“W-why not both?”
“Bring it next time.”
Maybe she shifts her weight; maybe he changes the angle a tiny bit. Maybe it’s the mention of “next time.” Whatever does it, the smallest adjustment sends a lightning bolt down her spine, straight to her core, blotting out everything else.
“Right there, right there. Oh God. Josh. Oh God.” He holds her tight against his chest. “God, I fucking love this. I love you. Fuuuuuuuuck.”
She catches it just after the tidal wave rolls over her body.
Shit. SHIT.
Her heart thuds against her chest—and not because of the orgasm.
What was that?
For a second, she’s not sure if she’d actually said it. Like, maybe some insanely impulsive part of her brain was just super loud inside her head.
She lets herself go slack as Josh presses her down against the mattress again. He utters her name a few times and comes in several long bursts before collapsing on top of her like the world’s heaviest weighted blanket.
But, like…she wasn’t in her right mind. People say all sorts of insane things in the heat of the moment.
He knows that. He must know that.
The phrase rolls around her head like a marble in one of those handheld maze games.
Why? Why did it have to bethosewords?
She’s sweating. Physically and metaphorically sweating. A flashing neon sign in her brain warns:Get out of here.Leave.Get your shit and go.
Funny. That’s the exact same thing she tells herself immediately after some random hookup. It’s like a mantra.
She reaches behind her to tap on whatever part of him is accessible. “You’re, uh, kind of crushing me.”
“Oh. Sorry, I just—” He rolls himself off her, running his hand through his hair, still breathing hard. “Fuck, that was…” She slides cautiously off the mattress, finding her footing on the floor. “Where are you going?”
“I need to get up,” she says, careful not to set off any alarm bells.
“You’re leaving?” Josh sits up a bit on his elbow and stares at her with a faint hint of suspicion. “Now?”
“I need to pee,” she adds, backing away from the bed. “AndI have the dog-walking tryout. And then I’m meeting”—oh God—“I have an appointment. I told you.”
He can’t argue with any of this.
“We could get breakfast. The Smile?”
“You hate that place.”
“Yeah, but it’s right downstairs. Or bagels? Russ & Daughters? Tompkins Square? David’s? Wherever you want.”
“It’s six in the morning, Josh. They’re not open yet.”
“You could cancel. Say you’re sick.”
Ironically, she does feel quite ill.
“I don’t get sick days.” She searches the floor for any fallen belongings because she really doesn’t want to have to re-enter the bedroom in search of a hair tie or something. “I’ll text later?”
“You’lltext?”
