If you don’t, he’ll think it’s him.
If you don’t, it’ll turn into A Thing.
My throat tightens.
If I don’t finish, I’ll become a problem instead of someone he desires.
Foster’s mouth moves to my neck. His breath is hot against my skin. His hand moves as though he’s learning me, wants to memorize me. He whispers hot dirty words, but they’re drowned out by my own anxious thoughts.
I should be where he’s at. Both of us floating toward an orgasm.
But the article comes to mind. The numbers and stupid statistics I wish he’d never told me. The idea that there’s some invisible scoreboard, and I’m about to lose. Not just for me, but for him too.
Mark one for Callie being too much work, not worth the effort.
Foster’s head lifts, and his eyes meet mine, searching. “You good?”
I sink into those blue eyes like pool water, slipping deeper under his spell. He pulls one of my legs up around his hip, and my mind turns off for a second, relishing in the feel of the push and pull of his length in and out of me.
“You feel so good.” I mean every word. He feels more than good. But my head is refusing to let me lose myself in him, to just feel and let the pressure float away.
“Are you close?”
“Yes,” I lie, not wanting to hurt him.
Foster kisses me again, and I kiss him back harder, trying to control my thoughts and beat them back into silence.
His hand ventures down between us, and his fingers land on my clit.
I press my eyes shut and try to focus on the sensation. On him. On the way his breath stutters when I run my hands down his back. On the strength there. The way his muscles flex and stretch when he moves. On the sound he makes every time his dick hits deep inside me.
But the pressure is still there, building not in my body, but in my mind.
Any second now.
Don’t ruin this.
Foster’s breathing turns rougher. His forehead dips to my shoulder for a second, and it’s clear he’s barely hanging on.
I feel the shift. The change in his rhythm. The way his body tenses. The sounds he’s making are even more guttural.
And my body snaps into panic mode.
He’s close, and I’m not.
My throat closes.
I could say it. I could say, I need more time. I could say, I don’t think this is working. I could say, do this instead.
But the words are lodged in my throat, and my brain is screaming at me not to make it awkward. Don’t make him feel bad. Don’t make him slow down when he’s right there. Who knows if you’ll ever come anyway?
So I do the easiest thing. The thing I’ve done a million times. What’s the difference now?
I make my breathing hitch on purpose. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. I make like I’m right there with him. I slip out a moan and tense my entire body and hope like hell that I sell it.
Foster freezes for half a second, eyes squeezing shut as he’s hit with his own relief. He says my name as if it’s a blessing and a curse.
And then his face presses into my neck as he falls apart.
