Unbound (17 page)

There’s a fire in his eyes, which takes my breath away for a moment.

“We haven’t finished yet, Grace.”

I’m expecting him to lie down next to me, but he goes to the nightstand and puts something down on it, then he sits down on the edge of the bed and takes hold of my pelvis, pulls me towards him, and opens my legs. I hold my breath in surprise, but then I notice that he’s holding something in his hand—a washcloth. He skillfully wipes my inner thighs with it and I don’t realize what he’s doing and why, until I see the blood. My blood. There’s not a lot of it—but it still shocks me, as it reminds me of what he just did.

He took my virginity.

The blood shoots into my cheeks and I suddenly feel shy. I know it’s stupid after everything that just happened between us, but when he washed me down there it seemed incredibly intimate, and I felt embarrassed. But I let him do it and wait for him, without moving, while he goes back into the bathroom.

I can scarcely breathe, because I’m suddenly so shaken up.

Do I regret what I did? Or rather what he did to me? No, I think I don’t. If someone had told me two weeks ago that I would lose my innocence on Jonathan Huntington’s marble countertop, I would probably have thought that person was crazy. But I would do it again; I couldn’t help it. Clearly, I’m the crazy one—crazy for Jonathan.

But what does it all mean?

I don’t have time to think about it further, because he comes back and sits at the end of the bed, far away from me, leaning his back against one of the four half bedposts. He smiles slightly and looks at me with the stormy expression I find so sexy.

He’s so beautiful, I think, letting myself fall back into the cushions again with a sigh—his dark hair, his perfectly sculpted face, and his arousing, manly body with its nicely formed muscles, which I hadn’t been able to explore yet. I want him to lie down next to me, so that I can run my fingers over the broad line of his shoulders. I want to stroke his firm stomach with the back of my hand, to touch, kiss and taste him everywhere, instead of lying here helpless. But he stays where he is and I’m too shy to reach my arms out toward him, so I just stare at him, waiting to see what happens next.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he says. “Put your hands on your breasts.” His voice is firm and confident and his eyes, traveling over my body, feel as though they are touching me and inflaming my skin. Without meaning to, I find myself thinking about my dream and the redness in my cheeks deepens and spreads to my neck and chest because, for a moment, I’m afraid that he knows about it. Which is nonsense, of course. But I still hesitate.

“Do it, Grace,” he orders and I obey him because the harshness in his voice makes me uneasy. My chest rises and falls quickly and I feel exposed in the torn shirt, perhaps even more than if I was completely naked, like him.

“Stroke your nipples,” he demands, and, when I do, I see his eyes grow darker. I suddenly notice that he has his hand around his penis and is moving it slowly.

He likes what he sees. No, more than likes it, it turns him on. The realization that I can arouse him by doing this fills me with a new sensation of power, which sends prickly shudders over my skin. I pluck at my nipple and let out a soft moan on purpose, without taking my eyes off him.

Yes, it’s turning him on—and turning me on too, because I can feel my shyness melting away. He doesn’t need to encourage me anymore, I’m doing it voluntarily, letting my hands glide over my body, imagining they’re his, that his hands are slipping the torn pajama top off my arms and then moving tantalizingly slowly over my breasts. That his fingers are circling my nipples, traveling over my lower body, pressing themselves between my legs, and diving into my slit, which is warm and ready for him again. The thought that he’s about to enter me again, to take me just as he did before, sends shivers through my body and I arch up, moaning.

Suddenly, he’s beside me, leaning over me.

“You’re an obedient pupil, Grace,” he says, and—although he’s smiling—I can see the fire burning in his eyes. I stretch my arms out toward him and try to touch him, but he catches my wrists and pulls them upward roughly.

“It’s only sex, Grace. Don’t forget that,” he murmurs, before kissing me again, more deliberately and thoroughly this time. He slowly explores every corner of my mouth and I let myself be carried along by it. It’s arousing to surrender to him so completely and I soon lose myself in his kiss, writhing around beneath him. I don’t just want to taste him; I want to touch him. But he doesn’t release my lips and hands until we are both completely out of breath.

Almost casually, he gropes around for the little package he put on the nightstand and kneels beside me. It’s a condom. He tears open the wrapper and takes out the rolled-up condom, throws the plastic packaging carelessly beside the bed and unrolls it over his penis with practiced ease. I watch, fascinated, and when he raises his head again I can see a determination in his expression that takes my breath away.

“Turn round,” he commands. But as I’m about to obediently comply, he stops me. “No, wait.” He pulls me toward him again. “I want to look into your eyes when I come inside you.” He lifts me up and lets me descend onto his lap with my legs wide apart. My mouth forms a breathless “Oh,” when I feel him slipping inside me again, stretching me, and filling me up completely. I’m still sensitive and sore from last time, but it feels good, almost more intense now, because I’m wider open in this position and can rub myself against him. And I’m finally allowed to wrap my arms around him and bury my hands in his hair, which feels just as silky as it looks. But he hardly gives me a chance to enjoy it because he starts kissing me hard again, while he moves inside me. I want to go with him, but I can’t find a rhythm, I notice how clumsy I am and groan with frustration.

Jonathan interrupts our kiss and places his hands around my butt, presses against it, forces me to stop and keep still. “Don’t move, Grace,” he says, in a tight voice. “Leave it to me.”

When I breathe out tremulously and nod, he wraps his arms around my back and lets me falls back a little. Then he sinks his mouth onto one of my nipples, makes circles around the areola with his tongue, and sucks and nibbles at the erect nipple. The feeling sends a thousand arrows of sensation into my lower body and my inner muscles cramp up around him.

“That’s it, Grace,” he murmurs, without releasing my breasts and I draw air in sharply as he starts moving.

He’s sitting up a little and holding me so I’m suspended in mid-air. It’s an incredible feeling. I instinctively wrap my legs around his hips and moan every time he thrusts into me, slowly at first and then faster and faster. I curve myself up toward him, digging my heels into his butt.

“Jonathan.” I breathe his name, as I feel that sensation building up inside me again and the next unstoppable wave rolling toward me. But I’m no longer afraid of it.

When he lifts his head, my eyes slide hungrily down his body. His entire upper body is covered in sweat. My hand is on his shoulder and I can feel his taut muscles. The sinews of his arms are protruding clearly, revealing the strain of holding me up. His abdominal muscles tremble every time he thrusts into me and my breasts joggle, their nipples stretching toward him, hard and firm, begging for attention. I hold my breath and can’t take my eyes off the place where our bodies meet. I am incredibly turned on by the contrast between his tanned and my milk-white skin, and I bite my lower lip in arousal and moan loudly as he pushes me up a bit more, filling me up.

Suddenly I’m lying on the mattress again and he’s on top of me, propped up on his arms, taking me in a faster, harder rhythm. We are both breathing hard.

Then he stops and slips a cushion under my rear end before continuing, which changes the angle at which he enters me. I can feel him even deeper inside me now and, with each thrust, his cock rubs against the sensitive place between my legs. I clutch hold of his wrists helplessly and cry out as I gradually lose control.

I feel my internal muscles contracting around him and a new climax takes hold of me, spreading through me in waves. It’s so overpowering that I give a sob and throw my head to one side, arching upwards.

“Look at me, Grace,” Jonathan orders in a raw voice and I obey, losing myself in his blue eyes, while he goes on driving into me and won’t let the feeling of pleasure end. Then he suddenly groans out loud and I watch, breathless, as the feeling of release, which is gradually subsiding in me, is reflected in his face. With each powerful thrust that follows I can feel his penis pulse as he comes inside me. It’s an arousing feeling and I throw my arms and legs around him, holding him tight as he shudders one last time and then collapses on top of me. He’s heavy but his weight doesn’t bother me.

So this is what it’s like to sleep with a man, I think, and I don’t feel the slightest trace of regret. On the contrary, I want to do it again, I think with a sigh.

When Jonathan hears me sigh, his body suddenly grows tense again and he lifts up his head. “Grace,” he says, and his eyes look mystified, as though, for a moment, he has no idea where he is.

I smile at him, hoping he’ll kiss me, but he just keeps on staring at me. His eyes gradually focus again and a furrow forms between his brows. Then reaches his hand down and pulls out of me, almost abruptly, holding onto the base of the condom as he moves away from me and, in one fluid movement, stands up, goes around the bed, and disappears into the bathroom.

It all happens so fast that I can’t quite make sense of it. I feel suddenly naked and exposed without his warmth, and the way he left me alone—without a smile, without a single look back at me—leaves me with an empty, hollow feeling inside.

I hear the shower start up. I suddenly feel nervous and don’t know what to do now, so I slip under the covers and wait for him to come back out of the shower—with wet hair and a towel around his hips.

“You can shower now,” he explains without looking at me, and heads to the door. He doesn’t turn around to face me again until he’s standing in the doorway. He still has a very serious expression on his face. “I’ll wait for you downstairs in the kitchen.” Then he closes the door behind him.

For a moment, I just lie there in a state of complete shock and then I get up and walk to the bathroom on unsteady legs, get into the glass shower cubicle, and let the warm water pelt me.

I can still feel Jonathan between my legs and when I touch myself there, my vaginal lips are swollen and sensitive to the touch. I suddenly realize that nothing is going to be the same as before—and that I don’t know what will happen now.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from Jonathan, but definitely not that he would simply leave. It makes everything, which felt so right before suddenly feel wrong. And that makes me uneasy. I wish I had something to compare it to. Is it normal to not want to lie next to each other after sex? Why do they do it in movies, then?

Frustrated and uneasy, I turn off the water and leave the shower, dry myself on one of the big, fluffy towels lying on the shelf, and use the comb lying on the side to comb my wet hair. Then I go back into the room and put my bra and dress back on. My panties must still be down in the kitchen and I can’t see my shoes or my purse anywhere, either.

When I get down to the dining room, I can hear Jonathan in the kitchen. My panties are lying on the long table in the dining room. He obviously put them there so that I would find them. I quickly slip into them, before going back into the kitchen.

Jonathan is standing at the stove, as before. He’s dressed now too, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, but he’s still barefoot. His T-shirt isn’t as faded as the one he had on earlier, but it’s casual, not something he’d wear at the office.

When he spots me, he stops for a moment and then signals one of the chairs, which are all back in their usual places, including the one he knocked over earlier. No evidence remains indicating that I had my first climax with a man on that table less than an hour ago.

“Sit down.”

I carefully lower myself into the seat I sat in before and feel that unfamiliar sensation between my legs again, the sensation that won’t let me forget that something is completely different now. That something happened to me, which can never be undone.

I check in with myself. Do I regret it? No. It still feels good. The only thing that’s making me uneasy is that Jonathan is behaving so strangely. I don’t know what he did with the eggs and bacon, but there’s no trace of them now. Instead, he’s frying an omelette in the pan and there’s a second one lying ready on a plate. Jonathan puts it in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, noticing that I am really hungry now. I pick up the silverware and begin to eat in silence, while he has his back to me, jiggling the pan. When the second omelette is also ready, he sits down opposite me, just as he did before. It’s not the exact spot where we did it, but I can’t stop thinking about it anyway.

I wait almost despairingly for him to say something, to break the silence between us, but he’s avoiding my eyes and seems even more reserved and serious than before, when he left the bedroom.

“I called Steven,” he says, cutting a piece off his omelette. “He’ll take you home right away.”

I stare at him in astonishment while he looks down at his plate and continues eating calmly. Doesn’t he have anything else to say about what happened between us?

“You want me to go?” My voice is trembling a little. He looks up right away and narrows his eyes.

“I’ve got things to do,” he explains brusquely.

“OK.” I put my silverware down because I’ve suddenly lost my appetite and can feel tears stinging my eyes, though I blink them away. “Is that it, then? Thanks, see you next time?”

“No, Grace, there won’t be a next time,” he contradicts me immediately. “This was an exception—a single exception. I always separate business from pleasure. I told you that.”

“And do you make exceptions to that rule often?” I don’t know myself why I’m suddenly so angry. But his behavior, so cold and forbidding, after we just slept with each other, makes me feel helpless. I feel cheap. And used.