So I stayed there, legs spread, Cole’s mouth so intimate upon me, his expert tongue doing amazing things, and the whole world reduced to this tiny point of pleasure that began as a single spot between my legs and would soon grow and grow until it had no choice but to explode.
And I would explode. I knew it. Hadn’t Cole taken me there already? Over and over and over?
I waited, letting it build, relishing the sparks, the growing culmination of this ultimate passion. I clenched my hands at my sides, silently willing myself to go over, because it was too big now to hold in.
And yet, just like in my nightmares, the explosion wasn’t coming.
I writhed against his mouth in silent demand, wanting, needing, and yet not finding. And god help me, I wanted to cry, because this was it—this was me right back again. Unable to get there. Unable to achieve. Unable to experience that last, final rush of pleasure.
Most of all, unwilling to explain to Cole.
So I did the only thing I could do. Something I knew how to do because hadn’t I done it with every boy I’d dated? Every boy who had wanted to get close?
I cried out. I arched up. I let my body shake and quiver. I brought my thighs together, as if in an effort to ward off the near-pain of too much pleasure.
In other words, I put on a hell of a show.
And then, when the performance was over, I gasped and sucked in air and rolled over on my side saying, “Oh, god, oh, god, that was—shit, that was incredible.”
“I’m glad you thought so,” Cole said, pulling me close.
I rolled over and buried my face in his chest, then snuggled close.
He kissed the top of my head. I stayed as I was, not wanting to raise my lips for a kiss, because I didn’t want him to see the lie—or my disappointment.
I’d thought I was cured, for lack of a better word. That being with Cole was all I’d needed to fix what had been broken since childhood.
Apparently I’d been wrong, and I hated myself for having gotten my own hopes up. Hated myself even more for caring so much about a goddamn orgasm.
But I did. Damn me, I did.
“Am I that much of an asshole?”
His words, so soft in tone and harsh in meaning, pulled me from my thoughts.
“What?” I looked up at him, saw the hard lines of his face and the hurt in his eyes.
“You heard me.”
I propped myself up on my elbow, confused, because surely he couldn’t know what I’d done. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t have to fake an orgasm to keep my ego in check. I promise you, I can handle it.”
“Oh.” Apparently he did know.
A little numb, I laid back down, then rolled over so that I was facing the wall rather than him.
“Why?” he asked. “Why not just tell me to stop? That you weren’t in the mood? Did you think it would piss me off?” he asked, and there was no disguising the harsh tone of self-disgust in his voice.
“No.” I spoke firmly, then rolled back to meet his eyes because he had to understand that it wasn’t him. “No,” I said again.
“Then why?”
“Because you made me feel it.”
His brow furrowed. “I’m not following you.”
“Everything you did—everything you were doing—it felt amazing. Being awakened that way. The sensuality of it. The eroticism. I loved it.”
“But?”
I forced myself to go on. “It kept building and building, like light and color converging on a point. Like what I imagine a star goes through before it turns into a supernova—everything being pulled inward and then getting tighter and tenser and fuller until it has no choice but to explode in this crazy-wild splash of light and energy.”
I drew in a breath and shrugged. “At least, that’s what it feels like for me—an orgasm, I mean.”
His lips twitched. “I got the orgasm part. Go on.”
“I felt that—all of that. With you, I mean. It was all there, every feeling, every sensation. Huge and wonderful and—I don’t know—earth-shattering. Except I couldn’t get there.”
His brow furrowed again, and I knew he must not understand.
“It’s as if I’m one of those donkeys wearing the bridle with a carrot dangling in front. And I’m chasing that carrot, and I want it so badly. Only I don’t realize that there’s no way that I can ever reach it.”
I licked my lips. “Except I do realize that. Because I’ve chased that carrot before. I’ve felt it all get bottled up before. And I know that I could chase the carrot all night and I’d still never catch it.”
“And so you faked it.”
“I’m sorry. I—I guess I wanted to give you the part you were supposed to have. Because you really did make me feel amazing. And if I just told you to stop, you’d never know that. And I wanted you to know.” I hesitated. “Does that make any sense to you at all?”
He reached out and stroked my cheek, his expression so tender it made me want to cry all over again. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”
I exhaled, relieved. “But I am sorry. If I’d known that you could tell I was faking, I never would have.” I frowned. “For that matter, how did you know? Oh, god, can all men tell?”
He actually laughed, which went a long way to making me feel better. “I don’t know about all men. I don’t even know if I could tell with another woman. The topic doesn’t come up often. But with you I can tell because I watch you. Because I’ve seen you come three times now.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “You matter to me, Kat. And so I pay attention.”