Only a few more minutes of torture.
The razor is much the same, and he’s very thorough and clinical when he does have to touch me. Those gloved fingers skate over my clit by accident, and it takes the spirits of all the women who came before me to hold back my moan.
“Aight. Don’t move; I’ma go get a hot towel.” He wipes his hands on the one I’m sitting on and gets up.
I don’t exhale until he’s in the bathroom.
Twenty minutes into this shit, I’m now painfully aware I haven’t had sex in six months, five days, and twenty-two hours. I haven’t even masturbated. It’s been work, shenanigans with Peanuthead, doing pregnant people shit, and trying to force myself to create. I haven’t even really thought about being with a man foreal. Yeah, I talk all that shit about getting a nigga to play stepdaddy, but it’s all hot air. Once Beanie comes, it’s all about her.
But having a man–an attractive, rich, intelligent one at that– rubbing his hands all over my intimate parts makes me yearn for someone to get lost in.
And for the life of me, I can’t remember all the reasons why it can’t be Shaddy.
I mean, he’s Beanie’s daddy anyway, right? What harm could it do?
He comes back with two towels in his hands and takes a seat. The first one is hot, and he wipes me down properly. The second one is cold, but that one’s over much sooner.
He drops the towels on the coffee table and picks up the mirror. “How’d I do?”
I lift up and I can’t help but beam.Hey girl! I missed you!
“Damn, you did yo shit, foreal. You gone hook me up every month until I pop? I can’t be in the doctor’s face with a bush.”
He sets the mirror down and grabs the lube before turning to face me again. “You worried about the wrong things.”
“You gone put on more gloves?”
He shifts his eyes to me. “You want me to?”
Do I?
He’s acting so fucking nonchalant. Come to think of it, besides talking about Beanie, he pretty much acts unbothered when it comes to me.
I don’t know how to feel about that.
Which has me telling him, “Nah. It’s cool.”
He arches a brow. “You sure? If you’re uncomfortable–”
“Just massage my pussy already, Shad. Damn!” I snap.
He licks his lips and smirks. And for some reason, I think I just got in trouble.
He pours a generous amount on three of his fingers before setting the bottle down and gripping my thigh. “Spread your legs more.”
Did his voice just get softer?
I spread them more, but my neck locks into place. My eyes refuse to leave his. This feels like a game of chicken, and the first one to look away loses.
He must have forgotten I grew up with an older brother.
I don’t play to lose.
I barely wince when one finger slides into me. I’m embarrassingly wet, but neither one of us says a word. He pushes down on my perineum and slides his finger from right to left.
“That’s okay?” he asks.
I nod once, and he bites the inside of his cheeks.
