Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

MACY

I didn't know what to wear. Bra and panties? Walk out there bare naked?

No one has seen me naked in the last six years except Spencer. And even then, most of the time it was dark.

This Garfield shirt is stupid. Why did I even bring it? It's not sexy. I'm not wearing my shorts, but I left my underwear on. Should I have taken off my underwear?

I don't know what I'm doing. But I'm standing here in the doorway and Wood is staring at me and he's not saying anything.

Why isn't he saying anything? Should I say something?

"Um," I stammer, pulling at the hem of my shirt. "Is this okay? Should I take this off?"

He clears his throat. "Do you want to?"

I shake my head.

"Leave it on," he says. "Come here."

I step toward him as he comes to me, and we meet in front of the neatly made bed. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the bedside lamps. He looks down at me with a smile on his lips and he smells so good and he's so pretty, I can't get over it. He looks calm. That makes one of us.

"How should we—I mean, how do you want to start?" My voice quivers. My palms are sweaty. My heart is pounding.

Wood takes my hand. "We don't have to do this. If you want, we can just go to bed and forget about the whole thing."

But I do want to do this. More than that, I deserve it. I've been thinking about it all night. I've been nervous, but also excited and aroused by the thought of it.

I want the good fiddle sticking.

"I want to," I say.

He squeezes my hand. "Okay. How about you lie down on the bed?"

I swallow. Then I lie down on the bed. To get serviced. By Wood.

"I have panties on. Should I take them off, or?—"

Wood chuckles softly, kneeling next to me. "No. I'll take them off when it's time."

Is it not time? I thought it was time.

"We're just going to take it slow and get you relaxed and used to me touching you first." His voice is low and soothing, like I'm an injured wild animal he's trying to calm or something.

I am used to him touching me and I am relaxed. Does he not think I'm relaxed? Because I am. I'm ridiculously relaxed.

"Mace, this is all about you. You're in complete control. If you feel uncomfortable, or you change or mind, or want me to stop—at any time—just tell me and I will."

"You wouldn't be mad?"

His smile dissolves, a shadow passes over his face. "Look at me." He clenches his jaw and holds direct eye contact as he says, "Macy, no. I will not be mad at you."

I nod.

He brushes a strand of hair away from my forehead and then stands. "Turn onto your stomach."

I do as I'm told.

Something about the tone in his voice and his serious expression makes my skin tingle.

The mattress dips under his knees as he joins me on the bed and straddles my legs.

My heart beats faster. My face is hot. I bury it in the pillow.

Wood touches my back. His hands are gentle and warm. He applies light pressure as he rubs up my back to my shoulders. He presses circles with his thumbs between my shoulder blades then he moves up, curling his fingers around the back of my neck.

His hands are large and soft and the skin on skin is…nice. I like this more than I ought to.

He massages my neck and then the base of my skull. I'm a puddle on the sheets by the time he moves back down to my shoulders, my arms, around my ribs then down to my lower back.

I feel him scoot down to the end of the bed and then his hands are on my calves, his fingers kneading my flesh. I think I let out a little moan but it's muffled by the pillow.

"How are you doing, Mace?" His hands move up to my knees.

"Good," I say into the pillow, not sure if he heard me.

He massages up, up above my knees. Then higher.

I'm hot all over, blood pumping under my skin. It rushes between my legs, the heat blossoming with such intensity I can feel my pulse right there.

His hands inch higher up my thighs.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice low and husky.

"Mm-hmm."

Wood moves his hands up under my shirt, over my panties, his fingers rubbing my bottom while his thumbs dip down lower. Down to where my behind creases. Lower still, to where the heat is pooling.

Energy prickles under my skin. The need growing.

Each time he touches me, closer and closer to where I'm aching for more.

I need more.

"Still doing good?" he asks.

"Yes," I breathe.

"Spread your legs for me, love."

I inch my legs apart, the dull ache between them instantly giving way to uncontrollable throbbing. I need pressure. I need him to?—

He slides his fingers down, touching me right where I need him, applying the perfect pressure to my pulsing clit and rubbing circles over it.

I whimper into the pillow. Loud. Embarrassingly he-definitely-heard-me loud.

And then the delicious pressure is gone, and I want to whimper more in protest.

Warm fingertips touch my hips and then slip under the waistband of my panties.

"I'm going to take these off now," he whispers. "If that's okay."

I lift my hips off the mattress. He doesn't need any more confirmation. He hooks his fingers into my panties and slides them down my hips, over my bottom, then down my legs and off.

He doesn't have to ask me to spread my legs this time as he runs his hand up the inside of my thigh.

My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, overtaking any thoughts. I'm only sensations. My physical body and how it's reacting to Wood touching me. Hot. Liquid. Buzzing.

The dampness between my thighs would be embarrassing if I weren't drunk with need. Nothing else matters but his fingers slipping between my folds, slick and hot. And then he's rubbing my clit again. It swells under his fingertips.

I moan.

"Turn over," he demands.

I roll over onto my back, my shirt ridden up, bunched around my waist.

Wood is sitting between my knees, back on his haunches. His blue eyes are hot on me. Feral. Unblinking. His lips are parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His hands are on his thighs, his gray sweatpants taut, stretched and straining against his muscled thighs and—and the obvious bulge between them. Angled up toward his hip, the clear outline of his erection is long and thick and suddenly I can't breathe.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice strained, almost desperate. "Please?"

I nod, barely able to get out a squeak of a breath before he's crawling up to me and pressing his lips to mine. Gentle at first but then his hand is cupping my jaw and his fingers are in my hair and his tongue is sliding in against mine. Deeper. Longer. More. Breathing heavy.

He has his hips up in the air, keeping his body off me. I want to pull him down to me, feel his weight pushing me into the mattress. Feel how hard he is…because of me.

But then he reaches down between us and strokes between my legs some more, the wet noises so vulgar I'd blush if I weren't already flushed from head to toe.

He pulls away, his expression strained, almost as if he's in pain. Holding back.

Wood looks back and forth between my eyes and he doesn't have to say anything. I know what he wants—one last confirmation, explicit permission.

I don't say anything back, just push gently down on his shoulders. His little lopsided grin appears along with a devilish glint in his eyes, then he goes down.

He kisses just below my navel, softly, his hands gripped tightly on my hips. Then lower. His lips warm, tender. Lower still.

I'm holding my breath.

Wood slides his hands down my thighs and hooks them under my knees. He pushes them up and spreads my legs lewdly in front of him, making me gasp.

And then he dives down, burying his face, tongue hot against me.

He licks and kisses and licks some more. Slowly. Like he's savoring a meal.

Each lick sends a wave of pleasure through my body. I'm dizzy with it.

He plays the tip of his tongue around my clit, circling, teasing. I'm drowning in need, gasping, whimpering, swallowing, unable to speak, wanting to beg. Desperate for more.

I twist my fingers in the bed sheets, eyes rolling back, breathing heavily, skin hot, an excruciatingly perfect tension building in my core. More, I still need more.

"Please," I'm able to pant.

Wood closes his lips around my clit and starts sucking.

I wail so loud and unexpectedly, I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth to mute the sound.

Wood is looking directly up at me, still sucking, licking, sucking. His lips are glossy, coated in me. "Take your hand away. I want to hear you."

I glance to the right, to where Spencer's room is on the other side of the wall.

Wood smirks. "Let him hear what I'm doing to you."

He licks again, sending shockwaves down to my toes and making my stomach tighten.

I move my hand away, gasping for air as he flicks the tip of his tongue against my pulsing clit.

"Will he know what he's hearing?" he asks. "Does he even know what you sound like when you come?"

"No," I whisper.

He grins, licks his lips, then goes back to eating me out, using his fingers this time to spread me apart, taste me up and down, in and out.

I close my eyes and let go. Throw my head back and let out every sound inside me without reservation. I don't think, just feel.

His hands on me, fingers digging into my hips. Soft lips, wet tongue, hot breath. The sounds of him swallowing every few moments, drinking from me.

My tummy quivers as the pleasure coils there. Tight. Tighter.

It's building, growing, the pressure, the ache. Every inch of me is throbbing. Too sensitive.

He sucks and tugs on my clit again, and I cry out. He stays there, playing me with the tip of his tongue, faster than before but with the perfect amount of pressure. Then sucking. Licking.

"I'm close," I manage to pant out. "Wood?—"

Wood. Wood is about to make me come.

There, right there, he stays steady on my clit. I try to buck and twist my hips away from the overwhelming sensation, but he holds me down, never letting up.

There's fire under my skin. Pressure building. Mind numbing. And then it bursts like water spilling over a dam. Suddenly and all at once, hard, crashing against every surface.

For a minute everything goes blank as the waves move through me. Flowing lusciously out to my toes and fingers. Licking their way up my chest and neck, filling my head with swirling visions of gold.

He's still licking and kissing between my legs when the waters subside, being so soft and gentle, looking up at me with his blue eyes, massaging my hips and butt as I come down from the strongest orgasm I've ever experienced.

I've soaked the sheet under me, my thighs are slick, and Wood's face is glistening with me as he cleans me up with his tongue. Is he humming?

Suddenly I want to close my legs and scoot away and cover my face and never let either of us speak a word about this ever again.

"You okay? he asks.

"Mm-hmm." I nod and sit up, pulling my shirt down.

Should I thank him, or—? I'm not sure of the protocol here.

"You're not getting shy on me now, are you?"

"No." Yes.

He sits up, too. My eyes drop to his crotch. I can't help it. He's somehow even bigger and more erect than earlier. The ridge of the head protruding against his sweats, a dark, small wet spot seeping into the fabric at the tip.

I don't realize I'm staring until he adjusts himself and says, "Yeah, I'm leaking a little. If you had lasted a few more minutes, I don't know if I would have."

I swallow, the thought of Wood coming in his sweats makes the overheated skin between my thighs start to tingle again.

"I'll make sure to grab a towel next time," he says.

I follow his gaze to where he's looking down between us at the wet sheets.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He snaps his head up. "For what? For being perfect? For coming all over my face exactly how I wanted you to?" He leans forward, almost like he's going to crawl up my body, or pounce on me. "For making the perfect noises the whole time? For having the prettiest pussy I've ever seen? For tasting better than I'd even imagined possible?"

"Oh," is all I can muster to breathe out.

He's closer. He tilts his head as he smirks. "I can't wait to do it again."

Then he pushes off the bed. With his back to me, he gets something out of his bag and then promptly drops his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

"Are you looking at my ass?" he asks, laughter in his voice.

"No." Yes.

How does a butt look this good? Like it's all muscle? Like it's a statue carved meticulously out of marble you'd see in a museum rather than on a real, live human. I didn't know such things existed.

"Disappointing." He chuckles.

He pulls a new pair of black boxer briefs up. Even through the fabric, his behind looks like a masterpiece. He turns, too quickly, and catches me ogling his lower bits—I know he did—because he winks at me as he goes into the bathroom.

I throw myself back on the pillows, pulling the covers up over my face. He can't wait to do it again. I don't know what I'm feeling right now. I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling right now.

The water in the bathroom shuts off and he comes out, his shoulders somehow blocking most of the doorway.

"Do you need to check your levels before we go to bed?" he asks.

"No, I did all that when I showered. I'm good."

"All right." He turns the bathroom light off, then comes and lays a towel down over the wet spot.

As he walks around to his side of the bed, he passes my panties there on the floor. Should I ask him to grab them for me? Is that awkward?

He switches off the bedside lamp and gets into bed. No panties it is, then.

I close my eyes, even though my heart rate is still elevated, and I feel wide awake.

Wood's restless, too, shifting every thirty seconds and breathing loudly.

"Are you sure you're good?" he asks after a few minutes in the dark.

"Yeah, why?"

"How can you just go to sleep after this morning? With your blood sugar. Aren't you afraid all the time? I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep."

"Afraid all the time? No. Yes, and no. I'm constantly aware of it, I think about my diabetes all the time. Practically every second. And I have a healthy respect for it, yes. But I can't live in fear all the time. That would be exhausting."

He props himself up on his side, facing me, the moonlight highlighting the edge of his jaw and the sinewy lines in his shoulder and arm.

"Plus," I add, "I've gotten pretty good at listening to my body and knowing when I'm feeling off."

"But you can't do that while you're asleep," he says soberly.

"Yeah." He's right. I know he is. "I check before bed and when I get up religiously. Last night was an anomaly. I was stupid. I drank too much. I wasn't thinking, obviously."

"You weren't stupid. You were having fun. You're twenty-six—you should be allowed to let loose and have fun sometimes. When we got back to the room, we were talking, then you fell asleep. I didn't think about it. I should have been looking out for you. I know better."

"Hey, it's not on you. It's on me."

"But I'm here. So it doesn't have to be all on you. Talk about exhausting. Since you didn't like the continuous monitor, have you ever thought about getting a diabetes alert dog? I don't know how that works—how you get one or train one, but it seems cool."

"I haven't—I mean, I know about them. But I've never considered it as an option. The apartment I lived in with Bex didn't allow pets. Anyway, I don't think I would make a good dog owner, since I work long shifts at the hospital. The dog would end up being left at home for long hours at a time, and that wouldn't be fair to it. Plus, thinking about the future, Spencer made it clear he didn't like dogs or want pets."

I stop, realizing I shouldn't have brought up Spencer way too late.

"Fuck what he thinks. Do you like dogs?" Wood asks.

"Yes, I do. I had a cocker spaniel growing up. Gigi. I had her as far back as I can remember. My brother and sister were so much older than me, and I didn't have any cousins my age, either, so she was sort of my best friend growing up. She died when I was fourteen. Right after my diabetes diagnosis. That was the first time my parents were forced to really pay attention to me."

"I have no idea what that's like. Being an only child, it's like my parents were constantly hovering, involved in every aspect of my life. It's a wonder I had any kind of social life before I moved out." Wood chuckles a little. "Nah, I love them, though."

"You were the center of their world, huh?" My chest tightens.

"Yeah. Still am. Well, maybe not for my dad. I think my mom has always held that spot for him. But my mom and I talk all the time."

"My mom and I talk pretty often." I don't mention that it's almost exclusively me calling her. Except when Rick has a mysterious skin anomaly. "I mean, I don't know what you consider often. Everyone's busy with their own stuff. My siblings have their own families, and my parents have new spouses.

"I never felt unloved or unwanted growing up, but I was never the center of attention, either. My parents were busy with teenagers when I came around, and after my brother and sister moved out and I was the only child left, that's when my parents were occupied with their crumbling marriage and then divorce. I know I was an accident. Sometimes I wonder if the extra burden of a baby added too much stress in their marriage, that they might have stayed together if I hadn't come along. That's why I try, even now, to never be a burden to anyone."

Wood cups my face in his hands, the silver-blue light filtering in past the curtains barely illuminating his eyes, looking directly into mine. "Listen to me. You are not a burden. I hate that you feel this way. You are a gift. And I'm going to say this next thing and you can hate me for it, tell me I'm out of line, slap me if you want, but I need to say it."

I inhale deeply, then hold it in, afraid to let it out.

"I watched you for the last six years be in a relationship where you weren't a priority. You were barely an afterthought. He kept you around for his ego and nothing else. I need you to promise me something."

"What?" I whisper.

"Promise me that you won't settle for anything less than being the center of someone's world. Ever. Because that's what you deserve."