I half blink, half laugh. “You—”
“I’m equal parts determined to return this favor and terrified we’ll get caught. I know I get things for me, but she’s still—she’s so—okay. Done talking. Take your pants off.”
“Maisey—”
“Turnabout’s fair play. But my hands don’t work. That orgasm broke them. So you have to do the unbuttoning for me.”
I’m smiling as I drop my forehead to hers. “Am I going to have to jerk myself off too?”
“No, but you will have to throw me on your bed and have your way with me. With your penis. In my vagina. For the record. Are my eyes still crossed? I feel like my eyes are still crossed.”
“Your eyes are closed, sweetheart.”
Closed and getting wet at the corners.
Shit.
“Maisey?” I touch the tear slipping out of the corner of her eye. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. No! It’s been a long time since ... someone else ... took care of me,” she whispers.
I open my mouth, then close it.
That she hasn’t had a man-made orgasm in a long time probably shouldn’t be a surprise. Much as she’s nothing like I would’ve expected after watching her show, everything I’ve heard about her ex suggests I haven’t read him wrong at all.
He doesn’t deserve her.
Probably never deserved her.
Also, I need to quit reading the tabloids, and yes, I know I’m lying to myself when I say it’s so that I know if one of my students might be having an extra-rough time at home.
“Lucky you have me right down the driveway,” I finally murmur.
That earns me a laugh that I’m nearly certain is real. She blinks her eyes open, swipes at them quickly with her apparently not-useless hands, and then squirms in my arms. “I should go. We can—Junie’splanning on going to a sleepover next weekend at Abigail’s house with half the soccer team. You can come up to my house then, and we can, erm, finish what we started. Unless you want me to jerk you off real quick. I could. I’mverygood with my hands, and I think they’re working again. Oh God. That sounded totally lame and porn movie-ish, didn’t it? I’m really—I haven’t—it’s been—gah.”
I kiss her forehead.
Can’t help myself.
This Maisey?
She’sreal. She’s not a made-for-TV inept repairperson. What you see is what you get. I wonder if there are pockets of the internet devoted to Maisey-stan because of that show.
There should be.
“Next weekend,” I murmur. “Text me.”
“But you—”
“Know that you deserve champagne and roses and bubble baths, and I’m going to do this right.”
I feel her shiver. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“If I haven’t already, I’m fucked.”
She laughs again. It’s a soft sound, almost hesitant, and there goes my heart again.
Wanting to save the injured damsel.
