Page 39 of He Has Pluck

Whatever rhythm we had before thunders out of control now. Both of his hands hold me, controlling every movement as he groans and rasps in my ear, saying all kinds of crazy things that I strain to hear as the sensation of him overpowers me, taking me like an outrageous storm, past the horizon into the oblivion of pure body-racking pleasure.

If I’m being struck by lightning, shocking me into flashes of rapture, then his earth-shattering roar of ultimate satisfaction. He pumps into me with the tumultuous roll over his orgasmic tide, cresting and taking me with him, has me falling through the dark universe of bliss, until sometime later, when my breathing slows and I hear the noise of traffic outside the window.

I open my eyes to a room lit by the streetlights and nearby traffic lights flashing, but what I see is him. What I’m aware of most of all is him, the hard strength and warmth of his slick naked body against mine and the low rumble of his whispers in my ear.

“You’re the sexiest, most beautiful woman alive, and I can’t wait to see orgasm number two. I hope my body holds out, that I can make every orgasm better than the last, that I can measure up to your gorgeous exceptional body, mind and soul.”

His words start to sink in beyond the visceral feeling of contentment that seeps in through my pores and into my subconscious without any thought or need for understanding or analyzing.

“Wait—what did you say?” My voice sounds scratchy, as if I’ve been screaming, and I think back, or try to. “Did I scream?”

Cue the sexy chuckle teasing the delicate hairs at my temple.

“What did I scream?” I seriously don’t remember.

“My name.” He lifts himself up to hover over me and studies my face.

Good God. “Honestly, I don’t remember, I…”

“No, I’m not making it up. Next time, I’ll record you if you need proof.”

“Next time?” I never plan the next time says my knee-jerk reaction, but my vagina pulses with enthusiasm at the idea.

“You have two more to go. And that’s just tonight.”

“Are you some kind of sex addict?”

“I never was—until I met you.” My next knee-jerk reaction is that I could say the same thing, but luckily I bite my lip, literally to prevent that nugget of truth from seeing the light of day.

“It’s getting late, isn’t it?” I say, trying to sit up.

“Don’t even think of leaving this bed.” I’d worry about being held hostage except I hear the smile in his voice.

“You going to try and stop me?” This is the kind of playful challenge I can wrap my head around. The rest of my body, too. I make a run for it and, predictably, he catches me and the sound of laughter fills the air and my heart because I don’t remember the last time I laughed with such abandon.

I stay the night because I can. Because Carlos will take care of the edits tonight. And two orgasms later, I fall asleep, in this small unkempt bed in a dingy little room with a hockey player, into deep peaceful oblivion.

* * *

His stare wakes me before the sun has actually risen, though the sky wears that dawn-gray color I hate.

“What are you looking at?” I ask with my scratchy middle-of-the-night voice.

“A prickly, yet gorgeous woman who makes me think I may need to call a doctor about this permanent boner problem I’m having.”

I smile. “Funny you should think of that as a problem,” I say, holding onto him while some kind of emotion rises up my throat, unexpected and unknown, inspiring a surge of fear, except he’s looking at me and his dimple appears. That smirk and that stare, and whatever I might have been afraid of, disappears like a puff of smoke from a lit match, leaving relief that it wasn’t the house burning down.

“Are we up?” he says, and I laugh.

“Feels like it to me,” I say. He rolls his eyes at me for a change and climbs from bed, slipping from my grasp. Still, as soon as he stands in his magnificent naked glory, I don’t mind the show. He disappears into the bathroom and reappears with his sweats and proceeds to make coffee.

“So this is what you mean by up. What do you have against morning sex anyway?”

“I need coffee first,” he says. I watch, and then he returns to bed with two mugs and a shirt for me.

“I can’t wear this.”

“Why not. It’s my jersey.”