Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

9. Angela

9

ANGELA

When Carter leaves, I just sit there on the futon, and try to think of anything else but the sight of his hard cock outlined by his pants that he just gifted me with.

I wonder what he was thinking about. I wonder if, like me, he was plagued by dreams all night. I slept in the bed alone, yes, but I was tormented by him. Carter’s hands pinning my wrists to the bed. Carter’s cock hot against my palm. Carter’s mouth whispering filthy things in my ear.

I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. And it’s been…it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone. So long that I’m not even ashamed of the fantasies of him I’ve conjured. Carter might be my foil, but with that comes undeniable attraction—at least on my end.

I lay back on the bed and shimmy my underwear off. Twenty minutes is more than enough time. I start to touch myself slowly, and imagine that a man who looks suspiciously like Carter is there with me.

“Rub your clit like a good girl for me,” he croons in my fantasy. “That’s it, not too hard. Touch yourself gently. Get ready for me.”

I moan, loving the feeling of being all alone in this cabin, yet still bared to anyone who might come by and look in the window. I spread my legs further, and dip my fingers into my pussy.

“Are you wet for me?” fantasy man asks.

“Yes,” I gasp out loud. I circle my clit again and again, and then drive my fingers inside, trying to ease the need inside myself.

“Don’t come yet,” he says. “I want to watch you begging.”

“Never,” I say, though I slow down the pace.

“You’ll beg me by the end of this,” he says. “I want to see you fuck yourself. Two fingers. I wanna be reminded of what you look like taking it.”

The rough words of my fantasy set me alight, and I immediately move my hands down and begin to fuck myself.

“Spread your legs wider, Angel.” Okay, so the man in my fantasy has fully morphed into Carter. Oops.

I do as he commands.

“God you look so good like this. Go harder now, I want to hear you moan.”

I move my fingers faster, and let out a breathy moan as I do. I imagine looking up and seeing his eyes on me, holding his gaze steadily as I fuck myself.

“That’s it, Ange, you’re so beautiful like this. You look so fucking good,” he says. “So wet and ready for a cock, so perfect and tight. Too bad you’ve only got your own hands.”

I moan again, this time a pleading, nearly pathetic noise. “I need a cock inside me,” I say out loud.

“Say that again, but say it right. Say you want my cock,” I imagine him saying.

“Never,” I say.

“Then I won’t let you come. Angel, stop.”

My hand, as if controlled by the fantasy of him alone, stops its torturous movement.

“Carter, please, I?—”

“Say those four magic words,” In my head, he gives me a smirk, his smuggest one, the one that normally has me seeing red.

I start moving my fingers over my clit, rubbing it faster and faster, despite his orders. “I want your cock,” I grind out. “But I don’t need it.”

“Fuck. You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his voice losing its commanding nature.

“Come with me, Carter,” I say, because I want us to be equals in this fantasy, even if we never are in real life. “Stroke yourself for me. Let me see how badly you want me.”

He undoes his belt and pushes his pants and boxer down past his hips. His cock is long and hard, and my memory of it is perfect despite all of the years. I imagine him fisting it, stroking it just like I asked.

“Is this what you want, Angel?”

“Yes, just like that.”

I start fucking myself again, feeling like I’m right on the edge. “I’m going to come soon,” I gasp.

The orgasm starts to spiral through me, and then it fills me up in crashing waves. I come down, and feel another peak coming on, even stronger than the last.

In my fantasy, Carter starts to come as well, his cock spurting all over me. “You’re so,” Carter says, “fucking,” he pauses and moans as he jerks his cock harder in his hand, “beautiful.”

“Carter,” I call into the room.

The shame that wasn’t there moments before starts to trickle through me as I hear his name on my lips. This man all but ruined me before, and here I am, coming to the image of him. I come down from the high and lay there panting in bed, no longer horny, but emotionally drained.

Only a few minutes have passed, thankfully, giving me enough time to get my head on straight before Carter returns. I head to the bathroom, and wash my body as well as I can in the sink, wishing I had a hot shower to luxuriate in. When I’m confident I don’t smell and am as clean as possible, I drip dry and then get dressed again in my same, sweaty clothes from yesterday’s hike.

In my fantasy, I was wearing expensive lingerie and my hair looked perfect.

Sigh.

I try not to think too much about that fantasy, as I sit back on the bed and wait for Carter to return (because there is nothing else to fucking do in this cabin). It was only my imagination, and it’s going to stay that way.

The few times we had sex, years ago, were incredible. To me, it meant the world—sharing an intimate part of myself with someone like that, getting to know their body and their heart. The sex I’d had before Carter had been fumbling in the dark with boys I barely knew at college. Carter was the first man who truly cared about my pleasure, who took the time to learn what I wanted.

After, when Carter stopped returning my calls and texts over the summer, and I went back to school, I tried dating again. But I wasn’t cut out for college hookups. Every boy I was interested in wanted to keep things casual. We’d hookup for a while and then he’d stop texting me.

Every time it happened, it sent me spiraling back to what happened with Carter. But still I tried. Tried to be a cool girl. Tried not to care. Tried to be relaxed and tolerant and willing. Good at giving blow jobs, never asking them to care about my needs, never expecting a text back.

But I always, always got emotionally invested in them, no matter how horrible they were to me.

First there was Brian: the guy I slept with for half of junior year, right after Carter. I told myself I was in love with him, that he was so much better than Carter, that my pain about Carter didn’t matter anymore because I’d found someone new. But the whole time he was fucking other girls and I was pretending to be fine with it, because we weren’t exclusive, whatever that means.

And then, Kevin, the guy I “dated” senior year. We went out for coffee a few times, and spent weeks hooking up, but he never wanted to be my boyfriend, not even after he admitted to really caring about me.

And a string of guys in between and after. Guys while I was in grad school getting my master’s in nursing. Guys I met over the summer in Harborview, who were there just to work or on vacation.

Nothing ever lasted. Nothing ever stuck.

What was wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone really want me? Why did I always choose the wrong guys? Did I want to be hurt—was I trying to be abandoned? Was I really such a masochist?

These were the thoughts that kept me up at night in my early twenties. Thoughts I’d shaken off only by quitting dating all together, about two years ago. I did it to protect myself and it worked. Now, I had my collection of vibrators, an audio porn subscription, and the odd fantasy about Carter here and there, and that was good enough for me. It would have to be.

Because I was never going to be abandoned again—not by Carter Steel, not by anyone.