Page 99 of Stroked Long
“Uh, would you like your breakfast first?”
“No, it’s okay.”Is he crazy? I don’t want my breakfast now. I want to know what the hell is going on. Stay calm, Ruby. He needs your strength.“I’ll eat after.”
His hand grips my thigh, and his thumb runs across my skin. It’s not a seductive move in any way, more like a comforting one for him, like he needs to touch me to get his words out, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t send a jolt of excitement straight to my core.
Down, girl.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I, uh, had to see my therapist.” He cringes when he says therapist.He’s ashamed.I want him to know there’s no reason to be ashamed for seeing a therapist. There is a little piece of everyone that should go to therapy, no matter how “normal” you might be. Everyone can benefit.
“That’s okay. How was your session?”
Pressing up against him, I can feel the tension in his body: the tight set of his shoulders, the strain in his chest, even his thighs are strained.
“Okay. I talked about you.”
“Yeah? Did you tell him what a great lay I am?”
He lets out a light chuckle. “No, kind of kept that private.”
“Now why would you do that?” I tease. “If your Rubes can make you scream girly decibels then that’s share-worthy.”
“I don’t scream girly decibels.”
“I beg to differ.” I shrug and smile at him.
Lightly, he presses a kiss on my lips and I’m about to pull him in for more when he settles his head against the back of the couch.Damn.
“I have obsessive compulsive disorder, Ruby.” Given certain tendencies I’ve noticed I had kind of figured that, but I don’t say it. I let him talk. “It’s something I’ve struggled with for quite some time. I’m used to a certain way of doing things, of following a routine, of, uh, repeating my actions sometimes. It’s not a side of me I like to show people very often and I’ve worked hard at keeping it hidden, but I can’t keep hiding it from you, especially if we continue to get serious. You need to be aware.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “I know it might not be what you were expecting to hear and being with someone with OCD can be tough, quite difficult actually. I talked to Dr. Auburn yesterday, and he said if I was upfront with you about my disorder then there might be a chance that we can continue to move forward. I will tell you this . . .” He looks me in the eyes and my heart breaks. He’s so vulnerable, so openly wounded. “If you don’t think you can manage being with me after hearing this, it’s okay. I don’t want you to pity me and stay around because you think it’s the right thing to do.”
How could he even think that?This man is so clueless to his worth in this world and not just in the athletic sense. That comes second to the heart he shares with others. He has no idea how special he really is. I guess it’s my job to show him that.
Gripping his cheeks, I force him to look me in the eyes. I speak with the utmost sincerity. “Bodi, I would never be with you out of pity. I want to be with you because of your heart and how you use it. How you selfishly give it to others to help them succeed. You don’t understand how special you are. Your disorder has no weight in my decision to be with you. What does hold weight is the way you conduct yourself as a human being, how you selflessly spread yourself thin to see others succeed. That’s what’s important to me.”
The haunted look in his eyes doesn’t leave. In fact, it almost grows more intense, and I wonder if it was something I said.
I need to reassure him. “I’m in if you’re in.”
From the way his eyes search mine, I can tell he’s weighing something in his mind, but I’m not sure what it is. Does his disorder really bother him this much that he thinks I would want to leave him? He does a great job of hiding it, but how tiring that must be. I couldn’t imagine not being able to be myself, to let my true colors fly.
“Bodi . . .” I press. “Are you in?”
His fingers trace my kneecap, and he takes a breath before answering. “I’m in,” he responds softly. He doesn’t seem excited, almost dejected.
“Are you okay?” I ask, forcing him to lift his chin.
His soulful eyes connect with mine. “Yeah. Just tired.” He’s lying, I can tell. There is something else on his mind, but I’m not sure if I should push him any further. He’s fragile in that respect. He’s already withdrawn, and I don’t want him to withdraw any more than he already has.
“Okay.” Trying to shake the heavy mood, I say, “Are you going to eat breakfast with me? I’m starving.”
“I should probably get going.” He starts to get up but I pin him back down on the couch, straddling his lap, and looping my hands behind his neck. I falter slightly.Yikes, it’s not easy pinning down an Olympic athlete.Briefly his eyes scan my breasts that are poking through the thin tank top I’m wearing.
“Do you have practice?”
“Not until later.”
“Then you don’t have to get going.” Taking a risk, I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, exposing my breasts. Immediately his eyes go from haunted to lustful. “I miss my dirty-talking Bodi, my laughing and smiling Bodi. Bring him back.” Needing to feel his skin, I quickly take his shirt off as well, letting his hat join in with the removal. His abs flex under my stare, his chest completely tight, all muscle and sinew. He’s so sexy it hurts. “Bring him back, Bodi.”
I lean forward and kiss him, waiting for him to take control, waiting for that snap of his control where all he can do is fuck me and nothing else is on his mind. His lips meet mine but they are gentle, tentative. I need to work harder. I start to move my hips, dry-humping his crotch like it’s my job while my fingers slide to his nipples. My thumbs rub over the flat nubs, perking them up only for me to grab them.
