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She groaned around my cock, eyes drifting shut as she gripped my thighs for support. Even more than the feeling of my dick pounding against her esophagus, I loved watching her take me. She was excited, blissed out, happy. To see that we both wanted this… that was an enormous pleasure in and of itself.
“Phoebe,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’m gonna come.”
She suctioned her lips around my cock — as much as she could, anyways — giving me the signal to press on, to reach my happy place. Okay, I thought. Deal.
It only took one, two, three strokes and — I orgasmed, pulling my cock out so that I could drip my cum on her outstretched tongue, which jutted out eagerly from her mouth as though she were preparing to lick a thick ice cream cone.
A gush of white splashed against the pink, and I was emptied. There was so much that some of it spilled out of her mouth, plopping onto her camisole and leaving little wet spots. She pulled her tongue back in and swallowed, which would’ve made me hard all over again if I had even a scrap of energy left in me. As it was, my refractory period was going to be at least an hour, if not a whole night.
“How was that?” Phoebe asked, concern tingeing her voice.
I pulled her up off the ground and into my arms before sitting back down on the bed, Phoebe curled in my lap.
“I think you already swallowed the answer,” I joked.
We both laughed. I pressed my forehead against hers, staring deep into her eyes. If I didn’t say it now, I never would.
“Phoebe,” I began, not really even sure of where to start. “Phoebe, listen, I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m only telling you this because you just gave me what was definitely the best head of my life, but — I think… no, I know… that there’s something real between us. And I know you’re leaving town soon, and I understand that this can’t go anywhere, but I just had to take a second and acknowledge that it was more than a one-night stand. That you mean more to me than that.”
She hesitated, and for one long moment, I was terrified that she was going to reject this statement, to counter and argue that we were, in fact, just a fling, that there was no emotions between us, that I had been so, so wrong.
Instead, she smiled. “I agree.” But then her smile drooped, and she sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about it, though.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
We were at an impasse. We both knew the truth, and we both knew there was nothing we could do about it. Saying our feelings hadn’t made it any better. In fact, it all just became harder. Shit.
“Sleep time?” I suggested, hoping to put some distance between me and my depressing thoughts, and hold Phoebe in my arms for as long as I could.
“Definitely.”
She crawled off my lap and back under the covers, and I scrunched in beside her, reforming our curved shape.
“Wait,” I whispered in her ear. “I didn’t make you come. Shall I?”
My fingers drifted down to her pussy, but she replied, “I’m exhausted. Maybe in the morning?”
I nodded into her back, and just like that, all snuggled against one another, we fell asleep.
I was awakened, as per usual, by the blaring sound of my alarm clock. I slammed my hand down on its flat top, shutting off the piercing beeps before it could wake Phoebe. Well, that was the plan anyway, because when I glanced back over at her face, I saw she was reluctantly emerging from sleep.
Phoebe huffed, “Why is that thing so loud?”
“Sorry, sorry. I tried to get it off before you heard but…”
“It’s okay,” she sighed, rolling over to face me, eyes cracking open. “I had a good night’s sleep.”
“You snored like a bridge troll,” I chuckled.
She winced at this, then rolled away, onto her opposite side, her back facing me. “I know I snore, don’t laugh—”
Phoebe paused, mid-sentence.
“I was only kidding,” I said, hoping I hadn’t really hurt her feelings. No reply. “Phoebe, sincerely, I’m sorry.”
Turning to look at me, her face was transformed with fear. “Carter, do you smoke?” Her voice was shaking, and I wondered if I’d missed something.
“Uh, nope. Why?”
There was a movement, and then Phoebe sat up, the covers pooling at her waist as she rose to the height of the headboard. She was holding something in her hands, but with sleep still clouding my eyes, I couldn’t make out exactly what it was.
“Then why,” she continued, her chest rising and falling in her thin tank, “was there a match on my pillow?”
The image before my eyes sharpened. Between her index finger and thumb, Phoebe held a partially burnt match.
Oh God.
