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Then I’m squeezing my eyes, my whole body shaking as pleasure blooms exquisitely, then shatters. I cry out. Maybe a yes, maybe his name, I don’t even know. It’s all just so, so good.
I’m floating on this orgasm high for a minute, or two, maybe more. Till finally, I come down.
He’s watching me, looking more pleased than any man has ever looked. But he also looks…hungry.
As he turns off the vibrator, I dart out a hand, cup the hard ridge of his cock over his jeans.
“Fuuuuck,” he mutters, slamming his free hand over mine, pressing it roughly against his straining erection.
“Let me,” I say plaintively, using his words against him.
He groans apologetically. A rumble that seems to come from deep within his dirty soul. Setting his hand over mine, he pushes, grips, strokes. Then, like it pains him, removes my hand and his. “We should go.”
I shake my head, frustrated but getting it. “It’s Elodie two, Gage zero though.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “I’d argue it’s Gage two, Elodie zero.”
I pull back. “Math isn’t that hard.”
“I like making you come. That’s what gets me off. That’s what I think about at night. That’s what I picture in the shower. Making you lose control.”
And I want to answer that with a kiss so badly—even though we really shouldn’t.
Quickly, we straighten up, pop into the restroom, then leave to head to the art studio. As we walk, his phone buzzes. He glances down, then clicks on an email with uncommon speed. His lips twitch while reading it, as if he likes the contents.
When he closes the email, he says, “Celeste will come to our opening night.”
“The landlord? For the place you want in the Marina?”
“Yup.”
I smile. “Told you so. I had a good feeling.”
“Well, nothing has happened yet,” he says, hedging against happiness.
“But it will.”
“Don’t count your chickens and all.”
I roll my eyes. “I know. I won’t. I’m just saying.”
He stops at the corner, eyes intense, maybe even a little hard. “I shouldn’t have done that back there.”
I blink, unsure what he means at first. Then, I’m far too sure. Already? He’s already regretting getting me off? It was his fucking idea.
I straighten my spine. Raise my chin. “It wasn’t you. It was the Plus One.”
His jaw ticks. He pauses, maybe absorbing the punch. “Right. Yup. That’s what I meant.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Good,” he repeats, hollow.
We stop at the crosswalk, and I turn to him. My tone isn’t icy. It’s easy-breezy as I say, “It was just a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
He nods crisply. “I know. It won’t.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about.”
