?
“I know, but . . .” I don’t finish. I don’t know how to explain.
“You want me. Unless I’m imagining things.”
“I do.” I turn my burning face away from him, but then I remember he can’t see and I feel silly.
He gathers me closer and kisses my temple. “I can’t leave you with lady blue balls. That’s shit-boyfriend territory.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, unable to contain my amusement.
“It’s totally a thing. You just don’t notice because you have them constantly.”
“I really don’t.”
“How often do you touch yourself?” he whispers.
My face burns hotter, but I make myself answer, “I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it.”
“Once a day?”
“No.”
“Once a week?”
It takes me two tries before I manage to say, “Maybe.”
“When you do, do you touch here?” His fingers trail from my collarbones down to my breast, and he teases the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.
My throat locks, taking away my ability to speak. Before I met him, I never touched my own breasts that way. But after he kissed me there, I did try to replicate the way he made me feel. I wasn’t successful.
“I guess I don’t need to ask. I already know you liked what I did last time.” He adjusts his body position slightly, and in the next instant, the heat of his mouth closes around my nipple. He sucks and strokes with his tongue, and I feel the draw deep inside. I can’t help the sound I make—half gasp, half moan. “You made that same sound. I fucking love that sound.” He switches to my other breast and mirrors his actions there. I try not to, but I make that sound again. I grasp at the bedsheets, clenching them tightly as I writhe beneath his mouth.
“I wish I knew how to get that sound when I touch you here.”
With that, he smooths a hand over my stomach, down to the curls between my legs. A finger eases between slick folds and circles my clitoris with languid motions. My breath tears, and my hips rise sharply against his hand. It’s so close to being what I need. So close. But still so far.
“Faster?” he asks in a low voice.
I can’t answer.
“Harder?”
I stare into the darkness, quietly raging against . . . everything. But mostly myself. Why am I like this? Why can’t I change? Why can’t I speak up?
“Should we stop, Anna?” he whispers.
My eyes flood with tears that slowly spill down my face and soak into the blankets. “I don’t want to stop.”
He’s silent for a long span of time before he captures one of my hands and kisses the knuckles, sucks on the tip of a finger before nipping at it, and then guides my hand between my thighs to my sex. “Let’s try this, then,” he whispers, maneuvering my fingers so they’re pressed against my most sensitive place. “I can’t see you. I won’t know what you’re doing. You don’t have to say a single thing.”
“Quan, I can’t—”
He silences me with an openmouthed kiss as his fingers sneak between mine and stroke my clitoris, trapping my hand beneath his as he touches me. Just like before, it’s so close to being what I need. But still so far.
Only this time, my fingers are right there, and the temptation to do as he suggested is nearly unbearable. I fight it. I try to do the good thing. I succeed.
For a while.