Page 36 of Wilder at Heart
I kiss her senseless in front of Jonathan. She bigs me up in front of Dad.
You get the drift.
So, having to be here with me, in my space, is killing her. And I may or may not be making things deliberately more awkward for her.
I know. I’m a dick. But I’ve said it before: the best way to have fun with Nora Wilder is to provoke her. It’s equal parts because I’m bored and because she’s gorgeous. I can’t employ my usual method of relaxation, AKA booty calls with my sure-fire hookups, so I’ve been spending too much time in the shower with my fist, these past couple of days. Having Nora in my spaceis confronting. And I’m damned if I’m going to be the only one feeling confronted in this scenario.
If she knew how much her presence was windingmeup, I’m sure she’d approve of my redressing the balance. Like I said, balance is what she thrives on.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s not deliberately sashaying around scantily clad. Or trying to provoke me with sexually charged banter.
She’s justthere. And it’s provocation enough.
Yesterday morning, she emerged from her room in that little vest-and-shorts combo she’d produced on her first evening here. Hair: piled high and messy on her head, exposing that long neck. Bra: gone. She had a cardigan on, but I’d opened up all the French doors because I’d been doing some upper body work on the terrace, and her nipples wentpingin the cool air pretty damn quickly.
See? Not deliberate. But not helpful.
So I may have peeled off my shirt as I walked past her to take a shower. I didn’t miss the way her eyes widened and ran over my torso, or the little O of appreciation she made with her mouth, or the way she pulled that dratted cardigan more tightly around herself, like it was going to save her from my toxic sex hormones.
Or from her own.
She collected herself, turned the eye fuck into an eye roll, and spat out, ‘Put away the ab slab, Romeo.’ But she didn’t fool me for a second.
And last night, I cooked seafood linguine for her (We have some great chefs at our hotels. They’ve given me a few tools to use when the situation demands). We ate out on the terrace, curled up in two adjacent armchairs. When she took her first bite, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she made this sexy, protracted moan of appreciation that went straight to my cock.
Again: unhelpful.
So yeah, I know they’re little things. Tiny things. And not her fault. Not really, anyway, but let me tell you this. When it comes to affairs of the flesh, Nora Wilder is as oblivious as they come.
She’s definitely oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. Okay, so I think about sex all day long, and I can tell Nora just doesn’t. It’s not on her radar. It’s not what makes her world keep turning. Of course it isn’t—she spent God knows how many years shagging Jonathan bloody Holmes, for Christ’s sake, and she wants to go back for more. If that doesn’t tell you she doesn’t prioritise sex, I don’t know what will.
But anyway. She’s less hyper aware of her sexuality than I am of mine. That’s fine. It’s kind of sweet that she doesn’t weaponise it, actually. I’m so used to girls throwing themselves at me and being hypersexual that it makes a refreshing change not to be constantly on the receiving end of any seductive tricks from Nora. It’s not like she’s trying to turn me on at every turn.
What gets me, though, is that she’s gorgeous, and she’s naturally sexy, and as far as I can tell, she has no fucking idea of her power. She’s all business. That kiss I gave her started out transactional, and it ended up being fucking real. And that wasn’t just because I was sexually frustrated and she was an outlet. It was because I was into kissing her. I was into her little moans, and the taste of her, and the way she grabbed my arm.
And when I’d grabbed her in front of her ex, earlier, I wasn’t faking it either. Seeing her arse in that little red dress, inhaling her skin and the glossy curtain of her hair, really was killing me. The kiss later was a natural extension of that.
But, see, the thing that really pisses me off is that I’m not exactly a shy guy. I’m open about liking sex. I think I’ve been pretty up-front with her about finding her attractive. And I’ve been with enough women to know she’s not unresponsive to me. Exhibit A: that kiss. Exhibit B: the way she eye-fucked me when Itook my top off. Exhibit C: the way she remembers every minute detail of our kiss at uni,ten years ago, and admits to having dug me scratching her back. Who would have expected that?
We’re two consenting adults alone in a flat. We’re both single. We’re obviously both attracted to each other. And does she act on it?
Nope.
Does she in any way encourage my suggestive comments and glances?
Nope.
They’re partly me riling her, as I mentioned. But they’re also my way of de-risking the whole process for her. I want her to know that if she was up for anything more physical than a few fake kisses, I’d be ready and willing. But I’m pretty sure it hasn’t even crossed her mind. No matter if she’s attracted to me.
In Nora-ville, if you’re still in love with (or hung up on, which I suspect is more the case) someone you feel has a claim on you, regardless of that someone’s douchebag behaviour, I reckon you quote unquote save yourself for them. You deprive yourself of the chance to have a little casual, mutually satisfactory fun with someone who’s available and up for it.
You deprive yourself of your own needs, because of some fucked-up sense of allegiance to someone you owe nothing to.
That’s my theory, anyway.
Because the only other explanations are that she’s not attracted to me, and I’m not buying that, or that she’s not into my lifestyle. She’s scared or intimidated by it.
That could be it, actually.
