A boyish smile forms on his lips. He doesn’t realize the effect of his words. “Just because that doesn’t appeal to me doesn’t mean that I don’t want you.”



My eyes are glassy. I feel like I’m going to cry. He loves me? But he’s too grossed out to show me the way I need. The way I want. I smile softly at him and he takes me in his arms, stroking my hair.



“I know I said it too early,” he says into my hair. His breath warms my throat. “But, I couldn’t let you think—”



I pull back and look him in the eye. Smiling, I say, “I love you, too.” My words are sincere. I care about him. I think about it and realize that I do love him. I want things to work out between us, so I say it. But I say it too soon after he drops a bomb on us and the consequence is disastrous.



CHAPTER 8



The next morning I find Emma sitting in the kitchen shoveling Cheerios into her mouth. “I can’t believe you’re dating my brother. That’s so gross.” Milk drools a little from the corner of her lips and she snort-laughs, wiping it away.



I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation already. “I know. Ick. Yuck. Don’t tell you about sleeping with him. I know the rules, Em. I won’t make it weirder that it has to be.”



She points her spoon at me, “I never called them rules—”



“Same difference,” I shrug. It was a condition of going out with her sibling. She didn’t want to know details, didn’t want to hear anything.



Memories of the night before play through my mind. I told him I loved him. That feels like the stupidest thing to have said. It will drag out the relationship when it should have been shot in the head. I need to talk to someone about it. I don’t know what to do. Edward is great. This was his worst trait, and it doesn’t seem that major in the light of day. But then again, it does. He made me feel like I was undesirable. The expression on his face when he left to wash his hands was burned behind my eyes. If he did that after we have sex, I wouldn’t be able to take it. It was like he couldn’t wait to get to the soap. I sighed, throwing my head back in an exaggerated whine.



“Don’t even,” Emma says, “You’re the one who wanted to date him. And I heard you last night—which wasn’t ideal by the way—if you tell me what happened, I’ll cut my ears off.”



“Well, then you’ll look really dumb. And I’m not telling you a thing,” I snap and walk away.



It’s Sunday. I head to my room and pull on a pair of ratty shorts and a tank top. Screw this. I’m not sitting at home, moping. I’m not that kind of girl. When things get messed up, I can sit around and sulk or try to figure out how to fix them. There has to be a way to fix this. I don’t want to put my sexual fantasies to rest yet, although the last two guys had similar reactions. From what I’ve read on the internet, the things I want aren’t that weird.