Awakening (4 page)

She’d really loved the store, though. And she wanted to go back. It was cosy and the atmosphere was so welcoming – well, if you left Mr Rugged, make that Evan, out of the picture. The reading area just screamed “make yourself at home” and the coffee had been excellent. She’d ended up losing complete track of the time and that had been due just as much to the setting as it had been to the story. Hell, it was a free country and sooner or later she was going to have to start living her own life. With a nod, Claire decided she’d go back one more time and see how things went.

None of these ruminations, however, helped her get past her tension. Her muscles were beginning to ache. She’d finally given up on relaxing without intervention and had turned to the tub. Usually a soak relaxed her to the point of nodding off, but no such luck tonight. Tonight, her body had other ideas.

Her dilemma at the moment was that she couldn’t wait any longer, but she didn’t usually masturbate like this and she was uncomfortable. The story had been so graphic and detailed. Carol’s body had been catalogued in its texture and taste and, frankly, Claire wondered if any of it was true. She had never read such graphic descriptions and she certainly had never touched herself directly. Well, she’d done it when Charlie had demanded it, but that had been for his pleasure, not her own, and had just been quick little flicks of her clit until he took over.

When she wanted to come on her own, she performed the same ritual she’d been performing since she’d first discovered orgasm. She lay face down on her bed and reached between her legs, being careful to keep to the outside of her panties. She then located her clit under its hood and simply pressed until she came. She would fantasise in order to speed up the process, but her fantasies were pretty sedate, featuring nothing more than straight-up, doggy style sex where the guy was overwhelmed by his attraction for her and simply had to have her. The only variable in her fantasy was the man. Sometimes it was a security guard, sometimes a cop who pulled her over, sometimes an imaginary step-relative and sometimes an imaginary husband. But only the imaginary face changed; everything else remained the same. She’d been masturbating the exact same way for years.

After having read that short story, however, she was wondering exactly how much she’d been shorting herself. She’d never really pondered why she didn’t touch herself directly, but now she was. She didn’t enjoy her body very much. She didn’t like the way she looked at all. She might be on the slim side, but she was definitely pear shaped and her breasts were so small she could get by without wearing a bra if she chose. She wore one, just to give herself a bit of shape, and the padding helped balance her out a bit. When she’d had short hair she’d been mistaken for a boy whenever she wore baggy clothes. No, not very flattering at all. As for not going near the coochie unless Charlie directed her to, she didn’t really know the answer to that; she only knew that she didn’t. She never had. It seemed dirty, messy even.

Her hands clenched along the sides of her tub. She almost vibrated with the need for release. Her nipples were hard where they poked out from the water and, as much as she’d like to claim it was from the evaporation, it was because she was horny. Her intimate muscles were clenched in a never-ending Kegel and the jittery feeling that had started in the bookstore was only growing worse.

Come on, Claire. You promised no more self-delusion. Do you want to know or don’t you?

Bottom line … She wanted to know.

Evan glared at the bottle of whiskey as if it had stolen his wallet and wouldn’t give it back. He was currently sprawled out on his couch with his feet propped up on the vintage footlocker that he used as a coffee table/storage bin. The fifth of Evan Williams, no relation, was next to his foot, a silent sentry in his war to lose himself in liquid oblivion.

He’d moved into the apartment over the top of Bibliophile after Marianne died. He simply couldn’t stay in their brownstone. Marianne had decorated every inch of their home and it had been like ripping out stitches every time he’d walked through the door. So, as soon as his tenant’s lease was up, he’d moved in. The small, one-bedroom apartment suited his purposes and was enough for him. It had been especially helpful as he’d begun to spend more and more time at the shop. Rather than driving across town, he just went out the back door and up the stairs.

He hadn’t brought a single piece of furniture with him from the brownstone. He’d sold everything in the house and had gone out and bought himself a sectional in weathered, brown leather and the footlocker for his feet. He’d put a simple birch platform bed, dresser, and nightstand in the bedroom and rounded out his “I don’t give a fuck” decor with a small, wooden dinette that doubled as his desk when he worked on his laptop.

Evan was an aesthete at heart, though, and over time art had bloomed on the walls when something caught his fancy. A bookcase now adorned the back wall and his favourite books were on display. And, since he was a huge proponent of lounging comfortably while watching his 42-inch flat-screen, a plush chenille throw in a creamy white draped over his sofa for when he really wanted to get cosy. He was comfortable with his apartment. Most importantly, he wasn’t swarmed by memories every time he walked through the door. He’d left all visible reminders at the brownstone.

Well, not every single one. The photo albums Marianne had made for him were in the bookcase. Albeit on the lowest shelf in the farthest corner, where he really had to make a point of looking to see them, but they were there nonetheless. Tonight, they felt like a magnet. Drawing him. Taunting him. Daring him to walk the path of memory. Something he definitely wanted to avoid.

Which was where the whiskey came in. It was supposed to be dulling the ache. It wasn’t helping and he was growing increasingly frustrated. He didn’t want to think about Marianne tonight and he definitely didn’t want to think about Her. The whiskey was supposed to drive all thoughts from his brain. It was his go-to solution on days like today, where everything was too raw, too close to the surface.

He wasn’t an alcoholic, though it had been touch and go there after Marianne had passed. In fact, he rarely drank at all any more; he generally didn’t need it. The loneliness had sunk into his marrow, altering his DNA so that it was just a part of him now and not something to dwell on.

Tonight, though, all he saw was her, Claire Ryan. He should have let her leave, then he wouldn’t know her name, the fact that she lived five blocks down the street, was 5’ 3” tall, weighed 115 pounds and had opted to be an organ donor. Damn driver’s license. If he’d let her go, she just be another nameless customer who might or might not walk back through his door. But what she wouldn’t be was this persistent itch under his skin.

He never lost his temper. He prided himself on his restraint and discipline. It had been essential in the military and it had been even more so in his relationship, but he’d behaved like a complete ass tonight. It was bad enough his body had forgotten he was a grown man and not a teenager who’d never seen tits before, but to literally be standing there dripping simply because she called him sir, unintentionally at that, was too much to deal with. It had been so long since he’d had any kind of release he’d almost forgotten what an erection felt like, but clearly his body was waking up and it was damned unwelcome.

Blowing out a hard breath, Evan got up, pulled the red leather album from the shelf, and brought it back to the couch. Marianne had been a secret crafter; she didn’t make a production out of it, but she loved to hand-make gifts for people. This particular album was one she’d taken special care with. It was her gift to him on the first anniversary of her submission to him.

The photos were artistic and highly erotic. She’d taken the vast majority of them by herself, posing for various shots in the ways he demanded when they were together. He’d loved for her to be corseted and on her knees waiting for him, her head bowed. She’d captured that moment perfectly. Another favourite was watching her masturbate. He’d be close enough to smell her arousal as she fingered herself or went to town with a dildo. Each one of those moments was captured in black and white, giving them a haunted mystery that was so reflective of Marianne in the depths of her submission.

She was a joyous, vivacious woman, with an open smile and an infectious laugh, but when she submitted to him, it was as if all the deep recesses of her soul poured out and she offered up to him her fears, her inhibitions, and her unwavering faith. The only photos of her smiling were the ones that showed Evan penetrating her. She always smiled when he was inside her. The contrast between the two sets of photos was always startling. It was as if his possession of her provided her what she needed to embrace the totality of her heart. He’d always been humbled by her.

Evan’s fingers lightly stroked the images of his woman. He traced the contours of her high cheekbones and creamy skin. He outlined her long, flowing black hair and full lips and brushed over the lids of her dark chocolate eyes. His gaze roamed her tall, ripe body. He’d loved this album. They’d added to it regularly over the years, but it had been collecting dust for over a year since he’d last opened it. Right about the same time he’d given up on masturbating. The pain was too much. Tonight, though, his body was making demands on him and he wasn’t up to fighting it. Better to get it over with and then finish the bourbon and pass out.

Tentatively, Claire rested her hands on her belly and just took in the sensations on her skin. The warm suck of the water surrounded her body and lapped gently at her breasts, which just barely peeked out from the water. She brushed her fingers along her belly, feeling the contours of her hips and navel, before sweeping gently into the springy curls at the apex of her thighs. She swirled the hair gently with one finger as anticipation curled through her. It was now or never.

Claire spread her legs and propped her feet up, one on each side of the tub, and relaxed down into the water so that it brushed her chin. She gently rested one hand on her belly and lightly stroked down across her vagina, absorbing the feel of it. The flesh was soft and a little puffy. Her outer lips pillowed around the velvet ridge of her inner folds, and she clenched instinctively. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was being silly. All she needed to do was touch herself; she wasn’t committing murder, dammit.

Claire took a deep breath and exhaled, completely forcing her body to relax. Gently, she dipped her finger into her folds. The flesh was soft and malleable, shaping itself to the contours of her finger. As she brushed down, she grazed her clitoris, still tightly in its hood, and she felt the shiver of excitement at the inadvertent touch. She continued down until she came to her entrance, pausing for only the barest second before plunging her finger inside. The sensation was pleasant, as if her tongue had become conical and wrapped completely around her finger, rather than one side. She was warm and silky soft. Claire raised her hips a bit to get deeper and felt the contraction of her inner walls. Experimentally, she clenched and unclenched few times as she pressed in and out. The feelings were pleasant, but they made her long for more. For greater and deeper penetration.

She added another finger to the mix and began to flex her hips in rhythm to her pumping. The heel of her hand made luscious contact with her clitoris, slowly rising out from underneath its hood. She felt her moisture flowing and coating her fingers as she played in her pussy. Ribbons of pleasure radiated out from her core as scenes from
Finding Herself
ran through her mind. Not really knowing where to go from here, she decided to follow the choreography laid out for her in the book.

Pulling out, she began to stroke gently up and around her clitoris, exploring the folds and teasing the edges of her nub. Each teasing brush added to the sensations building inside her. She continued her exploration, enjoying the feel of her slippery flesh and stroking finger. She couldn’t remember ever being touched like this. Maybe Charlie had early on, but it was so long ago it had faded into the mist of memory. She felt untouched and almost virginal in her curiosity.

Her breathing was getting more ragged and her nipples peaked harder as they rhythmically broke the surface of the water. In the book, Carol had been ordered to play with her nipples, but Claire didn’t know if she was ready for that. Tabling that decision, she began to circle her clit with two fingers, gently rubbing along the hardened nub. The sensations, combined with the memories of the book, were creating a level of pleasure she’d never before experienced. At some point, her mind had switched from memory to fantasy, and in her mind it was now her spread out on the bed, open to the hungry gaze of her lover. She was blindfolded and could only feel as he roved her pussy with hard, firm strokes that never faltered even as she squirmed under the growing intensity.

Tension grew as Claire stroked harder, flexing her hips and driving herself harder and harder, but she still wanted more. She lost herself to the fantasy, releasing herself from her inhibitions in this one moment and reached for her nipple. She stroked and rolled her nipples at her lover’s command, enjoying the streaks of fire that ran from them to her clit until he whispered in her ear, ‘Come for me.’

Claire squeezed and tugged hard, feeling that cord stretch tight one last time before she broke, crying out as fire radiated out from her core, shivering through her. She bucked and jerked as she continued to stroke her clitoris until she finally stilled.

She brought her legs back down into the cooling water and lay for some time with her hands hugged tight around her. That had been the most intense orgasm she’d ever given herself. And yes, part of that was definitely down to touching herself properly, but a huge portion had been the fantasy. The submission to her imaginary lover. A lover who, if she was being completely honest, sounded just a bit like Evan.

As he waited for the water to warm up, Evan stripped and dropped his clothes in the hamper. His bathroom was purely serviceable, with no decoration of any kind save for the very soft, plush navy blue towels. The bathroom was white everywhere. White tiles, white walls, white tub. He supposed the blue towels and stainless steel fixtures gave it a nautical sensibility, but he really didn’t care. It served his needs and that was all that mattered to him.