Page 114 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“That’s not fair,” I tell Lucas, because he’s waited until he’s buried inside me to say this, when there’s very little I can do beyond feel him, in and around me. “This isn’t the time for serious conversation.”

Because the rash is on the front side of my torso, I insisted on keeping a tank top on. I insisted on our current positions, which is why I’m face down, on my knees, with my face pressed into the pillows. The rash is hidden and covered, yes, but with Lucas above me, he now holds all the relative power.

Lucas smooths a hand lazily down my spine, and it’s unclear if it’s to keep me in place (no need) for his own personal pleasure (which, given his low groans, seems unnecessary) or because he simply isn’t able to keep his hands off me. He was always more cuddly in private, more into PDA in public, compared to me, but these past few nights, the touching has been constant, borderline compulsive.

Now, instead of answering and continuing our argument, Lucas leans forward to bite my shoulder, the movement shifting his cock and changing the angle of how our bodies are joined. I can feel a sheen of sweat along my forehead while I try to remember the conversational thread.

Or whether there was a conversation.

“We can’t talk about the past,” Lucas reminds me, his voice barely shaking even as he withdraws and then thrusts again in a way that has me trying to arch my body into his, find some way to regain even a small modicum of control, to demonstrate that my body is still mine.

Except clearly, from the way his hand snakes under me, from the way he pulls my body into his, the pliant way my limbs obey him, it’s not.

Because the moans I can’t quite hold back as his hand trails lower and thumbs my clit, the way I grind out his name as he pushes back into me, do not seem like sounds I would have allowed myself to make. They’re definitely not noises I would have ever condoned if any part of my brain were still functioning or capable of exerting any control over the rest of my body.

“And I’m not supposed to bargain for longer than a few short days with you.”

Another press of my clit, a soft kiss to my neck as he repositions me beneath him, slowing our rhythm in a way that feels like a punishment.

One both of us suffer from, given the way he exhales, long and painfully, against my back.

Something both of us find some sick pleasure in, given the way we’re both shuddering and pressing, as if neither of us can get to a place that is deep enough, close enough.

“I just can’t—” I say, completely against my will. I bite down on my lip, trembling with need as one of his hands comes to my ass and squeezes there slightly. My entire body feels close to exploding, and it’s too difficult to try to process that and . . . words.

“I can’t—” I repeat again, and even I’m not sure what I’m admitting to. That I can’t take much more of this? Physically or emotionally?

From above me Lucas sighs.

He nudges my thighs a little farther apart so that he can press in a little deeper, and his rhythm increases as his hand comes around to rest on my clit, establishing an easy counterrhythm that has me flying apart, screaming, barely remembering to contain my scream in the pillow, mere seconds later.

As usual, Lucas allows himself to come almost as soon as I have. After, he doesn’t move off me as quickly as he normally does, and I don’t complain, because there’s something comforting about being crushed by Lucas’s body, my body too wrung out to protest, my mind a temporary, blessed ocean of blankness.

For the first time all trip, there is no Project Elrond in the morning.

Instead, Brody texts that everyone will meet (or not) at breakfast, and that though there are planned activities the hotel is happy to guide us through, we’re also welcome to choose our own adventure, if we need a break.

Next to me, Lucas is stirring. When he seems awake enough, I show him the texts.

“What do you want to do?” He gathers me to him easily, one arm looped around me as he tucks my head beneath his chin.

“Go back to the cat sanctuary.”

I feel his nod as it digs into the top of my head. “Okay.” He squeezes me to him one last time. “Let me change.”

“Wait, I was kidding.” I sit up because Lucas has already unraveled himself from me. “There are tons of better, more exciting prepaid options.”

Lucas turns toward me, his sleepy eyes warm. “But you want a cat sanctuary.”

Because there are fewer people volunteering, the cleaning portion of our day takes longer than last time. Lucas drifts in and out of my area, sneaking in kisses, handing me another hair tie because I’ve once again lost the last one. It’s only after we’ve finished our individually assigned tasks that we sit with the senior cats.

“I would only adopt senior cats.”

Lucas nods. “Fewer years of responsibility?”

I laugh, because there’s no way Lucas means this literally. “Morbid.” I’m stroking one of the cats that has settled onto my lap. “They’re the most neglected.”

“Charlie Brown Christmas tree?”