“This one first?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just smothered me with kisses as he moved back between my thighs, this time moving my legs so I was straddling him. I let my head fall to the side as he moved down my jaw and towards the spot behind my ear that made shivers roll like thunder down my spine. I was jelly in his arms as he swung his own legs over the bed. I rose up on my knees long enough for him to put on the condom waiting in his bedside drawer, then sank slowly down onto his shaft.
Once I’d settled fully on his lap, completely impaled, he put his hands under my ass to support me and slowly stood up. It always seemed like a cliché to hear “no one had ever been that deep before” in a romance novel, but legit, no one ever had. Of course no one had ever supported my weight with nothing more than their hands and their cock before, either.
I started, slowly, to shift my hips. In this position, he was grinding against my clit with every small change of stance. Once we were completely stable, he started pushing back against me, building momentum until I was bouncing up and down on him.
The promised ascent took almost no time at all, but I held off my orgasm through sheer force of will, just to enjoy it a little longer. When Marc’s arms started to get tired, he lay me back down on the bed, and I took my turn on top of him. The book lay discarded on a pillow, so I flipped around until I found something called The Perch that looked both doable and enjoyable.
Marc sat back up, and I turned around to sit on his lap facing away from him. In this position, his hands were free to roam my body. And roam they did. I kept forgetting to move as he gently kneaded my breasts. My head rolled back onto his shoulder, and he kissed that spot again.
When we were like that, me leaning back into him, letting him control everything from my movement to my orgasm, I thought to myself that my friends calling me Anastasia wasn’t so bad after all. Just look at how sexy giving up control was. When I stopped being nervous about my inexperience, I was able to give myself thoroughly over to pleasure.
And maybe that was why Marc could expertly use my body like a painter with a brush, highlighting areas I didn’t know existed, lighting me up from the inside out. Because I was so overwhelmed by him that I got out of my own head for once, not overthinking things. Or was it because I felt seen by him in a way no one else had ever seen me?
Either way, when he pinched my nipple as he pulled me back, moving deeper inside me, I lost my train of thought altogether.
And who even needed to think as we moved together like we’d done this a thousand times? I came when he bit my shoulder, but he didn’t slow down even a little bit. In my ear, he whispered filthy, sexy things about my body. I couldn’t think straight if I tried. Which is why the Thing happened. The Thing I never, ever meant to happen.
“I fucking love the way you feel on my cock,” his gravelly voice said.
“Your cock feels so good,” I was secretly thrilled to hear myself saying such a dirty thing out loud.
“I love the Kama Sutra. I fucking love books.” I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was getting close. As he thickened inside me, I was getting close to another one too. And from the tightening of my belly, it was going to be a strong, body-rocking orgasm. My legs were quaking, hardly able to ride him without his strong hands on my hips guiding me up and down, pistoning me on him.
“I fucking love books,” he yelled. Which that, he began to pulse, and I went over the edge, gripping around him again and again.
“I love you,” I accidentally yelled back.
The silence and stillness that followed is simply indescribable.
Um. Oops.
Fifteen
Welp. That was awkward. Beyond awkward. The awkwardest. There was only one recourse after a situation like that, and it was to flee into my room and then never come out. My humiliation was compounded by fleeing in the nude, and forgetting my fancy underpants were still in there with him. He’d paid for them anyway, so I supposed he would just get to keep them as a souvenir.
There was just no circumstance under which I could return.
I wondered if Postmates could deliver food to my window. If not, surely Lizzie would pity me. Scarlet wouldn’t, she would tell me to face my problems. And Ava would force me to face them by taking my door off the hinges just to eat popcorn and watch the weirdness play out when I couldn’t hide anymore.
Marc knocked, but I ignored it.
“I’ll just leave your… underthings out here with your pajamas,” he said, and retreated. I didn’t bother to answer. I burrowed under the covers. What was I thinking? Of all the things to accidentally scream out during climax. Why couldn’t I have just taken the lord’s name in vain like everyone else in the world having sex?
Did I say life was nirvana? Life was hell.
I’d gone from the heights of ecstasy to the depths of despair in a matter of moments. I supposed I couldn’t stay in here forever, after all, if for no other reason than that I didn’t have an en-suite bathroom.
But what on earth was I going to tell my roommate when I emerged? I had to say something. After all, my naked flight from his bed meant I couldn’t very well just pretend it hadn’t happened. So… “Hey, buddy, sorry for declaring my undying love mid-coitus, enjoy that trip abroad and all the accompanying broads, though.” It just wouldn’t work. It raised more questions than it answered.
Maybe I could just crawl out the window and never return. The problem with that, of course, was that I didn’t have another roommate option which was how I’d ended up in this mess to begin with.
No, the only answer was to burn the house down, faking my death, and then to take on a new identity as my own twin sister and collect the insurance money.
It seemed too complicated, though.
It was time to do what I always did when things seemed overwhelming. My head emerged from the blankets first, followed by my arm, which felt around for one of the hundred pencils that littered my room.
It was time to pour my soul out into a notebook, and then let it go… to the internet. It was strangely comforting to have the validation of perfect strangers liking my comic about all this. I supposed that was why celebrities kept Twitter accounts. Maybe I needed one of those, too.
I worked for a little while, sketching out a piece in which the scenario that had just happened, happened. How did I fix this? What would Brandon and his wife like to see?
The fire scenario. For sure.
Maybe minus the imaginary twin. Also, maybe minus the fake death. And minus the arson, fine.
In the comic, I made the fire result from a sexy-time candle and a curtain. A tale as old as time. It was better that way, anyways. Then my audience could wait to find out what Markus would eventually tell Maddy, and I could wait to figure it out, too.