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“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she asks me, reaching over and kissing me. “You’re coming home with me, Your Highness. That’s an order.”
119
Natalie
Thirty.
That's how many days it's been since the opera. Since the night I wrapped my arms around Connor and let him know that I didn't want to be anywhere else in the world. That I wanted to be safe in those big arms of his.
Thirty glorious and wonderful days that have made me the happiest woman on earth it seems like. I don't know how else to explain it other than the fact that I'm delirious with happiness every time I try to think of the various reasons that life is good.
Do you remember FRIENDS? You remember how Phoebe called Ross Rachel's lobster after that scene where she almost got stood up for senior prom?
Yeah, so I'm not sure I can call Connor my lobster yet, but let's just say that he's some form of crustacean right now. Like, maybe crab?
Okay, that doesn't sound good. Connor and I are not crabs.
Oh my God. No, I'd say right now we're progressing to lobster stage, but we haven't gotten there yet.
Ninety.
I'm serious when I say that's how many times in the last thirty days Connor and I have had sex.
Yeah, it averages to maybe about three times a day, but some days it's more and some days it's less.
What I'm not including are days where I'm like on my period and maybe I just go down on him. So a blowjob is not counted as sex in this instance, hun, because otherwise you would just shake your head at me and think that I went from sweet and cute and straight to nympho—that I didn't even pause at the slut stage.
And, yes. The sex is out of this world.
Like, life altering sex.
I swear I've blacked out too many times. I've seen stars. I've been in a sex haze.
A sex haze is absolutely real. You end up just sitting there for minutes, or sometimes even hours just zoned out because your brain is just firing too many pleasure synapses. Your neurons are literally tired. Your limbs feel like they're going to fall off. Your clit is raw. Your muscles inside are sore too, but it's a good sore.
Yeah, this is more sex than I've ever had in my life. And I couldn't be happier.
Three.
That’s how many bags of stuff I’ve brought over to Connor’s place.
Okay, his apartment at the Dakota is just so much nicer, okay?
Besides, it makes it a lot easier to not have to buy everything from Duane Reade every time I spend the night at Connor’s house.
Sure, it’s a big step. But so is the key he gave me to his place. We both joked that if we broke up, it would be pretty messy. Because I’d have to pack. And he’d have to help me move.
God, let’s hope it never comes to that, huh?
Two.
That's how many times Connor's face is close to mine and I almost tell him that I love him. Almost.
I don't yet. I need to be sure.
I can't tell him I love him and not mean it.
But more than anything else, I can't tell him I love him and have him treat me like every other girl that I've seen on YouTube.
