He picks me up and carries me through the suite, his bare feet thudding softly on the thick carpet. The world tilts, and I force myself not to clutch at him as he lowers me. I feel firmness under my back and the silky rub of fabric on my bare back. He’s set me on the bed. He tugs my hips to pull me down to the edge, my legs dangling, my shorts and panties still tangled around my calves. I keep my eyes closed and listen as he unzips his jeans.
Then I hear something I don’t expect, and don’t understand.
The rip and crinkle of a condom wrapper.
Why is he using a condom? We had unprotected sex in New York, several times. We’ve shown each other our tests, and he knows I have an implant. Why does he need a condom now? Does he think I had sex with someone while we were apart? Oh, fuck no, did he have sex with someone else while we were apart?
His hands close on my thighs and I have to keep myself from flinching at the sudden contact. His hands move up my thighs, spreading me. I feel his tip nudge between my labia, then he’s thrusting into me.
There was plenty of foreplay while we were cuddling, and it feels like he’s using a lubricated condom. He pushes deep on the first thrust, then all the way in on the second, his thighs pressing mine apart, my feet pushed hard against the side of the bed by his shins. I want to kick my panties and shorts off so I can wrap my legs around him, but I’m not sure if he intends for me to be in this uncomfortable position, so I don’t move, except to push my hips up into his thrusts. He could bottom out in me with little force. But he doesn’t. He leans over me, slides his forearm under my shoulders, and drops his face into my neck. Since he can’t see my face, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling—no mirrors, this place is way too fancy for that—as he starts fucking me.
Except he’s not really fucking me. He’s thrusting slowly and shallowly. Without any heat. Without any strength or force. His heart isn’t in this any more than it was in the airport bathroom, so why is he doing it? I wriggle, trying to get him to move faster, draw him deeper. The bite of his jeans against my thighs keeps me wet and open, even though his movement inside me isn’t anything more than okay.
This is what sex was like with Ash. Disconnected. Hollow. It never made me come; it barely even got me wet. Ashley never understood, but Logan does. Logan knows how to connect with me, how to create a level of intimacy I’ve never felt before, so he must be doing this for a reason. Although I’m not sure what it is. Still, if it soothes his hurt, I can give this to him. Maybe he just needs gentle right now. I focus on him: caressing him everywhere I can reach, meeting his slow motions.
“Stop,” he groans. “Just lie still.”
He doesn’t want me to touch him? He wants me to just lie here and take his dick, like a blow-up doll? I drop my hands to my sides and try to be plastic for him, cold and still. He keeps working his cock in and out of me, a little faster than before, but it doesn’t even feel good now. I’m not even his fuck toy. I’m just a plastic hole in the bed, not good enough to touch him.
Is this his version of humiliation play? I know he’s a sadist. Has he forgotten that humiliation is one of my hard limits? Is this his idea of a scene that hurts me emotionally? Oh Lord, I hope not, because I hate this. It’s not a turn-on. I don’t want to do this. I want him to stop. My chin quivers, and there’s a hot rush behind my eyes.
“Sir, can I cry?” I only ask because it’s going to happen in a second whether I want it to or not.
“Yes,” he groans. He lifts his head a little and nuzzles my temple, so the first tear smears against his lips. “Yes, cry for me.”
A second tear follows the first, and then a stream. I’m not sure what he’s doing, what he wants, what he’s trying to make me feel, but everything about this is reminding me horribly of my marriage. Lying under Ashley and feeling nothing except shame at my own lack of desire for the man I was supposed to spend forever with. That’s not how I feel about Logan. But what he’s doing isn’t something I want, not even a little bit. And doing this, this horrible, hollow parody of the thing he does that makes me feel so good, is tearing me up.
Logan’s panting into my ear now, his thrusts still shallow but faster. Fast enough to give me just a little edge. I tighten my pussy around him, but he shakes his head. “Stop. Just lie there. This isn’t about pleasure.”
It’s not? What the fuck is it about? He’s not hurting me, not physically. So, it’s not about pain. Or is it? Is he trying to hurt me emotionally because he knows I’d enjoy physical pain? I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I hate it, as much as I hated sex with Ash by the end. I want it to stop, and I’m a heartbeat away from saying my safe word when Logan’s breath catches.
He doesn’t make any noise as he comes. Nothing like his usual full-throated groans. He just pushes a little deeper and I feel him flex, although there’s no hot rush because of the condom.
And then I realize that’s why he put it on: so I couldn’t feel him, and he couldn’t feel
