“That’s my girl. You take my cock so well.”
She snakes her hands down my back to grab my ass and grinds against me. I pump faster when she digs her nails into my skin and pour my desire into her mouth, needing the connection.It’s not enough that my dick is buried inside her. I want to burrow under her skin and live there.
I’m so fucking gone for this girl.
“So close,” she pants. “Need. More.”
Sweat beads at my temples as I pick up my pace and drag my hand down to her swollen clit.
“Yes, right there.” She gasps when I rub my thumb around it in circles, and grinds against me harder, faster. “I can’t—I’m gonna?—”
“Take what’s yours, baby. Fucking come on my cock.”
And she does. Her back arches, and she unleashes a primal moan. My vision blurs at the edges, and I follow her over the edge, crying out as I unload inside her. Her tight pussy squeezes me, rhythmically draining me until there’s nothing left to give.
Shivering, I collapse onto my beautiful girl. The pulse point on her neck beats rapidly against my nose as I saw sharp breaths in, then out again. We’re a shaking, sweaty mess.
Groaning, I pull out from between her legs, careful not to put too much weight on her. With one leg hooked over hers, I rest my head on her breasts, ghost circles over one sensitive nipple, and plant a kiss in the middle of her chest, over her beating heart.
She runs delicate fingers through my hair, then up and down my back. “I love you.”
“I love you, Joey,” I breathe into her heart.
50
Josefine
One Month Later
They—whoeverthey may be—say a person should write the book they want to read.
As the daughter of someone with substance abuse, I chose to write a book that adolescents and young teens could turn to for comfort in times of confusion and isolation. Because that’s how I felt growing up: confused and alone.
I didn’t start out with a committed deadline or goal, really. Just a dream to write and publish a book someday.
But Cam lit a fire inside me.
With my mom tucked safely inside a bougie rehab center, surrounded by some of the best therapists in the world (I looked it up), a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. That relief alone opened up a part of my creativity that had been sealed shut for as long as I can remember.
Cam suggested we take a couple of days to decompress before making any big decisions about how to spend the month. And by “decompress,” he meant “have lots of sex.”
When our decompression period was over, we devised a plan. First, I made it clear that we weren’t actually living together, but rather on a “work-retreat-like vacation.” Whether I was kidding myself or not with this reframe, he appeased me.
Next, I promised to try my best to communicate my needs, even if all I could think to say was “I don’t know how to express my needs.” Having a simple script to communicate better was liberating.
While I wrote, Cam worked for his parents. Traditional office life isn’t his jam, but it was only temporary. This time, though, he didn’t experience the same pressure from his father as he once did.
Brooks drove out to Palm Springs for a couple of nights and helped me clean up certain plot holes and kill off an unnecessary character—metaphorically speaking.
Though I hoped the change of scenery and finally allowing myself to open my heart to Cam would magically give me the motivation and inspiration I’d need to finish the book, writing is ultimately a slow process. No number of hyped-up texts from Millie, Brooks, and Ari can extract me from feeling like I’m suddenly stuck.
Worse yet, I’m beginning to question my ability.Why can’t I finish it? Why do my words read like they were written by a chimpanzee?
I’ve been meeting with a new therapist via video weekly, and she’s encouraging me to “trust the process” and practice patience and compassion for myself.
She and Cam are quick to remind me that being a Creative—with a capital C—is mentally taxing. As if I don’t already know. Some days, I feel like I’m absolutely losing it. Our suite is covered in sticky notes. I’m pretty sure housekeeping thinks I’m investigating a murder with the way I’ve tacked them on every surface. But I’m terrified of forgettingthe ideas that hit me in the shower or sprout in the middle of the night.
Cam hasn’t batted an eye at my creative madness. Rather, I think he understands the sense of urgency—though he’s taken to wearing earplugs to bed so I’m less likely to wake him in the middle of the night while I record voice memos on my phone.
