The Mistake

Bring it she does. Her firm bottom bumps my groin as I rise on my knees behind her, and then she rubs it against my shaft, sending a bolt of heat up my spine. Two months together and she’s still driving me crazy. Melting my goddamn brain with the pleasure she brings me.

I fist my erection and guide it to the crease of her ass, sliding lower until it nudges her opening. Anticipation heats the air. This is my favorite moment, the hint of suction around my tip, the knowledge that soon she’ll be clutching me tight, surrounding me with the warmth of her *.

She’s so wet I slide right in with my first thrust, filling her to the hilt. I fuck her slowly at first, wanting to prolong it, but each deep stroke scrambles my brain more and more, and soon the slow pace turns into a fast, relentless rhythm that makes me groan with abandon. But for all my talk about screwing her from behind, this position feels too…impersonal. I yank her up so her back is flush against my chest, and I fill my palms with her tits, teasing her nipples as I give an upward thrust.

Her head lolls to the side, and I take advantage of it, pressing my lips to her neck. I breathe her in, sucking on her smooth, fragrant flesh as I drive my cock inside her. Quick, shallow thrusts that make both of us gasp. I skim one hand down her body, grazing her tits, dancing over her belly, until I find her clit and rub it with my index finger, gentle circles that contrast the fast strokes of my cock.

We’ve gotten good at timing our responses, synchronizing our bodies so that we shudder in release at the same time. We collapse in a sweaty tangle of limbs, breathing hard from the orgasms, kissing frantically even as we come down from the euphoric high.

Afterward, she gets her laptop, and we cuddle under the blanket and start the movie. It’s her pick, so naturally we’re watching an old Jean-Claude Van Damme cheese fest that’s bound to put us in hysterics. We’re only five minutes in, however, when Grace’s cell phone rings.

She drapes across my chest to check the display, but doesn’t answer the call. “It’s Ramona,” she says when I offer a quizzical look. “Not in the mood to talk to her right now. Let’s keep watching.”

The phone rings again.

Grace makes a frustrated noise and presses ignore.

I’m not sure I blame her. Dean told me he ran into Ramona at the bar a few times, but I haven’t seen her since last semester. And I don’t particularly want to.

“She probably just wants to hang out,” Grace says, then switches the phone to vibrate.

She’s about to rest her head on my chest, but she barely makes contact before a loud buzz shakes the mattress. “O-kay then, guess I should’ve picked silent instead of vibrate.” She sits up again, snatches the cell, and freezes.

“What’s wrong?” I try to peek at the phone.

She flips it over so I can see the screen. SOS is all it says. Sent by—who else?—Ramona.

Maybe I’m a cynical bastard, but this smacks of manipulation to me. Grace wasn’t answering, so Ramona decided to make her answer.

“I have to call her back.”

I smother a sigh. “Babe, she’s probably trying to scare you into calling—”

“She’s not.” Grace’s expression is stricken. “We don’t abuse the SOS. Ever. In all the years we’ve been friends, we’ve only SOS’d each other twice. I did it when I thought I was being followed by some creep in Boston this one time, and she did it when she blacked out at a party senior year and woke up with no idea where she was. This is real, Logan.”

Even if I’d wanted to argue, she’s already hopping off the bed and making the call.

*

Grace

I’m actually frightened. Palms sweating, heart racing, lungs burning. But I guess that’s the appropriate response to finding out your friend is being held against her will by a bunch of thugs. When she had to sneak into the bathroom to call you because the thugs in question tried confiscating her phone after she announced she wanted to leave.

In the passenger side of Logan’s truck, I drum my fingers against my thighs in an anxious rhythm. I want to beg him to drive faster, but he’s already speeding. And he won’t stop barking out questions at me, questions to which I have no fucking answers, because Ramona hung up on me five minutes ago and is no longer picking up her phone.

“What hockey players?” Logan demands for the third time in ten minutes. “Briar guys?”

“For the last time, I don’t know. I told you everything she told me, Logan, so please stop harassing me.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

We’re both on edge. Neither of us knows what we’ll find when we reach the motel, and as we race toward Hastings, my conversation with Ramona buzzes through my mind like a swarm of bees.