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“Faster.”
Son of a bitch. My vision splits into two. She’s wrecking me. There’s a part of me that almost hates myself for using any ounce of aggression on a woman, but the evidence that she needs it, craves it, is everywhere. Soaking the hair between my legs, tightening up around me like she’s going to have another orgasm and I speed her toward it. Both of us. I let that final barrier against my strength drop and she’s off the ground now, she’s bent at a ninety-degree angle, ass in my lap and I’m grunting with every thrust.
“Ruined me for jerking off before I even had you. Didn’t you, Taylor? Knew you’d be extra slick around this cock. Knew you’d love me breaking you off.”
This has to be too much, too aggressive, too revealing, but I can’t stop and then…I have no idea how we get here, but she’s on hands and knees on the bathroom floor, hair trapped in my fist, my hips smacking off her ass. I’m out of my mind. It’s too much. It has to be too much for her, right? If my heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest?
But then we meet eyes in the glass of the shower stall. It’s fogged up, so I can barely make out her features, but I can see her mouth open in an O. I can see she’s present, being fulfilled. Her eyes open and I can’t tell if she’s looking at me, but Jesus, just the possibility that she might be watching me when I’m this vulnerable, this stripped bare, on the verge of ejaculating harder than I ever have in my fucking life, is enough to fire me off the map. Completely off the grid. My balls empty with so much force that I forget my own name.
“Work it tight, baby. Baby. Perfect for me. Jesus Christ. Don’t you ever get hurt on me again. Don’t you ever.” I’m moaning words into her wet neck that don’t even make sense, but she’s hit a third peak, she’s coming with me, and there is nothing in this world that makes better sense than Taylor squeezing around me, gasping, calling my name while her knees squeak up and back on the marble floor because I’m still pumping away. Can’t stop. Can’t stop even though I’m almost on empty. “Taylor.”
I don’t recognize my own ragged voice, but she seems to know what I’m saying. What I’m asking. And she turns, climbing into my lap. Clinging to me with her arms around my neck, her still trembling legs around my hips. I’m too stunned by the intensity of what just happened to do anything but fall back onto my ass with her safely in my arms, trying desperately to organize my thoughts or at least breathe correctly, but it’s pointless. All I can do is sit there in a daze. This second grade teacher just rocked my fucking world.
Minutes pass before our breathing goes back to normal.
I’m incapable of figuring out what happens next. What I would like to do is keep her in bed for a month. Or maybe a whole calendar of months. But should I sleep with her again? Wouldn’t that be leading her on? We decided this would just be about sex and if I can just pretend there isn’t a landslide of unfamiliar feelings happening inside of me, maybe I can stick to that—
“Yeah.” Her arms drop from around my neck and she sits back, yawning, more drowsy and gorgeous than anyone has the right to be. “Yup, that’s definitely how I like it.” She kisses me on the cheek. A peck. On the cheek. “Thanks for helping me confirm.”
She’s off my lap before I know what’s happening, turning off the shower and disappearing into the bedroom. Thanks for helping me confirm? What exactly is going on here? I don’t know, but I’m damn well going to find out.
I push to my feet and haul my jeans back up, cursing when I stumble slightly to the right. Jesus, she really did a number on me. Everywhere. Even my chest hurts. “Taylor,” I bark, joining her in the bedroom. Finding her already in some dress that looks like a long T-shirt. “Thanks for helping me confirm? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She wrinkles her nose at my question, as if the answer should be obvious. God, she’s very, very pretty, glowing after her three orgasms. “I mean exactly what I said. Thank you for not treating me like the future head of the bake sale committee. You trusted me to know what I wanted and you gave it to me. I appreciate that. But we agreed to no strings.” There’s no deception in her eyes. No guile. She’s not playing a head game with me. She really means it. We almost altered time and space in that bathroom and she’s content to walk away. And now here I am, the first man alive wishing a woman was playing a head game with him. What is wrong with me? This is exactly what I wanted. To experience her without anyone getting attached or hurt. When I say nothing, she prompts me with a raised eyebrow. “Remember?”
