Trust (Wrong 3)

So I can be patient.

She’s clearly got social anxiety and that will cause her to go great lengths to avoid any situation that makes her uncomfortable.

I make her uncomfortable.

But she likes me.

I know that too from reading her. She lights up when she sees me. She wets her lips when I get close to her and her pupils dilate. She shifts her body weight to one hip and leans towards me the tiniest fraction of an inch. And she keeps agreeing to see me. I know if she wasn’t interested she’d tell me to fuck off.

And I like her. She makes me laugh. The way she tells those ridiculous jokes when she’s nervous and how crime shows fascinate her. I love the way she eyes me with skepticism while she thinks about whether she’s going to give in to whatever I throw at her.

So I’ll be patient with her. Even if it kills me.

Sex isn’t her hangup. I didn’t fool myself into thinking if I got her into bed last weekend that all of her anxieties would just cease. I know it doesn’t work like that. So we’ll face her anxiety one date at a time—even if she doesn’t know they’re dates. The more time I can spend with her the more of a routine we can build. And the more I can boost her confidence for doing things that are difficult for her. But I’ve got to be strategic. If I push for too much too soon she’s going to shut down and not let me in. She’ll focus too much on panicking instead of on us.

I wanted to call her all week. Text her, have dinner. Anything. If she was any other girl it would have been a dick move not to have called her. But I suspected that Chloe needed me not to call. Needed the time to think and decide in her own way that she wanted to see me again without me pressuring her.

She finishes loading her clothing and I add the detergent and close the lid then look at her. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches. I could take her on top of the washing machine right now. I’d like to take her on top of the washing machine right now. But first, we need another moment together that’s not about sex.

“Criminal Minds marathon on all day,” I tell her.

“What?” She blinks.

“Come on.” I turn and walk out of the laundry room and head for the stairs. “What do you want to drink?”

“Um, what do you have?” she asks. I can hear her behind me on the stairs, her pace slow.

I grab the TV remote on the way to the kitchen and flick the TV on then scroll through to the channel running the marathon. Tossing the remote on the kitchen island, I open the fridge and start calling out options to Chloe as she wanders over to the sofa then pauses and walks to the windows to check out my view instead.

I set our drinks on the coffee table and then join her at the window.

“You should see it at night,” I tell her.

“Um, yeah,” she says as noncommittally as I expected her to and strolls over to the couch. “This was a good episode,” she says and takes a seat.

So we watch Criminal Minds and toss a list of ‘would you rather’ questions at each other until the washer stops. Then I follow her upstairs to supervise while she folds her towels and transfers her wet clothing from the washer to the dryer. I stand in the doorway watching her and yes, it occurs to me how whipped I am for this girl that watching her fold towels does it for me.

She finishes with the exception of a couple of lacy bras clutched in her hand.

“These, um, don’t go in the dryer,” she says while avoiding my eyes.

“Relax, I’ve seen a bra before, Chloe. Don’t worry, I won’t lose my shit.” I step into the laundry room and reach over her to grab a hanger for her. She drapes the straps over the neck of the hanger and then reaches to get the hanger to the rod. But it’s a stretch for her. And did I mention that she’s wearing another pair of those clingy fucking leggings?

This pair is black but they don’t leave any more to my imagination than any of the previous pairs I’ve seen her in did. Her shirt rides up when she stretches, raising the hemline to her waist and exposing a small band of skin. It also gives me a direct view of the perfect soft curve of her ass.

She pops onto her toes to give herself that extra inch of reach and I slide my hands around her waist and turn her, then lift her onto the dryer. She wraps her legs around me and things escalate pretty quickly from there. In fact, as I slide my hand under her shirt and cup her tit, I’m confident I know exactly how this ends. But then Chloe surprises me.

“Wait,” she says, breaking her lips from mine and placing a palm against my chest, pushing me back a few inches.

Wait? Dammit, I pushed this too soon. She looks momentarily dazed, her skin flushed, pupils dilated and hair messed.

“Can I,” she starts and stops, her tongue darting out to wet her lips and her eyes glancing downward. “I want to try something before you distract me.”

She wants to try something? I move my hands to either side of her on the dryer, caging her in. “What did you want to try, Chloe?” Please say it’s your lips, wrapped around my dick.

Her fingers grasp my belt and she tugs at the buckle then flicks her eyes to mine before quickly glancing away again.

“I wanted to give you a blow job.”

Well, my day is made.

I take over for her, swiftly unbuckling my belt. “Great. I’d like you to try that too,” I respond.

“I’m, um, I’m not sure that I’m that great at it though. Like I’m not terrible.” She pauses. “I don’t think. Average probably.” She bites her lip. “Maybe the lower end of average?”

Fucking hell. Why does the idea of Chloe fumbling her way through this make my dick swell?

She glances up, making eye contact, her green eyes no longer dazed but curious. “I thought you could give me some pointers?”

She wants me to teach her how to give a better head? My balls are already so heavy I don’t know how long this lesson is going to last. But I’m happy to find out.

I pull her off the dryer, wrapping her legs around me and walking with her to the bedroom, placing her on her feet at the foot of the bed.

“Do you want to sit on the bed or kneel on the floor?”

She tilts her head back to meet my gaze. “What’s hotter for you?” she asks.