I hold in a groan, taking a step back to hide my stuttering breath. Fuck.
Besides kissing and some groping over our clothes, we haven’t furthered our sexual relationship. I’m trying my best to take things slow, after everything else happened so quickly—or so it seemed. I wanted her to get to know me better, to truly know she could trust me before adding sex to the mix, since sex never fails to skew one’s emotions. I wanted her to be able to tell what I felt for her was more than just lust. And I also wanted her emotions for me to grow without the confusion of sex as well, because she hadn’t responded with the sentiment whenever I told her I was in love with her. Which was completely fine and didn’t hurt my feelings or worry me at all. I understand what Astrid is going through. I know she has fears that will take time and lots of work to overcome. And that’s why I’ve only held her in my arms to fall asleep at night. I’ve only petted her hair while we watch TV. I’ve only massaged her sore muscles as a reward for getting out of the house and going to the gym each day. It was all to strengthen the bond and trust between us.
I waited a year for Astrid, with her living under my roof. I’d wait a hundred more if that’s what it took to build something between us that would last forever.
But fuck my life is she making it hard… literally.
I growl, spinning around to head back into the house, calling over my shoulder, “Gonna change into my swim trunks. Want to eat dinner outside?”
When she doesn’t answer by the time I hit the door, I glance back at her, seeing the hurt in her eyes for only a second before it’s gone. She blinks then looks up and me, giving me a small smile. “Yeah, that sounds fun,” she replies, but her smile doesn’t reach those beautiful blue eyes, and I know in that moment I’d do anything to take away all her pain, including do something against my better therapist judgment.By the time I changed and got back downstairs, Astrid was pulling the baked chicken out of the oven and already had our plates set out on the island. I helped her divvy up the sautéed veggies and rice, and then we ate dinner at the patio set in the back before sinking into the bubbling water. We didn’t converse much, but she did read me the rest of the chapter she was on in the book on her Kindle while I massaged her legs beneath the water, her voice catching when I hit a particularly sore or good spot. And then we went upstairs, showered, and got into bed, Astrid with her Kindle, and me with one of my small leather-bound books from my study.
Her legs shift beneath the covers every so often, and at first, I think it’s because she’s uncomfortable, sore from her barre class. Having taken that first one with her, I know how many fucking squats she did this morning. But as I listen closely, the room completely silent, not even the air conditioner blowing at the moment, I can hear every minute sound she makes. Every time she swallows, every time her feet twitch under the sheet… and I can tell she’s trying to control her breathing but is failing.
Her legs shift again, and as I look at where her knees are beneath the covers, turning only my eyes so she doesn’t know I’m watching, I see she rubs her thighs together, and her breath catches just slightly.
She’s trying to hide that she’s turned on as she continues to read from her little white Kindle, and God how I want to rip it out of her hand and make love to her, to show her she doesn’t need to hide anything from me, to not feel any sort of shame for the emotions and physical reactions she feels. But at the same time, I don’t know if she’s ready. Even if she has dropped hint after hint over the past few days that she wants me, I’m trying to be strong for the both of us.
But I don’t know if even I’m strong enough to withstand my sweet goddess, lying so close to me, growing wetter and more aroused the longer she reads.
She startles me out of my thoughts when suddenly she slams her Kindle on the mattress between us. Before I can ask her what’s wrong, she twists away from me, reaching for something on her side table.
No, not on it.
In it.
As she pulls open the drawer and takes out a makeup bag.
Oh fuck.
I hear her voice inside my mind, picturing her as she sat on the couch in my study, telling me all her secrets. “I got myself a little vibrator, the one I now keep in a makeup bag in my nightstand drawer.”