Page 99 of The Choices I've Made
My back arched as I cried out, so caught up in my release that I didn’t care who heard it.
“I don’t think I can move,” I murmured several minutes later, every muscle so limp from exhaustion.
“If you can still talk, we’re not done yet,” he said, slowly spreading my legs for another round.
This time, he took me fast and hard until I was crying out his name over and over, begging for mercy I didn’t really want.
“You’re insane,” I finally said, feeling wonderfully sore in all the right places.
“I’m making up for lost time,” he replied. “Besides, you’re still talking. It seems I haven’t done my job properly yet.”
“Oh my God, you’re going to kill—” I managed to say before he was inside me once again.
“Oh, shit!” I shouted the moment my eyes cracked open the next morning. I sat up, my body aching everywhere from the combination of marathon sex with Jake and the two of us crammed on his tiny twin bed. “What time is it?” I asked, jumping out of bed in search of my clothes.
Jake did the same but forgoing clothes and instead looking for his iPhone. “Crap, it’s almost eight.”
“Eight?” I screeched. “In the morning?”
“Well, it isn’t eight at night,” he said, tossing the phone on the bed and dashing around me to grab his clothes.
“Do you think Betty will notice the fact that I’m coming in, wearing the same clothes?” he asked, taking one glance at his childhood closet that was still filled with clothes.
“Probably, but if that old nurse hasn’t said anything about the fact that you’re sleeping there, I doubt she’ll say anything about the pasta sauce on your shirt. Besides, don’t you wear a lab coat or something?”
“Not usually. Makes people feel uncomfortable. Wonder if my old Green Day shirt is still in here.”
I snorted, pulling on my shorts and bra. “I guess that’s one way to make a statement.”
“Hey,” he said after pulling his shirt over his head. “Are you going to be okay? I know this is kind of your shining moment during the day.”
I gulped. “Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t exactly prep last night like I normally do, and, well, I’m running about two hours behind schedule.”
“Do you need help?” he asked, his face full of warmth and compassion.
“That’s sweet,” I said, reaching out to place a tender hand on his chin. “But I’m not letting you anywhere near my kitchen after that tomato massacre last night.”
He rolled his eyes, making me laugh. “Give me a scalpel, and let me redeem myself.”
“You want to cut tomatoes with a scalpel? That’s just weird.”
“Weird and hot?” He smiled as we each pulled on our shoes.
We headed downstairs. The kitchen was still a mess, and there were several pictures knocked off walls on the staircase.
I ignored the last question, suddenly feeling awkward as I stood near the front door. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, unsure of what to say now.
He smiled, grabbing my hand and pulling it to his chest. “I’ll stop by after I’m done at the clinic, okay? You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
I could feel the tightening around my heart lessen. “Okay.”
“Although I might be a little late. I think I have a bit of cleaning to do here before I get there,” he said, taking a look behind me, toward the kitchen.
My cheeks flared with heat.
“Let me walk you to your car.”
I quickly nodded, and we did just that. The crunch of the gravel was loud against the quiet calm of the early morning.
