“Stop right there.” I close my eyes and take a slow, deep breath. At this rate, I’m going to hyperventilate. That sounded harsher than I intended, but I need her to understand**I’m not distracted, not thinking of anyone else. I inhale again, steadying myself. Time to be honest. “I want to, really. It’s just… I don’t know how to do this.”
She arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by my cluelessness. “Go to… sleep?” Her tone is dripping with amusement, like I’m an idiot.
“No, no. I mean this.” I gesture between us, standing awkwardly by her bed. “I’ve never done this before. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”
She smirks. “Well, you have to get in the bed first.” She tosses the blanket aside, and I nearly choke, coughing as my throat tightens.
How could I forget? Earlier, when I helped her to bed, I took off her jeans so she’d be comfortable. That was the only thought on my mind, but now, faced with her bare legs stretched out invitingly, I’m torn between regret and desire. Her skin looks so soft, so tempting. I want to trace every curve, memorize every inch with my hands.
“Okay… maybe this is a mistake.” She starts pulling the covers back over herself. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing there, frozen and staring, trying to regain control, and now she thinks I don’t want this. I’ve hurt her again. Damn it! Why can’t I ever get this right?
“Wait! Just give me a second.” After a few more coughs, I manage to speak without sounding like a wreck. “I wasn’t ready for that. Sorry. You always catch me off guard. I just… I need to take it slow. Is that okay? Can we go really, really slowly?”
She nods, and I flex my hands a few times, willing myself to calm down. I can do this.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my heart pounding. “Can you tell me why you need slow?” Her voice is soft, almost tender. I’ve never heard her speak to me like this before, and I want to listen forever.
“I told you, I’ve never done this before.” She exhales deeply and leans back against the headboard, stretching her legs out in front of her.
“You do realize that means absolutely nothing to me, right?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“It’s hard to explain. And right now, I’m trying really hard not to touch you. Can we just sit like this for a while?”
“You want to lie next to me and not touch me? That’s not comforting at all.” She looks at me, eyes searching. “You know that, right? Is there somewhere else you’d rather be? Someone you don’t want smelling my scent on you?”
My head jerks toward her, surprised by the sudden intensity in her gaze. “Fuck no.”
“Then what’s your problem? Why is it so difficult for you to be close to me? Why won’t you touch me? Why are you being so cryptic?”
I rub my face with my hands, overwhelmed by the conflicting feelings her scent stirs inside me. It calms me and ignites me at the same time, leaving my mind in chaos. “If I touch you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself.”
“What if I don’t want you to?” Her voice is so soft, barely audible, that I almost miss the words altogether.
“What?” I ask, leaning in slightly, trying to catch every syllable.
“You heard me,” she says, sliding down beside me and turning onto her side, her eyes locked onto mine with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve.
“I want to take things slow,” she begins, her tone gentle but steady. “I want to be sure about what I’m doing. I want to be careful with you. You deserve that**slow, thoughtful, and tender. You should be cherished. Honestly, I have no idea how to do that. I’ve never been with a woman before.” I close my eyes, bracing myself for a laugh or some kind of mockery, but none comes.
“Wait, what?” I hear the bed shift as she moves closer. “What exactly do you mean? Because I’ve seen the bruises before**you know, the ones that show you’ve been with other women.” She lifts her shirt slightly, pointing to the marks on her abdomen. In that moment, my gaze can’t help but catch the delicate black lace of her panties resting low on her hips, and I let out a soft groan.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her confidence wavering as quickly as it had appeared. “I know I’m not in the same shape as the women you usually prefer.” Her voice shifts from tender reassurance to fragile insecurity in an instant.
She fumbles with her shirt, pushing it down with one hand while nervously reaching for the blanket with the other.
“Please don’t do that,” I say softly.
“Do what?” she replies, a hint of confusion in her voice.
“Compare yourself to anyone else. Do you have any idea how stunning you are? Please don’t cover up.”
“I just know I’m not your type. That’s all,” she whispers, looking away.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say firmly.
“I know your reputation,” she counters, “and I’ve heard the rumors**those whispers floating around from the few times I’ve left the packhouse.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.