With a quiet huff of need, Ren drives his hips up, grinding against my thigh in search of relief.
"Oh, Ren,” I breathe.
At the sound of my voice, he drops his hips back to the bed and pushes my leg down. "My love."
I whimper as an aftershock makes me shudder. "Ren, that was…" I tilt my face up, kiss the underside of his jaw. "Thank you, Ren.Thankyou."
"What else could I ever want but to give you pleasure? Nothing, Sophia. Nothing. The sounds you make while coming for me are the sweetest music."
I huff a laugh. "When did you become a poet?"
"I'm not. I just want you to understand how you make me feel."
"Ren, I…I want…"
He turns his face down to meet mine, kisses me. "Tell me, my love. Anything."
"I want to make you feel good, too."
"Don't think about me. I don't want or need anything but you. Just like this. Whatever needs I may have can wait."
I search myself yet again.
The fear is still there—I don't think my fear of sex will go away all at once. But I can face the fear. Lorenzo gives me the courage—I know if I try something I'm not ready for and have to stop, he won't be upset, won't make me feel guilty.
He is my safety. My shelter from the storms of my trauma.
"I love you, Ren," I whisper. "And I want to try."
His breath hitches at the first part of my statement. "Soph," he says. "I said anything, and I meant it. But whatever you do, do for you. Not for me. You stop when you need to stop. You don't explain or apologize—not for anything, no matter what. Promise me that."
I nuzzle my nose against his jaw, the fullness of my heart a soft swelling tenderness for this man. "I promise."
He rests his hand on my hip, tucks his nose and mouth against the top of my head, and inhales my scent. “Then do with me as you will, my love. I am yours."
8
THIS LITTLE BUBBLE
LORENZO
Despite my reassuring words to Sophia, I ache with the need for release. I would never put any kind of pressure on her to do anything, but in my secret heart, I cannot help but hope she is able to touch me. It feels selfish, but I am nothing if not honest with myself, if I don’t always burden her with truths that would only overwhelm her, make her feel guilty, or pressure her into something she’s not ready for.
I close my eyes and let my heart hammer in anticipation, holding absolutely still. I have the generous curve of her hip under my hand, the other stretched out beside me over the blanket.
Her hands are tucked between us. For a few moments, she just lays partly on me, head on my chest, thigh draped over mine, breathing. And then she rests her hand on my chest, over my sternum. She explores my chest, palming my pecs, thumbing my nipples. Then my abs, my ribs, my sides. Her touch moves in a circle, stomach to waist to chest, opposite side to stomach and back to my chest again.
A pause, her hand resting on my stomach.
I hear her swallow. Feel her take a deep breath, hold it.
She lets it out slowly, shakily.
"You're the only one," she whispers.
"The only one what, darling?" I ask.
"The only one," she repeats. "Anything good I have ever felt has come from you." She sighs, the sound shaky, emotional. "I'm sorry I'm such a weepy, pathetic mess."
