But I also get it. It’s my fiancées faith, his principles. They are vitally important to him. And relationships are, after all, all about compromises — marriages even more so, and the silver ring on my finger says we’re going to get married in three months, so…
And, really… maybe he had a point when he said that I was dependent on my sex? That I had spoilt it and myself too much? I did find myself thinking about it all day every day last week and it made me feel crazy, like an addict on withdrawal.
And the orgasm, as beautiful and perfect as it was, also left me… somehow wistful? Like something was missing. I lay awake for half an hour after slipping back into bed and tried to make sense if it but didn’t succeed before I fell asleep.
“Yes, it was wrong of you,” Dylan nods. “But the failing of one partner in a relationship is always a failing of both, so it’s also my fault. I should have predicted that you would cheat, and I should have known how powerful your addiction really is.”
I defend myself against the accusation even though I had conceded it in my head just twenty seconds ago. “Oh, it’s not a- I’m not-”
He laughs quietly and smiles at me with almost paternal fondness. “It is. You are. You couldn’t manage 72 hours without fondling yourself, love.” He pets the apple of my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re like a little girl that will stuff her face with cookies and chocolate forever if the pantry isn’t locked.”
“I…I–” I don’t know how to respond. Embarrassment knots my tongue.
“I will help you from here on out,” he promises. “We’ll try different methods.”
My belly pulls tight at his words. “What methods?”
Dylan kisses my forehead. “The Vow gives some direction. My docent also gave me good advice. So did my father. We’ll start tonight.”
***
“Take off your panties.”
Dylan has just come out of the shower and into the bedroom, snatched my phone out of my hands without warning and placed it face-down on the nightstand.
“Hey — What?” I protest, confused.
“You heard me, Liz.” He sounds a little irritated.
I quickly throw back the duvet and reach under the thigh-length sleepshirt I’d donned tonight. “Sorry,” I tell him, not knowing exactly what I’m apologizing for. I get naked below the belt.
He watches me unthread my legs and feet from my panties, then holds a palm out for the garment. I hand the little ball of fabric to him. It’s purple with little white bows on the front.
“Scoot forward,” he orders next, and I do, allowing him to get into bed behind me. He arranges his larger body so that his back is against the headboard, and I sit between his splayed legs.
“Lean back.” I do. “Close your eyes.” Hmm yes.
I snuggle into him. He is wide enough in the chest to be a perfect big spoon for me.
“Do you remember that week we met?” I smile and huddle deeper, too content to even worry about the panty thing. “We sat exactly like this at Chris’ get-together, too, watching that weird-ass Korean movie, and you kept feeding me those mini-pretzels. I swear they were made with cocaine; they were so addictive. D’you remember how Alex…”
We reminisce for a bit. He gives me a neck massage. I sigh a lot, hoping to encourage him to keep going.
His strong fingers slide from the back of my neck to the sides, then suddenly to the front, and eventually down my chest. My heart jumps and my pulse quickens. He has never really… only ever fleetingly…
His hands reach my tits that are already heavy and tingling with the sheer yearning to be touched. Even through the washed-out fabric of the T-shirt, I feel the warmth of his big palms, and I sigh and moan. “Ooohnn, Dylan, yes… please, yes…”
He massages my breasts with slow, deep movements, grabbing and releasing, petting them in wide circles, squeezing them forward until they look like obscene torpedo balloons and feel ready to pop.
Five minutes ago, I would have sworn I wouldn’t like my boobs being manhandled. But I do. I almost wish he’d squeeze me harder and leave fingerprint bruises on my skin.
I can feel my pulse in my nipples — he’s ignoring them purposefully. I wriggle in the cradle of his body and lightly grab his wrists. “Dylan, Dylan, please…”
“What do you need?”
“My… please, touch my nipples.”
“I am touching your nipples, Liz.” His palms indeed cover them liberally. “Through the shirt, anyway.”
I have a déj� -vu, or whatever you call it when it’s a conversation you could swear has happened before. I have almost the same reaction, too — a strong tingle at the juncture of my thighs.
“No, touch them properly.”
The second this — order, really — falls off my lips, his hands still and just cup my boobs in a demanding, possessive sort of way.
Dylan’s mouth is close to my ear. “How would I properly touch your whorish nipples, then? Hm?”
I squirm. That word… he keeps using it and I… It makes me feel weird. I decide to not mention it right now. Ignore it. And be a good feminist and just ask directly and concretely for what I want.