Page 46 of Roommate's Guide to Love

He nods and neither of us say anything else. The only thing making a sound in the office is the humming of his computer and the air conditioning roaring to life. The cool air isn’t helping, though. Being this close to Porter has me getting warmer by the second.

That and the way he’s looking at me.

Caring eyes. A little hurt in them. A lot of confusion.

A whole lot of want.

I know that look. It’s how he looked at me eight years ago.

“Quinn?”

“Yeah?”

Holy shit, the deja vu is strong. Back then I didn’t know what he was going to say next. Never in a million years did I even begin to dream he’d ask me back to his house.

Only now I know him. I know his looks. His touches.

And I know exactly what’s about to happen.

guide to love rule #103

When you find a good hairdresser, you don’t try others just to make sure. The same can be said about dick.

13

quinn

Before I can getmy bearings that this is about to happen, Porter’s lips crash into mine. His kiss is hard and claiming, which isn’t out of the ordinary for us. Every time we’ve been together has been like that. We both knew it was only a few hours before I disappeared into the darkness. Plus, even long-term friends with benefits don’t do romance. There are no flowers or candles or beautiful words spoken. Sure, there’s foreplay—both of us are big fans of both giving and receiving—but there’s no caressing or cuddling. There’s no slow kissing before eventually getting to the good stuff.

It’s just sex. Raw, unfiltered, fucking amazing, sex.

Yet, right now, there’s something different, yet vaguely familiar. Everything about Porter feels desperate. Needing. Just wanting to feel anything that’s not sadness.

Oh my God, that’s it. This reallyislike that first night. When we both needed to feel…something.

He was obviously devastated and feeling alone after the passing of his dad. And me? I was stupidly heartbroken over the dickwad who cheated on me, though looking back, he did me a favor. We were dating in the base sense of the word. We had dinners at my place. I spent the night at his. But that was it. I never met his friends. He refused to meet mine. And when I asked him to come with me to Rolling Hills during that fateful vacation? He said he couldn’t get time off work. A good excuse in theory, but bad execution on his part. Once Stella got into the girlfriend’s social media, we found out that he couldn’t come with me to Tennessee because he was in California on a wine tour with his new girlfriend.

I was devastated. Crushed. He basically told me that I wasn’t the person he saw himself with in the long term but didn’t know how to tell me.

Translation: You don’t want to date the big girl. But you want to fuck her.

And that’s not me being down on myself; it’s what I’ve discovered after years of analyzing evidence of past dates and boyfriends. The fact of the matter is that while I may love my body, and have finally learned to love the skin I’m in, I tend to attract the men who want to keep me hidden. I don’t know if I’d go as far as to say they’re ashamed to be seen with me, but until I’m proven otherwise, that’s the running theory.

So that night when Porter found me crying behind the bar, I just wanted to feel something. I realize that a drunken hookup with a man I’d crushed on for years probably wasn’t the best decision, but I was sad and had six Lemon Drop shots in me. I certainly didn’t think we’d still be doing this eight years later.

And like that first night when we stumbled into his bedroom, hands everywhere as we tried to strip each other down, this night is playing a mirror image. I stumble backward, Porter’s lips still on mine, as I slam into the wooden door of the office.

I yelp out in surprise, but it’s quickly swallowed by Porter’s mouth. Our kisses are big and sloppy, which are only in unison with our hands fumbling at our clothes. There’s no sensuality in what we’re doing. I’m shoving down my shorts as I hear the whip of his belt coming off before I’m greeted by the vision of him taking off his white T-shirt with one hand.

How do men do that? No. I don’t want know. I just want them—specifically Porter—to just keep doing it.

“Come here.”

His words are a growl as he grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into him. He doesn’t let go as he moves my head where he wants it as his other hand brings my leg up, giving him access to my throbbing pussy.

“Oh!” I gasp as he inserts two fingers. My head falls back and hits the door, but I’ll take the likely bump that’s going to form tomorrow because I can already tell this is about to be one for the ages.

“You’re always so wet for me,” he grunts as I feel the palm of his hand against my pussy, his fingers completely inside me. “Always wet. Always perfect.”

---