And raw is a feeling reserved only for buttholes. Never hearts.
The next second I’m hardly thinking at all, as Pi pushes inside me. Now all I’m aware of is the stretch, the burn, and the instant, overriding pleasure.
It’s early May and the weather’s unseasonably warm, but I’ve kept my windows closed because there are still kids playing on the cricket field behind my house. And delicate ears should never be subjected to the auditory warfare I’m about to unleash.
Pi’s not a big talker when we fuck, he barely makes a sound actually. Just the occasional grunt or, if I’m lucky, a little whimper or whine. I, on the other hand, would bring down the Dolomites if I left my windows open.
I hook my hands under my knees and pull my legs up as Pi’s speed builds. His blonde curls are glued to his forehead, and sweat streams from his face, dripping onto mine. His tricepsshake with the strain of holding himself upright and maintaining a space between us, giving me a beautiful, uninterrupted view of our bodies melding together.
I call this the ogling gap. Pi calls it the perv’s gap. Either way, it serves the same function. I watch his abdominals bunch and flex as he pulls out of me. I watch the sweat running in rivulets down his torso, and the quiver of his muscles as he drives into me hilt-deep and holds himself there.
The air is humid and salty, and I can literally taste the sex in it. Fuck, I’m already so close.
“Don’t you . . . dare . . . come,” Pi forces out through gritted teeth, but he makes no attempt to slow his thrusting, and when I drop one of my knees to reach a fist between our bodies and wrap it around my cock, he doesn’t stop me. He does, however, spare a moment to give me the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes.
The friction of my hand provides instant and overwhelming relief, and the sudden shared knowledge that no matter what promises I make or reiterate now, I won’t be able to keep any of them. It’ll all be over in seconds. In the exact positions we started in.
“Fuuuck,” he whines, and I know he’s reached that point of no return too.
I want him fucking me while I come, want to feel his cock hitting my P-spot as I call out his name—Aiden not Pi—and stripe my stomach with my orgasm, so I speed up my strokes and lose myself to the moment, releasing a torrent of “fucks” and “princesses” and “yes, Aidens.”
Seconds later Pi follows me over that peak. He freezes, his back arches, and I stare at his face—like the greedy pervert I am—as his expression hardens then softens.
He finally opens his eyes and trains those yellow irises on me.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I tell him.
He laughs. He always laughs when I say this. “That’s the post-nut haze talking.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true, princess. Right, get off me. I’ll chuck the pizzas in the oven. Do you want a shower?”
“I should probably go.”
Those words, uttered immediately after a shag have become almost as much a part of the ritual as the fucking itself.
I’ve said them often enough myself to know that they were coming, but . . . urgh, just once I wish they wouldn’t.
“Yeah, okay.”
Somewhere in the hallway a phone buzzes twice against the wooden floor tiles, and Pi whips his head up. It’s not my phone. The only person who ever bothers to text me these days is still buried deep in my ass. Even my girlfriend has stopped messaging me.
It must be Georgia texting Pi. I can see the desperation in his eyes to check the message, maybe call her back, but he pretends he doesn’t care.
“Actually, I think I’ll take a shower here, if that’s okay?”
I nod, and Pi rolls off me, holding onto the condom so it doesn’t splatter its contents across my duvet. He swipes the sweat from his face with his palm, scratches behind his ear, and pauses like he wants to say something. But his mind is elsewhere. Probably on that fucking text message from his ex.
The familiar ache that accompanies the post-fuck uncoupling pangs in my chest. Later I’ll lie to myself and pretend I’m not bothered.
I get off the bed, grab my towel from the chair, and wipe the cum from my belly. I toss Pi a clean towel I’d left out for him just in case—not a microfibre one because I don’t have a death wish—and pull on a pair of jogging bottoms.
On my way to the kitchen, I deliberately step over Pi’s phone, ignoring whatever message is waiting for him. It’s none of mybusiness. The oven switches on with a trilling beep, and at the same time, the shower unit upstairs clunks into life.
So what if the text is from Georgia? So what if she wants him back?
I have no right to feel annoyed by any of it. He loves her more than I ever loved my girlfriend. My current girlfriend. The woman I’ve been “dating”—in inverted commas—for the past two and a half years. Furthermore, it was entirely my fault that Pi and Georgia started a relationship in the first place.
Despite the absence of any legitimate reason to be annoyed, I end up unboxing the pizzas with a little too much ferocity. Shredded cheese bits are cannon blasted across the kitchen rug. Where’s Trekkie when you need him?
