Page 59 of Bittersweet

“Take off your panties,” he orders, and like a good little girl, I do, becausehello, lovely cock. I will do whatever you wish. White lace is discarded on thefloor.

“Get on the bed.” He points to the black silk sheets. I slide onto them, arching my back ever so slightly to entice him with my boobs since he’s clearly a tits man, and I will even consider putting up with the Moretti motorboat again if it means I’m getting a full-servicedownstairs.

“Like this?” Iask.

“Yeah.” He steps closer, running his tongue over his lips. “Now get ready to hold on, because you’re in for the ride of yourlife.”

A shiver runs through me. Goose bumps prickle my skin—goose bumps!I can’twait.

Marc grabs a condom from his bedside table, sliding it onquickly.

“Here comes Marc,” he cries out, andbam.

He slides insideme.

I tense, waiting for the pain that’s sure to come from a year of no sex and a serious lack of foreplay, but maybe those candle lights cast deceptively long shadows, because inside me, Marc’s dick doesn’t feel that big. It feels kind of . . .lacking.

“Feels so good,” he grunts at myear.

Uh, yeah. Sure itdoes.

“Fuck me, Marc,” I say, trying to inspire him with dirty talk as he’s previously inspired me. “Show me how you use that great big cock ofyours.”

“Gonna do that. Gonna make you scream,” he whispers, and his mouth latches ontomine.

We kiss, then he shifts his hips, pumps once, twice, three times, building up a rhythm. This is good. It’s not fireworks, but it’s nice to ease into things. It’s been a while since I had sex, so maybe I just need a little warm-up. Maybe I just need alittle—

“Marc’s coming! Marc’s coming!” he yells, as if we’re on a ship and he’s calling for a manoverboard.

He collapses in a sweaty heap on top ofme.

Oh. My.God.

What justhappened?

If I was to count the number of times he thrust into me, I wouldn’t run out offingers.

Fingers.

Maybe he’s just . . . a little rusty. Maybe his plan was to get that first nervous sex out of the way, then explore my body farther with his hands, his mouth, letting those long fingers take me to new pleasure-filledheights.

“Be right back.” He rolls over and gets off the bed. The light from the en-suite bathroom flickers on, and I hear the sound of a taprunning.

When he comes back, he collapses onto the sheets besideme.

I tilt my body so my breasts are right in his eye line, then run my hand along his chest, tracing long circles, eager to get things moving again. “How are youfeeling?”

“Wiped. Good session.” He nods, as if rewarding me for training hard at the gym. He clamps one hand over my finger, stopping its movements. “Don’t do that, baby. Marc’s trying tosleep.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come out. That’s it? Six pumps, a Moretti motorboat special, and we’redone?

“You can stay the night if you want,” Marc murmurs, rolling onto his side and facing away from me. “Was good, wasn’tit?”

I don’t have words to reply. Good wasn’t the adjective I was thinkingof.

How terrible for this man, to have gone through his life thinking that constituted as goodsex.

And how terrible forme.