Exposure by McKenna, Cara (the beach read .TXT) 📕

the rhythm steady and the intensity building slowly, slowly, as her pleasure winds tighter, tighter.

I’m close, her rubbing feet tell me. Don’t stop, begs the shaking hand gripping my hair. Her hips shift, meeting the push of my fingers as they might my driving cock.

A throaty, tremulous moan rends the darkness, tingling down my back. She flutters against my lips and I slow my mouth and strokes, drawing her climax out, out, out until she jerks from the contact, pleasure turning to pain.

Smiling, I let her go, caressing her calves as she relaxes back against the blanket. I kiss her inner thigh, then its twin. “Good.”

She clears her throat, sounding delirious. A sheepish giggle brightens the night. “Yes, very good. Just like always.”

“I beg to differ.” I sit up and she does the same, scooting close between my legs so I can shelter her in my arms from the breeze. I nip at her ear. “Nothing like always. Out here, under the stars? Away from the flat?”

“True. But you still make my legs all wobbly, just like always.”

I stroke the bumps rising along her thigh. “More shivering than wobbling, it seems.”

“I don’t mind. I haven’t seen this many stars in ages… I took this for granted, growing up in the boonies.”

I kiss her neck, my wonder wrapped up not in the cosmos but in her closeness, her smell, the promise of what’s to come. She reaches a hand back to stroke my hair.

“You’re not thinking about stars,” she says. “I can tell.”

I run my nose up and down her nape. “We’ve got something far more rare than a clear sky to enjoy tonight.”

“What if I was sadistic and made you wait?”

“I would never cook for you again.”

A dramatic gasp. “Now that’s just mean.”

“Tonight then?”

She turns, kissing me. “Of course, tonight.”

“Where? Here?” In the darkness, all our senses are heightened…

But she says, “In the bed. By the light of the fireplace.”

And in an instant, I know she’s right. It can be no other way. On soft, dry sheets, by the heat of the hearth. I need to see her face, and she mine. What’s more, I think with a hot tremor, I want to watch the moment when my bare flesh claims hers. And I want her to watch as well.

And what I want matters, I remind myself. With this woman, my desires count.

For years I’ve molded them to complement my clients’ needs, or cast them aside entirely. I’ve stifled them for the sake of longevity, warped them to cater to borrowed appetites. It’s a hard habit to break, setting aside my old roles. They became my identity, in time. I was a chameleon, adapting to the wants of whoever came to my bed. A mirror revealing their deepest, darkest needs. But Caroly’s told me she doesn’t want that—not every night, at least. She wants to be with me, not merely a reflection of her own preferences. A true lover, not merely a performer.

And I need, I desire, I want. I’m a man, not a machine.

A heart beats in my chest, muscle pumping blood, simple as brass and oil but warm, so warm. I fear and I hurt, and one woman in a hundred has cared to know it. Asked to see it. And though I’ve bared far more than simple nakedness to her before, tonight I’ll bare it all.

As Caroly cinches her pants, I gather the blanket, tucking it beneath my arm. Hand in hand, we stroll through the grass and wildflowers, back toward the light.

Her thumb rubs my knuckles and I return the gesture, suddenly shy. When did I last feel so nervous before sex? As a teenager, surely. In another life. Yet here I am, stiff from a breed of anxiety I’d forgotten about—the exciting kind, full of anticipation, not dread.

It’s cool inside. I hadn’t noticed before, when the sun had still been dawdling on the horizon. The cottage boasts no modern heating system, only the fireplaces.

“Alors.” I shut the patio doors behind us. “I’m afraid I’ll have to defer to you, my rugged companion.”

Her brows rise.

I confess, “I don’t know how to build a fire.”

“Oh, it’s easy. I’ll teach you.”

There’s a rack of wood beside the bedroom’s stone hearth, and Caroly disappears for a moment, returning with a bin of old newspapers.

“Always make sure the flue’s open.”

I kneel beside her to see what she means.

“Otherwise the room will fill with smoke. I’ve forgotten that step. It’s the worst.” She rolls up her sleeve and fusses with a squeaky lever.

Next she shows me her father’s patented arrangement of crumpled balls of newspaper and stacked logs—smaller sticks on the first layer, thicker ones crisscrossed on top.

“Now we need matches.”

After a search, I find some on the living room mantle.

“And all you do is light the paper,” she says.

I strike a match and hold it to the newspaper. We sit back on our heels and watch as the flames spread to the smaller kindling, yellow tongues licking.

“Ta da.” She balances a metal folding screen on the hearth. “You’ve made a fire.”

“I assisted.”

“Now we just have to keep an eye on it and add a fresh hunk of wood when it starts to peter out.”

A branch cracks and shifts, sending orange sparks chasing up into the chimney.

How nice to be taught something by Caroly. Something practical, that is, beyond the lessons she’s offered regarding my capabilities, out in the wider world.

I imagine us strolling around art galleries and museums, she teaching me terms I’ve never heard before, enthusing about the thing she loves most. Strange, catching myself looking forward to such outings, and with only a hint of fear tainting the idea.

When people speak of prostitutes needing to be saved from their vocation, they mean danger, exploitation, degradation. It was never that for me. In turns, I offered my clients therapy, escape, affection, decadence. They didn’t take—I gave. I liked giving. Too much.

If Caroly saved me from anything, it was my own lack of momentum. She dragged me from the quicksand