Page 56 of Her Game Plan

“It’s not… I don’t usually… That’s not normal for me.” Callan sounds embarrassed. “I haven’t come from dry humping since I was…” His eyes scan the space between us like he’s really trying to figure out the last time it happened.

I tentatively stroke his cheek. “I don’t think we can consider it ‘dry humping’ at this point. And I also came that way. Why would it embarrass you?”

He licks his lower lip before answering, “I guess in my mind it means I’m quick on the trigger or something. Not the reputation you want to have.”

The jealous part of me opens a questioning eye. “Are you worried about your sexual status right now? Do you really think I’m the type of person who would talk about it even if you are?” I know it’s not fair, but I don’t like thinking about him needing that reputation when this ends.

He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, one that makes me want to curl my body around him and never let go, and the roar of my jealousy calms. “That’s not it at all. I guess I still have an immature mindset about it. One where if you’re not coming from being inside a woman, it’s not ‘good enough.’”

I stroke his chest. “Well, let me assure you: that was much more than good enough. At least for me. And if you want to come inside me, as long as you have a condom, I’m game for that, too.”

We lie there for a moment as I continue to pet him, our breaths aligning as our bodies come down from our orgasms. Callan starts stroking my hair again, a slow rhythm that threatens to put me to sleep.

“Can I ask you a question?” Callan murmurs, and it takes a moment for my sleepy brain to realize he’s talking to me.

“Sure.” I nuzzle into him.

“Why don’t you talk more during sex?” The words tumble out, like he’s been holding them in but the barrier’s finally broken.

I trail my fingers through the dark brown hair on his chest, thinking.

“Not that you have to,” Callan rushes to say. “It’s just, you talk all the time. When we’re at home, you’re always telling me about something. I guess I’m used to hearing your thoughts, and so, I don’t know, I thought you’d have more to say.”

I snort. “Maybe you’re a sex god and turned my brain into such mush that I can’t form complete sentences.”

Callan makes his pecs dance under me. “I do have sex god qualities.”

I lift up enough to kiss his cheek. “That you do.”

“But…” he prompts when I don’t continue. Because of course he does. This man seems to know me better than anyone I’ve ever been with before, and we aren’t even really together.

“I’ve gotten feedback that it’s distracting to hear every thought going through my head during sex.” I try my best to be nonchalant about it because, even if it hurt to hear at the time, I do appreciate open lines of communication with my sexual partners.

Callan’s hand stroking my hair pauses, and a strong breath leaves him. “I fucking hate your ex. If I ever see him…”

I start stroking his chest again. “I didn’t say it was him.”

“But it was, wasn’t it?” he grits out.

“Yeah. It was.” I whisper the confession.

“Well, he’s a fucking idiot. Your brain is amazing. I love getting to know every single thing going on inside it.”

“Saying everything going on in my brain is how I got us in this situation,” I remind him.

I feel him shrug. “I like our situation. And I like knowing what you’re thinking. Promise me that next time, you’ll talk to me. As much as you want.”

“Who says there will be a next time?” I ask it like I’m teasing, but we’re functioning in a real gray area here, and I’d love to know where he’s at. Because I definitely want a next time.

“I do,” he growls. “Or, at least, I really hope there is. I mean, hear me out, we’re doing this thing, right? We can keep the relationship fake but still have real sex with each other. I may have been on a bit of a self-imposed dry spell lately, but I think we can both agree that eight months is a long time to go without sex. We have fun together, clearly. What if we put regular sex on the table?”

I’m propped up on his chest now, my elbows digging into him as I rest my chin in my hands so I can look at his face. It seems like a logical decision. I like sex. There’s no doubt in my mind that he likes sex. Sex is off the table with anyone but each other. It’s almost like it’s a basic algebra problem.

+ y = regularly fucking Callan.

“Makes sense to me,” I agree. “But what do you consider regular sex? Are we talking once a month, once a week, once a day?”

The slow smile that encompasses his face makes me breathless; it’s so cute in its unbridled glee. “I mean, if once an hour is on the table…”