Page 77 of Dirty Martini
“Don’t be messy,” he chides, a tease in his voice as he slaps my ass. “Clean me up.”
Jesus Christ, he’s dirty. Either way, I lap at his skin, chasing my cum on his face, and making sure I get every last drop. He seizes my lips with an almost roar, sliding and stroking our tongues together until I’m sure he has the taste of me engrained to his memory.
I pull back and smile at his sloppy wet lips, still covered in just a bit of cum. “That was fun.”
“Mmm,” he hums. Rubbing a territorial hand on my ass, he smirks. “Incredible. Here, baby, move. You’re suffocating me.”
I roll off him with a laugh, splaying myself next to him, and practically glowing when he moves to rest his head on my chest. While I love having him inside me, I love this even more. It’s these moments when we’re both buzzing and coming down together that make us grow closer. I stroke his hair, enjoying the slight smell of whatever woodsy shampoo he uses. I’m justabout to suggest we take a nap before finding something to do on his day off, when his phone rings. He reaches for it on the nightstand and immediately sits up.
“Who is it?” I ask, expecting him to just silence it and come back to bed, but he waves me away almost nervously. “Rhys?”
“Hey, Elton.”
Immediately, I shoot out of Rhys’s bed. His cum dripping down my thigh feels almost lewd as I struggle to shove myself into my boxers. He gives me a questioning look as I get dressed, listening only half-intently as he waves me down.
“Yeah, totally,” he mumbles, grabbing my wrist when I try to leave. “No, everything’s great. More than great, actually.”
I can hear Elton on the other end of the line, his voice raised in that animated way when he’s too excited to contain himself. Rhys doesn’t seem to be paying attention to what he’s saying. Instead, he rubs his thumb against the inside of my wrist, but it doesn’t calm me like it normally would.
Everything within me feels clammy. Like I’m turning to mush. My body starts shaking in a way it hasn’t in a while, all my senses heightened until the barely-there static of Elton’s voice is nothing but a buzz.
Rhys must sense that because he curses under his breath before cutting Elton off. “Look, I got to go. I’ll call you later.”
Elton’s arguing on the other side, that’s clear enough, but Rhys doesn’t care. He hangs up halfway through Elton’s sentence and tosses the phone on the bed. Pulling me toward him so I’m tumbling down and into his arms, he braces my fall as I land on his chest. He instantly wraps his arms around my trembling body and there’s a hint of fear in his voice as he speaks. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“W-Why did y-you answer-r?” I stutter. I try to fight against his hold because I feel weak. Weak and feeble. Like I could break any second.
Humming softly, he cups the back of my head. “Breathe first. In and out, Ev. You need to calm your breathing.”
I continue to struggle in his hold, but he just keeps me tethered to him. After a few minutes, the fight drains out of me, and I slump in his arms. The tears I felt burning in my eyes fall on his bare shoulder, light sobs escaping my throat in hoarse cries. He keeps me against him throughout, stroking my hair and rocking me back and forth until my breathing finally evens out.
“Ev?” he asks, kissing the top of my head. “What just happened?”
“I… I don’t know,” I whisper. I stay hidden in the crook of his neck, not wanting to pull back and see his reaction to whatever the fuck just happened. “I’m sorry.”
He forces my head back and puts a finger under my chin. He’s not looking at me with pity or regret, but a softer kind of affection I haven’t seen in years. “You have nothing to apologize for. Do you know what panic attacks are?”
“I’ve heard of them,” I say, thinking back to the mental health seminar my high school sponsored my senior year. “What about it?”
“I think you might have just had one.” He moves us so we’re both sitting against the headboard facing each other. “Do you struggle with anxiety?”
“I…” I trail off. Do I? I know what anxiety is, about as much as anyone, but how would I know if I’ve experienced it before?
I think back to the times when I’ve felt a bit out of control and not like myself. I’ve always rationalized that everyone must experience moments where they physically feel like throwing up, like crying, like they can’t stop their mind from just running and running and running. But does that mean I have anxiety?
“It’s okay,” Rhys says when I don’t reply after a minute. “You don’t have to answer. I’m not a therapist or a psychiatrist, but it looked like you were having some sort of panic attack.”
I sniffle, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “What should I do?”
“Does this happen often?”
I shrug. “I mean, sometimes I feel overwhelmed or just…off, I guess? I’ve only gone through what just happened a couple of times.”
“A couple of times is enough to see someone about it.”
“You think I need therapy?” I shake my head, scoffing as I go to get up. “No.”
“Baby, there’s nothing wrong with seeing someone every now and then,” he says as he follows me off the bed. Yanking his underwear on, he reaches me just before I can make it to his door. “Please. I’m not trying to say there’s something wrong with you. I’m just worried.”
