“We could pause and check the minifridge if you want,” he mumbles against my lips. “They probably have Sanpellegrino.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I tell him, and punctuate the demand with a rake of my nails down his spine.
A sly smile cuts across that beautiful mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
This is supposed to be a one-night stand. I’m not supposed to be imagining lazy mornings, teasing him over his terrible seltzer taste, finding out the meaning of the tattoos that slide beneath my fingers as I touch him. Those are the kinds of little mysteries that will exist forever. I’ll never unravel him. He’ll just be a story I tell one day, a shadowy figure from my past.
Jamie shifts down the length of my body, leaving kisses in his wake. I push up onto my elbows, and our eyes meet as he grasps one of my thighs, easing it up and out of the way. He’s still looking at me as he dips his head and traces his tongue along me. I shudder—I can’t help myself—and reach down, lacing my fingers together with his and holding on tight as he swirls the tip of his tongue around my clit, teasing.
My want is a living, throbbing thing inside me, unignorable. I squirm beneath him as he does it again; fuckingtorturous,it really is, and when he finally breaks eye contact, it’s to slide two fingers inside me and stroke me from the inside too. He touches me like he actually cares if I get off, like he actually caresmoreabout my getting off, even, than his own. And maybe that shouldn’t be a rare quality, but it kind of is.
Or maybe I have a habit of giving myself to people who want me for very different reasons. I’ve never asked for more. Never thought there was more to demand.
“Fuck,” I whisper, and he curls those fingers, earning a sudden jump and a gasp on my part.
I expect him to spend just a minute or so down there, to give up the second his jaw starts to hurt and move on to what most guys perceive to be the main event. But hestays. He keeps going, driving me closer and closer to the edge—until my body is liquid heat, until I’m coming, clenching down around his fingers again and again as he works me through the finish.
I’m breathless, my chest rising and falling erratically as he makes his way back up the bed. I taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, and I’m too strung out in the afterglow to care. I can’t even feel self-conscious about my nakedness, spread out before him; he looks at me and touches me like I’m beautiful, and so I believe it.
“Come here,” I say eventually, reaching for his cock and guiding it to my entrance.
The dildo attachment is pretty big, but it’s nottoobig—enough that it hurts a little as he slides in, but then my body adjusts, accommodating him. He hovers above me, braced on one elbow, our noses nearly brushing.
“Good?” he asks. And judging from the rough, husky quality of his voice, he’s as affected by this as I am.
I nod and curl one leg around his waist, using it to urge him in deeper.
He fucks me slowly at first, rolling his hips against mine in steady waves. I can’t stop touching him; I can’t get enough. My hands grip his thighs, his ass, dragging up his long spine to tangle in his hair.
“Is this okay for you?” I ask him, because in this half-light it’s hard to see his face, hard to tell—but he blows out a heavy breath, half a laugh, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fantastic.”
He reaches down to touch me again as he fucks me—and if I’m sensitive at first, that’s quickly overwhelmed by a new and building pleasure. His body is over-hot against mine, our skin slick with a faint sheen of perspiration as we move together. I can’t take my eyes off his face, memorizing the way it shifts from parted lips to furrowed brow, his teeth gritting as he gets close, and always—always—his gaze hot and dark and fixed on mine.
I come again before he does, not even bothering to try to be quiet this time. My head tips back, and he drags his mouth along my exposed and vulnerable throat, his hips stuttering against mine as his climax hits a second later. His moans are muffled against my shoulder, breath hot on my skin, my nails digging into his back, dragging down, leaving my mark.
He stays inside me after, during the several long seconds that we remain intertwined, his weight heavy atop my chest and my arms hanging lax and loose about his body. The Midtown city light slants in from the windows, bluish, casting deep shadows between us and making this moment feel out of time—otherworldly.
At last he pulls out and rolls off of me, hands making quick work of the harness buckles and casting the thing onto the floor. I shift onto my side and slide my palm over his flat, damp stomach, kissing the place where his collarbone meets his neck. Somemen find this to be an erogenous zone. Jamie, it seems, is no different. I relish the shiver that rolls through him at my touch.
“Was that okay?” he asks me at last, perennially, it seems, the gentleman.
I kind of want to smack him and tell him to stop being so nice, that someone in this city is gonna take advantage of that eventually. Instead I coil in closer and say, quite honestly, “That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had.”
We drift off together like that, tangled up and listening to the arrhythmic music of horns and ambulance sirens that careens through the city below—until he turns toward me around midnight and asks if I want to go again, and I, helplessly, agree.
4
I wake up with drool on my face and my phone alarm blaring pop-punk music. I fling my hand over to mute the alarm and accidentally knock my phone onto the floor; it takes several seconds of sightless fumbling before my fingers finally touch cold glass and I seize blessed silence.
I squint open heavy eyelids and glance at the other side of the bed. The guy from last night is already gone, the sheets mussed but cool. A slip of paper with the hotel watermark rests on his pillow. It reads:So sorry to walk out on you like this, but I’m late for work and didn’t want to wake you. Sleep well. If you want to get dinner sometime, text me.And then he’s written out his phone number.
Great. At this rate, if I want to find out his name, I’m going to have to actually admit to not knowing it.
I push myself upright and reach for my phone again, glancing down at my lock screen.Shit. It’s past eight. It’s past eight, my first class at Parker starts at ten—mybestclass, really, because it’s my mixed-media photography course withtheWyatt Cole—andI’m so fucked.
I launch out of bed, tripping over the overlong duvet in my haste to grab my clothes off the floor and get dressed. My phone keeps buzzing. Probably Ophelia or Diego, or maybe my sponsor saw the photos from the club last night and wants to know if I threw my sobriety away. I’m dying of thirst, but the water bottles in the minifridge cost fourteen dollars, so I end up sticking my head under the sink faucet instead.
Do I have time to go by the apartment and change? Shower? Debatable. But my camera and portfolio are both there, so I’m gonna have to.
