“For what? The double orgasm or the rug burn on my knees? I think I needed all of that.”
He pushes off me, taking that delicious fullness with him, leaving me feeling wrung out and empty in a good way. In aI’m going to sleep wellkind of way.
“I probably shouldn’t sleep right here on the floor,” I mumble.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“I’m fine.”
“You get dehydrated.”
“I can take care of myself.” I hear myself as I say it. And I know he’s holding his tongue when he doesn’t immediately snap back that he’s only here since I was whining that I can’t.
He covers me with something soft, then lets himself out.
I drift in the warm, muzzy post-orgasm glow until the middle of the night.
Then I stumble to the kitchen to drink water I should have let him get me before rolling myself into bed.
It’s not until I get up in the morning that I realize he left his flannel shirt behind. That’s what he covered me with. It smells like us, like sex and desperation.
I toss it in the to-wash laundry basket and race to the shower, where I promise myself out loud that I’ll figure out how to use the damn shower head to get off.
Because last night?
That can’t happen again.
Chapter 2
Garrett
September
“Don’t even pretend you didn’t want this,” I warn Rory as she trembles through an orgasm aftershock.
“We all want things that are bad for us,” she pants back. And then, maybe because she’s still shaking, she adds, “Or things that are too good.”
Since she didn’t text me again after our first hookup, it couldn’t have beenthatgood. Not until she was ovulating again.
I know how to count. I can picture the mini pills she takes to keep her periods manageable—and I try not to think about the fact that she wants us to use condoms now, too, even though her nightly pill was always enough in the past.
It’s none of my business what she does with anyone else. I’ll focus on the fact they aren’t who she turns to at her horniest time of the month.
This time, I made sure to get her off with my mouth before I yanked her down my body and shoved my cock in her tight, wet heat.
We also managed to stay on the couch, but that’s where the civility ended.
“I think I scratched you,” Rory mumbles into my neck.
“You offering to do first aid?”
Her lips move against my skin, but she doesn’t reply. Just exhales as she pats my shoulder, then climbs off my lap.
Yeah, it’s time for me to go. I’ve been here for an hour, and I can feel the walls closing in.
In the months leading to our breakup, I started to notice that we could spend about ninety minutes together before tension would boil over. After a decade of never fighting, an hour and a half fuse was suffocating.
Now it’s an irritatingly short window to cram as much hot, desperate sex into as I can manage, so she’ll hopefully slide into my messages again.
