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“Roman.” Again. One word. Not a request, not a plea, and not a statement. Rather, a spell I was falling deeper and deeper under, not bothering to go back up for a quick breath.
He pulled away from me, narrowing his eyes and tugging his wetsuit back up, his cock still half-erect between us.
He turned around, leaving me to slide down to my ass against his wall, sagging with post-climax bliss. He walked over to his coffee table, retrieved a blunt, and lit it casually, like we hadn’t just done what we had. Like we hadn’t broken any rules, or promises, or even—potentially—my heart.
“What’s the antonym of hate?” I blurted, drunk on pleasure.
He collapsed to his couch, cupping the joint with his thumb and forefinger and sucking hard. “Jesse.”
We managed to squeeze in one more quickie in the shower after the kitchenette sex. Again, Roman showed zero mercy on me, which explained why he’d held back for so long on touching me. He had a take-no-prisoners approach to sex, and missionary wasn’t only not on the menu for him, but I doubted it was even in his vocabulary. The shower sex involved me bent over, holding onto the faucet, while he pounded into me from behind, playing with my sex and letting me taste myself on his fingers every now and again. I was surprised by how open and uninhibited he was with me, but I shouldn’t have been. Just because Roman was a nice guy didn’t mean he wasn’t a savage. He was both. And it was part of his charm.
As we finally got dressed in his tiny, humid bathroom, I took it upon myself to iron his wrinkled, flimsy California Republic tank with my hands.
“Do I get the invoice in the mail, or do I pay you in Café Diem shifts?” My voice was playful, but the actual comment was snarky. I couldn’t help it, though. A part of me was pissed that I wasn’t the only one. That what we did was probably an appetizer for a tour de force involving a married couple, their dog, and a dildo. Okay. Maybe not all of them, but still.
Roman flipped his car keys with his forefinger, shooting me a bored look. “I should drop you as a client for that wise mouth alone.”
“So, do.” I waltzed past him to the living room. His big strides echoed behind me.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I quit.”
I turned around, blinking rapidly. “Come again?”
“Planning to. This time between your tits.” He smacked my ass, moving forward, casually grabbing a can of beer from the fridge and popping it open. It was not even ten in the morning. Jesus. “I quit,” he repeated, taking a gulp. “My dick is officially retired and closed for business.”
“When?” I gulped, pretty proud of myself for not stuttering.
“Yesterday.”
“Before or after our sexting?” I leaned a shoulder against the same wall we’d screwed against earlier that morning. There was a damp spot of cum gracing the chipped yellow surface, and it took everything in me not to slide back on my knees and scrub it clean.
Roman finished the beer in a gulp and slam-dunked it to the sink. “Before. Remember my whole speech about looking at yourself in the mirror without flinching?”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn’t do that anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Fuck other women when I had a girlfriend.”
It was the second time he had called me that, but this time, there was a question mark at the end of the sentence. It felt like a proposal. It felt like a thousand caterpillars turning into dazzling butterflies all at the same time in my stomach, hopeful and alive. I searched his face, trying to find doubt. Humor. Deceit. Anything that would make it less real and anchor me back to earth. His face was blank. The perfect poker expression.
“I am?” I grinned.
“You tell me.” He hitched one shoulder up, his defensive wall rising, almost reaching his eyes.
“I mean, you quit your glamorous job for me. Can’t really say no to you now.”
“You can always say no to me,” he countered, meaning it.
“I want to be your girlfriend, Roman.”
“Good. Because there’s a list of things I want to do to you, and none of them fall into the friend-zone category.” He walked over to me, dropping three kisses on my mouth, nose, and chin. My heart felt mossy. Soft-walled. So easy to break in his dirty big hands.
“About this morning…” He started.
“I’m on the pill.” I stood on my tiptoes, brushing my lips against his. They were both cracked and sore, and we winced a little before I pulled away.
“I know.” He trailed a finger down my arm.
I didn’t even need to ask how he knew. I was religious about taking my pills ever since the abortion. Ever since I was too scared to tell the doctors what happened, so they’d never offered me the morning-after pill. The foil package sat on my nightstand, next to a bottle of Fiji water. I took one every morning before brushing my teeth.
