With that, she throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and smashing her lips onto mine. The taste is too brief, leaving me gasping and craning my head down for more when she pulls away.
“Best date ever! Ever, ever, ever,” she adds, spinning and scurrying away. “I’ll text you! Sorry again!”
Well… fuck. Alone with cum slowly drying inside my trousers was not how I saw the night ending.
15
Madison
So the question is… why?
Lick-the-Bean Peter
Is your grandmother all right? I wanted to text you last night because I was worried, but I didn’t want to bother you.
I almost texted him last night too, while I was waiting anxiously for an EKG analysis. All the doctor said on the phone was that Abuela had been sent to the hospital wing, complaining of chest pain. Several hours of tests later… turns out bad gas can feel a lot like a heart attack.
Scanning Peter’s kind message again, I shove down the irritation and resistance to sharing personal information—that’s what dating is, after all—and type something so honest it feels vulnerable, because I don’t want him to think that I ran out on our date for something unimportant. And I never explained to Peter how important Abuela is to me.
There was a medical emergency. She’s okay now. Sorry again for leaving, but she’s my only family.
Don’t apologize. I’m glad you got it sorted.
When I check my face, I realize the grin is huge and dopey.Dios,is this what infatuation feels like? How is he so fucking perfect?
Thanks for asking about her. And for caring.
Briefly, I hesitate before typing out my next message. I want to choose the right words.
I can’t wait to see him again. It’s like a physical pull—a need so strong it’s all I can think about. Between somehow engineering the best date—a private arcade? All the games, none of the screaming children? Are youkiddingme?—another mind-bending and completely scorching kiss, and then dropping to his knees and eating me out in the middle of it all, I’m definitely a goner for this guy.
All morning I’ve been grinning like a fool whenever I remember that moment of confusion when I felt him convulsing between my legs. I’m so tickled that he enjoyed eating my pussy so much thathecame, I don’t even care that I didn’t. And the wincing humiliation on his face when he admitted it just about made me swoon—not because he was embarrassed that he came in his pants, but because he was embarrassed thathecame when he was trying to makemecome. That tells me he’s no selfish lover; Peter is the kind of guy who genuinely cares if you get off.
Okay, not apologizing, but I’d like to make it up to you.
Heart racing, I press send, and my stomach flops over.
Cálmate,Madison.You’re not being hunted for sport.
But this is scary! Liking someone is scary. The possibility that this couldworkis scary.
Caring about what someone thinks sucks balls.
I always find a reason to write someone off. Most people don’t like me after they really get to know me, and that’s fine—I’m a prickly bitch—so I prefer to be able to examine someone from arm’s length and find the flaws that reassure me it’ll never work. The rejection hurts less that way. It takes all the pressure off if I know we’re doomed from the start and just having fun until things fizzle out.
It’s not like that this time. I’m not dreading looking at my phone when he texts; my heart races when I see his name on my screen. I’m not looking for excuses to bail on a date; I’m planning how to ask him on another. I’m not anticipating lulls in the conversation; I’m trying to save and remember things so I can tell him stories to make him laugh.
It’s… uncomfortable. In a thoroughly exciting way, yes, but it’s making me second-guess myself because he’s still a stranger and I don’t know exactly where I stand. I know he wants me—that’s fairly fucking obvious—but does helikeme? I think he does, but there’s still that little voice of doubt that tries to convince methat running off in the middle of an amazing date that he went to such lengths to plan for me is sure to piss him off.
I heft the paper bag of groceries under my arm and lock the car before I head inside.
My phone buzzes, and my heart plummets into my stomach with nerves, but it’s not Peter. It’s one of the IRCs I’m on—not SpyderMan’s. I haven’t even talked to him since we got into that little spat. It’s been days, which is weird for us, now that I think about it. But I guess I’ve been riding the high of the excitement with Peter and I haven’t given SpyderMan much thought.
Guilt is just a twinge, because it’s drowned out by relief. Maybe it’ll be easier to get over SpyderMan than I thought.
NoBody: We need to talk. In person. Text me when you get this.
I roll my eyes. For a tough guy with questionable morals, he’s pretty dramatic. He probably has another job for me or is having a hard time with the data I sent him. Not really my problem, and I don’t feel like doing him any favors at the moment. Luckily, I have enough in the bank that I can squeak by for a few months until I get bored. So, I ignore the message and silence the IRC.
