I wriggle side to side on the pillow with a helpless moan. “I know. You should probably give my ass a few smacks for it.”
“Should I?” A stinging swat follows close on the heels of his words. My welcoming yelp trails off to a whimper.
“Again, please,” I direct in a gasp, shoving a hand beneath myself. “Keep doing that while I come. You can have yours after—” As I’m saying it, his hand arcs down again, and the sweet sting sends me into overdrive. I cup myself with one hand, thrusting against my slippery fingers, my panting mixed with nonsensical pleading as he smacks my ass. The delicious moment creeps closer until I finally thunder over the edge with a scream. My legs tense, knees shaking, and my pussy clenches in waves, clamoring to have him back inside me.
Either he knows, or he’s following the dictates of his own need. He covers me with the taut, angular warmth of his body and docks into me with that exquisite dick. My legs are wobbly with aftershocks, but I prop onto my knees higher so I can back up to meet his strokes. The pillow is mashed between my legs in a way that makes me rub against it, and before long I’m headed up the peak again, my breath gusting as much in surprise as lust.
After a few minutes, his own panting twists into a strangled groan as he comes, releasing with a sound like,Ah!as if he’s discovered something amazing. His tousled head falls to my shoulder, and his breathing as it struggles to catch up to itself is almost like weary laughter.
Something about it makes me really… fucking…happy. I’m listening to him, enjoying the sound, and I’ve pretty much forgotten that I was about to finish again until he winds his arms around me and rolls onto his back, taking me with him.
I’m lying on him like he’s a pool raft or something, his dick still inside me, and to my surprise, he reaches one hand and settles it over my clit, then puts the other on my nipple. With gentle precision, he rubs me in both places at once.
My head is leaning back on his shoulder, and he says, “Come for me again like the fucking marvel you are. That’s it, sweetness… follow it…”
I relax and focus on his hands, the rise and fall of his breathing beneath me, his scent, the vibration of his voice as he coaxes me again toward ecstasy. My legs tremor and my quick breaths transform into a shriek as another climax steamrolls through me. His touch goes whisper-light, then drops away. He smooths both hands down my shoulders and arms, then brings them up to cross over my chest, giving me a sort of backward hug.
After a few minutes of recovery, I ease off him and roll onto my face, completely spent. I feel him get up and go into the bathroom, then come back and get into bed, pulling the duvet over us both.
“That was fuckin’ rad,” I mumble with my cheek smushed against the mattress, barely coherent. “Where’d you learn the last bit?”
He chuckles, passing a hand down my back in a slow caress and punctuating it with a gentle pat on my ass. “I don’t know,” he admits.
“Well…” I lift one limp arm and manage to make a weak A-okay gesture, which he may or may not be able to see in this light. “My compliments, either way.”
As I drift off, he nestles closer. The last thing I’m aware of is his lips delivering a lingering kiss to my shoulder.
I pretend to be asleep and let him do it.
I generally have girls sleep over after sex, because it doesn’t feel safe to send them out alone at night. But guys? Nope. Total mood kill, the realness of sleep. The idea of some fuckwit snoring and mumbling and farting beside me, thrashing around and disturbing my rest… no thanks. Call yourself a cab and get the hell out, pal.
Alexanderdoesdisturb my rest, but not in the way I worried about. For one thing, the guy is so silent when he sleeps that it’s eerie. I literally put a hand near his mouth to make sure he was breathing at one point. He sleeps on his side with both hands tucked under his face, like an illustration of a Victorian child waiting for Christmas morning. He should be holding a candy cane like Cindy-Lou Who.
I find myself thinking, as I watch him,That’d be hilarious—I’m totally gonna sneak a candy cane into his clasped hands some time and get a pic of it…and then I remember that there’s no fucking way I’m ever letting the guy sleep next to me again. As soon as the sun comes up, this pretty idiot’s gotta hit the bricks.
I did get a couple hours of “power sleep”—I have the same sleep trainer as Cosmin, my teammate, and that shitworks—but about an hour before my alarm’s set to go off, I wake up and spend the whole damned time staring at Alexander. I apparently have such a debilitating case of the dick-stupids that I even find myself wondering what he’s dreaming.
Have I lost my mind?
Forcing myself to turn away, I grab my phone and toggle the alarm off before it can make a noise, then slide out of bed. I brush my teeth and step into the boxers and tank top I flung off last night, then gingerly open the bedroom door to go to the living room and make coffee.
Priya walks out of her room as I’m struggling with the machine.
“Lemme do it,” she says impatiently. She’s wearing yoga pants and another of Jules’s shirts—it has a pic of the album cover of Pixies’Doolittle, because my brother may be a dipshit, but he at least has great taste in old indie music.
Her hair is in two sleep-fuzzed braids, and she looks tired and sad. She applies herself silently to the task of making espresso, and I hop onto the bar and watch her do it. I know I have to apologize. You’d think I’d be used to it, since it’s a part of our established routine, but these days it actually feels a littleworseevery time, like picking at a healing scab so the scar keeps getting bigger. As I watch her fussing with the espresso machine, my heart aches.
She turns around and hands me the tiny espresso cup, and she hasn’t made one for herself, which is an unspoken sign that she’s ready to forgive me. It hits me again—as it does often—that she should’ve picked a better best friend, not a sarcastic bitch who doesn’t enjoy the things she does, like old black-and-whiteromantic movies and cooking that has more than two steps and reading dry science books and doing crafts that require patience. Things I unfairly make fun of her for, because secretly I wish I was less cynical and sweary and impatient.
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking a small sip. I look down at the caramelly surface. “I’m sorry for being shitty. I’m glad Jules is going clean, and I’m glad he has you. You’re good for him, and to be honest I was fuckin’ jealous.”
“I know,” she says simply. There’s no sense of victory, no hiddenI told you so.
I take another sip. She’s still waiting for something. I glance over my shoulder at the closed bedroom door. “So, aboutthat. I had to get it out of my system—the guy’s hot, if a total prick, and I wanted to torture him a little. But full disclosure: part of why it happened was to piss you off, since you can’t stand him.”
“Very silly, considering that the reason I dislike him is for what he did toyou.”
My throat gets tight. “I hate that we’re fighting.”
