I shiver as my body remembers that first orgasm and how he didn’t let up, pulling another one from me before I pushed him away and rolled off the couch, taking him in my mouth.
But I don’t remember how that ended. I think he came. Suddenly I’m consumed with panic. “In the living room, did you . . . ?”
His eyes widen briefly before that light amusement fills them. “What do you think?”
It’s my turn to scrunch my nose. “I think so?”
He leans forward, resting a fist on his chin. “What do you remember?”
Oh, the little fucker. “You know what happened.”
“Maybe I forgot? Maybe I want to hear you tell me.”
I close my eyes and remember how the carpet felt on my bare knees, the way I initially struggled to get used to the broad feel of him in my mouth, his hands in my hair, his thighs shaking against my flattened palms.
When I look up and he’s still watching me, I remember exactly how his face looked the first time he came against my tongue.
Reaching for my coffee, I lift it to my lips and take a giant, scalding gulp.
And then I remember being carried into the bedroom, Ansel wildly kissing and licking every inch of my body, sucking and biting. I remember us rolling from the bed to the floor, the crash of a lamp. I remember, however many hours later, watching him roll a condom on, his bare torso looming over me. I don’t think I’d ever felt so greedy for something as I had for the weight of him on top of me. He was perfect: sliding in carefully even as drunk as we were, rocking in small, perfect arcs until I was sweaty and frantic beneath him. I remember the groan he made when he got close, and how he rolled me over, my stomach flat to the mattress, his teeth bared on my neck. Leaving one of so many marks.
Ansel watches me from across the table, a tiny, knowing smile curving his mouth. “Well? Did I?”
I open my mouth to speak but with the mischievous look in his eyes, maybe we’re both remembering when he lifted me against the wall, pushing roughly back into me. Where had we been that he moved me to the wall? I remember how hard the sex was then, how a painting rattled a few feet away, him telling me how perfect I felt. I remember the sound of glasses tipping over and breaking near the bar, the sweat of his exertion sliding across my breasts. I remember his face, his hand pressed flat to a mirror behind me.
But no, that was a different time.
Jesus, how many times did we have sex?
I feel my brow lift. “Wow.”
He blows a breath across his drink; the steam curls in front of him. “Hmm?”
“Yeah, I guess you did . . . enjoy. We must have done it a lot.”
“Which was your favorite? Living room, or bed, or floor, or bed, or wall, or mirror, or bar, or floor?”
“Shhh,” I whisper, lifting my cup to take another, more careful sip of coffee. I smile into my mug. “You’re weird.”
“I think I need a cast for my penis.”
I cough-laugh, nearly sending a hot mouthful of coffee through my nose.
But when I lift my napkin to my mouth, Ansel’s smile disappears. He’s staring at my hand.
Shit shit shit. I’m still wearing the ring. I can’t see his hands below the table now, and the crazy sex we had last night is officially the least of my worries. We haven’t even started talking about the real issue: how to disentangle ourselves from this drunken night. How to fix it. It’s so much more than being relieved we used condoms and having an awkward goodbye. A wild one-night stand isn’t legally binding unless you’re stupid enough to get married, too.
So why didn’t I take off the ring as soon as I noticed it?
“I d-don’t—” I start, and he blinks up to my face. “I didn’t want to put it down and lose it. In case it was real or . . . belonged to someone.”
“It belongs to you,” he says.
I look away, eyeing the table, and notice two wedding rings there, between the salt and pepper shakers. They’re men’s rings. Is one of them his? Oh God.
I start to slip mine off but Ansel reaches across the table, stilling me, and then lifts his other hand, his finger still decorated with a ring, too. “Don’t be embarrassed. I didn’t want to lose it, either.”
This is too weird. I mean, way too weird for me. The feeling is like being pulled under by a violent wave. I’m suddenly hit with panic knowing that we’re married, and it’s not just a game. He lives in France, I’m moving in a few weeks. We’ve just made a huge mess. And oh my God, I can’t want this. Am I insane? And how much does it cost to get out of this sort of thing?
I push back from the table, needing air, needing my friends.
“What is everyone doing about this?” I ask. “The others?” As if I need to clarify who I mean.