Page 38 of Venus
And that’s the exact opposite of what she wants.
For a moment, I think about canceling. Just texting her back and making up some sorry excuse for why I can’t see her.
But I don’t, because the truth is, I’m not ready to let her go, even if every part of me is screaming to just get it over with to protect myself from any more hurt.
I finish my shift. Three false alarms and a tiny trash fire. Nothing that wears me out enough to give her a truthful excuse of ‘I’m tired’ to cancel on her. So I drive home, take a long, hot shower, and try to pull myself together enough to try and convince her to stay this time.
I’m still dripping wet, trying to use my towel to remove the conditioner I didn’t rinse out well enough from my hair when I hear a knock on my door. I wrap the towel around my hips and walk to the door, peeking through the peephole.
I check the clock hanging above my couch. 9:42. She’s early.
My heart jumps as if it doesn’t know any better. When I open the door, she’s standing there in a hoodie she’s stolen from me and a smile brighter than the sun. I wish I could give her that same smile back, but I can’t, and she notices.
Her smile falls. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I reply, trying to keep my voice normal. I find myself leaning against the doorframe, almost blocking her way in. Her eyes sweep over my wet hair and bare chest. “Sorry, you’re a little early.”
She shrugs. “I was bored.”
Yeah. That’s the problem. I’m the sucker she runs to when she’s bored.
“But I can come back if you need some extra time to get pretty for me,” she adds.
“No, you’re good. Just give me a sec to get dressed.”
She walks past me like she belongs in my apartment, like how I desperately wished she did. I close the door behind her and she drops her bag and tosses off her hoodie. Underneath, that red lace bra from before.
“You don’t need clothes,” she says, before stripping off her leggings too.
Like the sad, lovesick man that I am, I give her exactly what she wants. No bargaining, no sweet kisses, no anything that would make this mean anything to her.
I get on my knees and pull her panties down her legs. I hook one of her thighs over my shoulder and suck on her clit from my place on the ground. She grinds her hips on my face, spreading her wetness across my lips and chin.
I try to keep eye contact with her, but it’s almost like she knows that’s what I want, and so she lookseverywhere but at me. Like she doesn’t want to see what she’s done to me.
She doesn’t want to see how much I want more than just sex.
Like she can feel my thoughts, she steps away from me, takes my hand, and pulls me to the bedroom. She climbs on the bed, face down, ass up, wiggling her hips and showing me exactly what she wants from me.
But if this is really what she wants, then I want her to see me. So I force her to flip over. Not in a rough way, but in a desperate way. She finally finds the courage to look at me, and only then do I slip inside her. No condom this time.
Just me and her and nothing in between.
And I do mean literally nothing. She’s looking at me, but there’s nothing there. It’s like she’s a shell. The walls I’ve spent so long trying to break through with love, she’s rebuilt them.
I snap my hips into hers, no longer interested in prolonging this. This should be a beautiful moment, but instead, it’s just two people who couldn’t be more opposite in their expectations, pretending everything is okay.
She grabs my shoulders and forces my head into her neck, no longer willing to look at me, and I don’t fight it. I simply fuck her like she wants.
Emotionlessly. Passionless.
I seat myself deep inside her when I come, and I’m not even sure I paid attention to if she finished as well.
But this is the kind of inattentiveness she should expect from sex that should mean nothing.
This is what she wants, right? So I shouldn’t force myself to feel bad about it.
When we catch our breath still tangled in each other’s arms, there’s a moment that lasts no more than a millisecond, where she looks like maybe she’s considering staying.
