Page 61 of For a Goode Time Call…
I felt so conflicted at that moment. I wanted him desperately, hungrily, needily inside me, but I didn’t want to talk about the tears, the grief, the upset.
Thinking back on the past twelve hours I knew a few things for sure:
World? Rocked.
Pussy? Shattered.
Orgasms? Unforgettable.
Heart?
Ruined.
Fuck.
Fuck!
I wriggledout of his arms, carefully, silently. His breathing didn’t change. He didn’t move.
I stole down out of the loft. Found my clothes, strewn everywhere. Yanked my thong out of the tangled mess of my leggings, righted both, stuffed one leg and then the other into my underwear, tripped with them halfway on, because my leg was giving me hell.
“Fuck it,” I whispered, and kicked the stupid thong off, sat down bare ass on the floor and put my leggings on sitting down like a little girl. Shrugged the shirt on hastily, braless, and shoved my thong and bra into my purse. Which was a tiny little clutch only big enough for a credit card wallet and phone, so needless to say the undergarments didn’t really fit.
With one last glance up at the loft, my heart aching, I let myself out.
I wasn’t even sure why I was running, only that it was an instinctual, gut-deep urge. I knew it was wrong. I knew I would regret it. I knew I was hurting Ink.
But the panic and the confusion and the aching emptiness left in the wake of finally crying out all my residual shit, coupled with the need for Ink, the clinging clenching wringing gutting churning blossoming swelling heart-bursting EVERYTHINGNESS—all the hurricane-wild confusion of feelings I had for and because of and about Ink… was just too much.
So, like a foolish, self-sabotaging, tail-between-the-still-very-sore legs puppy, I ran away.
Ink
I’d known the moment she woke up the second time. The instant her breathing changed, I’d woken up. I kept my breathing even, and hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even opened my eyes. She’d frozen, lying stock-still, not even breathing.
My erection had been painful, more painful than any hard-on I’d ever had in my life, and it had been stuffed between her butt cheeks. For a moment, she’d feathered back against me, and I’d thought for a heady, dizzy moment that she would slide me inside her.
But she hadn’t.
She’d wriggled away.
My heart had dropped out of my chest, stupidly disappointed. I mean, if she hadn’t let me come inside her in the heat of a mutual orgasm, she wasn’t going to in the light of day, having just woken up, and completely lucid.
Clearly, she wasn’t on birth control, which was a little odd to me, but none of my business, clearly.
I had been meaning to ask about it when we woke up. I’d been intending to make coffee and eggs for us, and talk on my porch, wrapped up in blankets.
Maybe go out for condoms.
I hadn’t expected her torun.
When she was off the ladder, I’d silently angled over to peer down, one eye open, watching. She’d fallen over, and then just sat down, visibly struggling, frustrated. In pain—her leg was bothering her.
She got dressed, sort of.
Then she stood there, at my door, hand on the latch. Struggling.
Shoulders heaving.
