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And he's spilling into my mouth, digging his nails into my skin as he comes. Once he's spilled every drop, I swallow hard and push myself up.
One more flick of his tongue and I'm there again.
This time, I scream his name as I come.
I groan and writhe and claw at his thighs.
Mal licks me through my orgasm. Damn, the second one is more intense. Fast. Hard. Short.
But fucking intense.
I shake through it.
When I'm done, he shifts our positions, bringing me onto the sand next to him. He pulls my dress back over my shoulder, pushes its skirt to my legs.
I pull up his jeans and boxers and redo his zipper and button.
He stares back at me with all this affection.
And he kisses me.
And I completely forget about everything but his body against mine.
Our afternoon together passes too quickly. We find another beach and watch the sunset. We buy ice cream—coconut milk ice cream, of course—and eat it parked on the top of a high hill, next to some twenty-million-dollar mansion.
We drive back to my place with the windows down and the radio blaring. Mal attempts, and fails to make a meal out of the food in my apartment, then we go back to that snooty seafood place.
We fuck in my bed. Twice.
We shower together.
We fall asleep together.
I wake up alone. There's a text on my cell.
Mal: I have to get to the hospital. We'll talk soon.
It's a reasonable explanation.
But I still feel alone.
30
Lacey
All week, I stare at my phone.
I rub the screen like it's a genie’s lamp.
All week, my texts with Mal are limited to small talk and finalizing shoot details.
We agreed, no strings attached. Even with all this going on, neither one of us has said a word about changing that.
I go over all my video prep stuff again and again. I head to the gym, I shower, I watch my second favorite Billy Wilder film.
I text Carrie nonstop. I nearly break and tell her my boy toy is Mal, but I stop myself.
Still, my cell mocks me.
