The Naked Fisherman (Fisherman 1)

I could have moved. I could have scooted back that quarter of an inch. I could have pushed him away. But I didn’t.

“I’m so—” He started to apologize. I thought. I wasn’t sure. Things were a little foggy at that point.

“No. Don’t … move.” I think I meant to say “don’t apologize,” but I didn’t. I had bigger issues than that. I didn’t want him to move toward me at all. But … I also didn’t want him to step back. I liked him there. Too much. And if he would have moved forward and pushed farther inside of me, I know I would have let him, but the regret might have been too much. Yet the thought of him stepping away felt nearly as excruciating.

“Reeeese … I can’t fucking stay here.” His breaths were little staccatos along my cheek as he dragged his lips from my ear to my mouth and bit my lower lip kinda hard.

Because I couldn’t make up my stupid mind, and he was running out of patience, I grabbed it and moved it up to my clit again. That time I didn’t let go. I made sure every time his pelvis rocked forward, it didn’t go inside of me.

But I wanted it to go there. And that was a part of my brain I couldn’t control. I couldn’t pray away those thoughts. I wanted to have sex with Fisher Mann nearly as much as my lungs wanted oxygen.

“Lean back.” He pressed a hand between my breasts.

I couldn’t lean back without letting go of him. And if I let go of him, things were sure to happen.

Fisher saw the concern on my face and shook his head. “I’m not taking your virginity … tonight.” He smirked.

I didn’t trust him. Then again, I didn’t trust myself. So I moved forward with another bad decision. I had a whole stack of them that night, and I leaned back onto my forearms. Fisher rested his hands on my knees and spread my legs wider.

“If you let me put my mouth on you…” his gaze landed between my legs “…I could make you scream.”

Biting my lip, I shook my head at least a half dozen times.

Oral sex.

Nope. It had sex in the name. So I had to pass.

As if God were applauding me at that point for showing restraint.

Fisher leaned forward, rubbing me in the perfect spot with his erection, again and again, as his mouth found my breasts. As the pressure built, I shifted my hips, but not on purpose.

“Fuck!” He stilled again. And again, he was inside of me, a little. A little more actually, but only maybe a half inch this time. “You can’t move like that.” He breathed heavily.

I wanted it.

In that moment, I made the decision to … go to Hell maybe. But I wasn’t going there a virgin. I was going there with the naked fisherman inside of me.

“Fisher …” I rested my heels firmly on the edge of the pool table and lifted my hips a tiny bit.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Stop!” He grabbed my hips and pushed them back down to the pool table. “I don’t have on a condom.”

“Then get one.”

He closed his eye and shook his head. “They’re upstairs.”

With Angie.

“Fisher …” I tried to lift my hips again.

Again, he shook his head and held me down while pulling the head of his erection out of me. Then he used one hand to give me an orgasm while using his other hand to give himself one—the result of it landing on my stomach. That part was sort of weird for me.

“Damnation is in your future, little girl.” He pulled up his underwear and jeans before sauntering to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

“Then you’re going with me.”

He shook his head. “Only after Rory murders me.”

Chapter Seventeen

I still had eighty percent of my virginity. It took some complicated math to come up with that. It also meant I still had an eighty percent chance of going to Heaven—one hundred if I followed the once-saved-always-saved philosophy. That was probably the best way to go at that point.

My guilt held on with more permanence than what I’d hoped, but my remorse declined a bit since the dry humping in my bed incident. That brought me to tears afterward. The pool table? No tears. I think I was in shock that I wanted to go all the way. Fisher stopped me. The crude, naked fisherman. I never imagined that. He said we’d go until I said stop. I never said stop. If anything, I had my own little cheering section in my head chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”

Creeping along the side of the house, I made my escape the next morning. A little Sunday morning gospel to cleanse my soul.

Tiptoeing along the side of Fisher’s truck, I hid from sight in case he was watering his plants.