Yeah, like he’ll ever let a woman see him like that.
It doesn’t matter, it probably won’t happen again. Remember that he ran instantly cold after all the heat? Still, last night feels like a dream. An amazing dream. I should probably feel remorse, because we probably shouldn’t have done what we did. But I can’t. I melt when I remember. I can’t even believe this feeling. If only I could bottle it up and get high on it when I’m away from him. He oozed confidence. The way he worked me into a fever. The way he made me cry out. The way he controlled himself. The way he gave me oral.
Urgh. I’m so comfortable right now. I could stay here all day remembering. But I must. Fight. Bed gravity!
I manage to get out of bed, brush my teeth, and head to the kitchen. I look around as Gina pads in. I know deep down what I’m doing is so wrong and inherently risky. Proof of that is that I haven’t told my friends I slept with him.
We talk about the lamest things. I talk to Gina and Wynn every day, even if there’s nothing to talk about. We usually don’t even have anything significant to say except: “I just pigged out on a sundae.”
And I will be: “Oh, those are good.”
And: “I watched Sleepless in Seattle again; I can’t believe how good that movie still is, so many years later.”
“Oh, I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Where are those two, anyway? Where’s Meg? I miss her. . . .”
Sleeping with a guy after a three-year dry spell—and only having slept with two other guys in my life, neither of them anything to scream about—definitely classifies as noteworthy material. Sleeping with Malcolm Saint is a ten on the Richter scale. It deserves waking the girls up, if need be. It deserves screaming and scolding and more screaming, it deserves a day of daydreaming—What if he really likes me? and What if it happens again?—but because it’s him, and because this is me, and because everything is more complicated, I can’t say it. I can’t share it, and I can’t bear to share him or hear anyone’s advice or opinion when I’m so tangled up about it all.
“What’s up with you?” Gina asks.
“Nothing. I’m going to write,” I murmur lamely.
I head to my laptop and stare at it, not writing a single anything at all, my fingers just stroking the keys as I glance at my phone.
Oh god, I’m such a fucking slut. I force myself to exhale the breath I’d been holding and read the text I just sent him:
Tonight?
Tonight, he’d answered.
We’re heading back from a night out with Callan and Tahoe. I can’t even believe how turned on I got watching Saint have a sportgasm when the White Sox won. His friends had one too. They yelled in Tahoe’s apartment. Tahoe started running around like a madman, banging his chest. Callan opened a bottle of champagne and gave us all a bath. Malcolm’s muscles gave my saliva glands quite a workout when he took off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it at the TV. “FUCK THAT, YES!”
He kept staring at me as I went to and fro.
“Hey, we’re having a good time. Why don’t you call the girls?” Tahoe says.
“No, thanks. You can leave your paws off my girls,” I say.
“We’re actually bailing,” Malcolm says. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Aw, Saint. Hey, can we hop by your place later?”
“Later,” he says.
I don’t know why, but I’m already shivering like crazy.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in his bedroom, and I roll over to straddle him, aching for his mouth, and we kiss again. We’re naked, my breasts bare so he can toy with my nipples and drag his hands over my arms and then my spine. Our bodies shift as he sits up and pulls my legs around his hips. I’m so excited to feel that he’s thick underneath me, I can’t stop kissing his jaw, his lips. He’s so thick he groans when I rock my hips a little bit.
God, he really wants me. . . .
“This doesn’t mean anything, right?” I ask, panting and ready, so sopping wet I’m a little embarrassed about it, because his fingers are already trailing there.
“Right.” He drags his tongue over my ear, his hand sliding over my pussy lips.
I watch the harsh look on his face as I move slowly over his lap, teasing his hardness with my wetness, until he rasps in my ear, “A guy would kill to live here.”
He seizes my hips and urges me down on him; in this position he fills me to the hilt. Our eyes meet and cling. I lick my lips, and he runs his keen male attention over every part of me he can. He slides his hands down my butt, the backs of my legs, to curl over my ankles, his thumbs rubbing my ankle bones as I do the rest of the work.
It doesn’t matter, it probably won’t happen again. Remember that he ran instantly cold after all the heat? Still, last night feels like a dream. An amazing dream. I should probably feel remorse, because we probably shouldn’t have done what we did. But I can’t. I melt when I remember. I can’t even believe this feeling. If only I could bottle it up and get high on it when I’m away from him. He oozed confidence. The way he worked me into a fever. The way he made me cry out. The way he controlled himself. The way he gave me oral.
Urgh. I’m so comfortable right now. I could stay here all day remembering. But I must. Fight. Bed gravity!
I manage to get out of bed, brush my teeth, and head to the kitchen. I look around as Gina pads in. I know deep down what I’m doing is so wrong and inherently risky. Proof of that is that I haven’t told my friends I slept with him.
We talk about the lamest things. I talk to Gina and Wynn every day, even if there’s nothing to talk about. We usually don’t even have anything significant to say except: “I just pigged out on a sundae.”
And I will be: “Oh, those are good.”
And: “I watched Sleepless in Seattle again; I can’t believe how good that movie still is, so many years later.”
“Oh, I love Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Where are those two, anyway? Where’s Meg? I miss her. . . .”
Sleeping with a guy after a three-year dry spell—and only having slept with two other guys in my life, neither of them anything to scream about—definitely classifies as noteworthy material. Sleeping with Malcolm Saint is a ten on the Richter scale. It deserves waking the girls up, if need be. It deserves screaming and scolding and more screaming, it deserves a day of daydreaming—What if he really likes me? and What if it happens again?—but because it’s him, and because this is me, and because everything is more complicated, I can’t say it. I can’t share it, and I can’t bear to share him or hear anyone’s advice or opinion when I’m so tangled up about it all.
“What’s up with you?” Gina asks.
“Nothing. I’m going to write,” I murmur lamely.
I head to my laptop and stare at it, not writing a single anything at all, my fingers just stroking the keys as I glance at my phone.
Oh god, I’m such a fucking slut. I force myself to exhale the breath I’d been holding and read the text I just sent him:
Tonight?
Tonight, he’d answered.
We’re heading back from a night out with Callan and Tahoe. I can’t even believe how turned on I got watching Saint have a sportgasm when the White Sox won. His friends had one too. They yelled in Tahoe’s apartment. Tahoe started running around like a madman, banging his chest. Callan opened a bottle of champagne and gave us all a bath. Malcolm’s muscles gave my saliva glands quite a workout when he took off his shirt, balled it up, and threw it at the TV. “FUCK THAT, YES!”
He kept staring at me as I went to and fro.
“Hey, we’re having a good time. Why don’t you call the girls?” Tahoe says.
“No, thanks. You can leave your paws off my girls,” I say.
“We’re actually bailing,” Malcolm says. I look up at him, and he’s looking at me meaningfully.
“Aw, Saint. Hey, can we hop by your place later?”
“Later,” he says.
I don’t know why, but I’m already shivering like crazy.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in his bedroom, and I roll over to straddle him, aching for his mouth, and we kiss again. We’re naked, my breasts bare so he can toy with my nipples and drag his hands over my arms and then my spine. Our bodies shift as he sits up and pulls my legs around his hips. I’m so excited to feel that he’s thick underneath me, I can’t stop kissing his jaw, his lips. He’s so thick he groans when I rock my hips a little bit.
God, he really wants me. . . .
“This doesn’t mean anything, right?” I ask, panting and ready, so sopping wet I’m a little embarrassed about it, because his fingers are already trailing there.
“Right.” He drags his tongue over my ear, his hand sliding over my pussy lips.
I watch the harsh look on his face as I move slowly over his lap, teasing his hardness with my wetness, until he rasps in my ear, “A guy would kill to live here.”
He seizes my hips and urges me down on him; in this position he fills me to the hilt. Our eyes meet and cling. I lick my lips, and he runs his keen male attention over every part of me he can. He slides his hands down my butt, the backs of my legs, to curl over my ankles, his thumbs rubbing my ankle bones as I do the rest of the work.
