Hard to Love

7. Laura

I can't even cross my legs; I'm so sore. Seth has some sort of magic over me. I don't know what it is. The moment I'm in his vicinity, I'm a puppet for him. Whatever he commands, I do. Whatever he tells me, I believe. My body bends to his and I love it.

It does terrify a small piece of me, though. That little voice is quiet right now, sated by what happened in the back room last night.

And then again when Seth met me at his place and took me to bed.

That second time reminded me of our first time. I keep comparing the two and I find nothing identical. Back then when I first gave into Seth years ago, the temptation to touch him, the urge to let him do whatever he wanted to me—I had never experienced it with anyone else. I knew nothing, except that I wanted him to finally touch me, to have me like I'd been fantasizing about. It would have happened sooner if my dad hadn't died shortly after Seth started hovering over me. He was my protector for nearly a year before I kissed him.

I remember being up on my tiptoes, my hand pressed against his chest and I kissed him as though I had done it a thousand times before. And I had in my mind. Every time he opened the door for me. Every time his fingers brushed against mine when we walked. Every time he laughed at the bar and with the rough cadence his hand landed on my thigh and stayed there. In the very forefront of my mind I leaned into him and kissed him, thousands of times or more. So that day, after having a drink and feeling the buzz of both intoxication and lust, I planted my lips directly onto his.

I never imagined the groan of satisfaction. That deep, masculine sound was unexpected and a pleasant surprise that travelled down to my belly, and then further. His rough hands gripped my hips and he lifted me up, keeping his lips on mine, never breaking the heated embrace.

Last night was slow and leisurely; that first night was a rush of primitive need. He couldn't take my clothes off fast enough, until my bare back was on the table and my ass was hanging off. I'd have been mortified if he hadn't dipped his head to my breasts and sucked, nipped and ravished every inch of my flesh. How could I be embarrassed by my body when he worshipped it the first glance he got?

I was naked while he was still clothed. Again, it's a difference. Last night was slow, relaxing, and he stripped first, then he took his time peeling my clothes off.

"I'll go slow," he whispered at the crook of my neck when he had finally made it to that moment. The moment when I was no longer a virgin. I remember how hot I felt. How suffocating those prolonged seconds were between knowing it was going to happen, and it finally happening.

"I don't want you to go slow," I told him, my mind clear and my desire evident. "I want you."

In one swift stroke he took me, hard and unabashed. He watched me as my eyes widened; he never stopped watching between heated kisses.

"I'll make sure you love it," he promised as he pounded into me with reckless abandon and I don't know for certain if the promise was for me or for him.

My thighs tighten and I can still feel him. That night I knew I could never go back. I wasn't sure if he could go back to pretending the attraction wasn't there. He made damn sure I knew the next day when he took me into the bar and kissed me in front of everyone. There was never any "going back" with Seth.

When my phone buzzes in my hand, I instinctively jump from my seat in the waiting room and then hiss at the slight pain that throbs between my legs. It's a good ache, but it's embarrassing as fuck when the receptionist eyes me from behind the glass divider. Like I'm some kind of nuisance. I don't want to be here anymore than she wants me here.

I want to be a nurse; I don't want to be a patient. I hate being a patient. Mostly because of insurance.

I've already got my clipboard of paperwork filled out. Now I just wait in this room, sitting in one of the chairs that look like they're from the '80s while a cooking show plays in the upper right corner on a tiny little TV.