Page 48 of Not Your Valentine
I’ve come to adore hearing my name on his lips. But…
“Not there,” I say.
He frowns. “Why?”
“It’s lopsided.” God, this is mortifying. I wish the lights were out. I have stretch marks on my thighs, and my stomach has never been flat, but for some reason, I’m not nearly as self-conscious about those things.
He’s still frowning. “You don’t like that you’re not quite symmetrical?”
“Yeah.” I’m embarrassed that I’m insecure about this, but I can’t seem to help it.
“How many hours do I have to spend going down on you to convince you that you’re perfect?” His voice is so pure and earnest.
I pick a random number. “Four hundred and ninety.”
“Better get started then.” He buries his head between my legs, and it’s hard to think about anything but how good it feels.
Just when I’m about to come, he pulls back.
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“Mmm.” He smiles as he slowly licks the finger that was inside me earlier.
I can’t deny that I like the contrast of this kind, sunshiny man licking my juices off his finger. This man who told me things he probably doesn’t tell most people.
I want my mind to stop forming thoughts, and I’m about to pull him down for a kiss when he slips his middle finger inside me. He moves quickly, furiously, and yeah, that does a good job of making my brain short-circuit. When he slides down my body and licks my clit, his eyes never leaving mine, I shatter.
Aftershocks are still rolling through my body when he turns me onto my stomach, puts on a condom, and pushes inside me.
Oh my God.
He starts moving within me, and I’m sobbing, shaking, barely able to stand it, but definitely not interested in telling him to stop or slow down.
“You make me feel so good.” He bends over and presses a kiss to my neck, and in that moment, it feels like my body must be perfect, as he says, if it can bring him such pleasure.
He pulls out and I make a sound of protest, but then he rolls me onto my back and slides inside me again. He fucks me with deep, deep strokes, and I can’t help propping myself up on my elbows so I can get a better view. My arms are trembling.
I’m consumed by him. Us.
He sits down with me on his lap, and we move in tandem. I don’t want this to end.
I want…I want…
Troubled by my thoughts, I chase them away by moving faster on his cock. He scrunches up his face and lets out a sound of total abandon, which drives me to my own release.
I’ve never had so much sex in two days before. This should be enough for me.
But as I try and fail to fall asleep, I have to admit the truth: I’m developing feelings for Taylor, different feelings from before, and it scares the crap out of me.
The next morning, we drink more shitty coffee as we wash the sheets and blankets and make sure the cabin is spick and span. It’s another cold, sunny day, and I take a picture of us in our toques and parkas before we head home.
Physically, I’m pleasantly exhausted after using parts of my body that weren’t accustomed to such activity. But my brain and heart do not share that feeling. Rather, I feel like I grossly miscalculated, even more so than when I started that PhD program. This weekend was supposed to get Taylor out of my system, and that’s nowhere close to what ended up happening.
I can’t tell him about this because…I just can’t. And I can’t talk to anybody else about it because that would involve revealing I got a fake boyfriend so people wouldn’t pity me, a plan which now seems even more ridiculous than it did before. Naively, I assumed that if it was fake, at least I’d feel in control of the situation. Ha!
As he starts the car and pulls onto the road, I lean against the passenger side window and release a world-weary sigh.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
