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“Wait,” he breathes, pulling out of me. “Turn around.”
I hesitate.
Don’t look at me. Not when I’m weak. I’m scared of what you’ll find.
“Let me see you,” he hums, and I can’t say no to him. I’m shaking as I roll onto my back. He hooks my knees around his hips and pumps his cock into me, faster this time, and pretty soon it doesn’t matter what he sees or doesn’t see because I’m lost to everything but him, a shipwreck on his shore.
I can feel him start to spasm as he pounds me, his cock swelling, and I wait for him to come, pull out, turn his back on me, and go to sleep.
He stops, breathing loud. He presses his face into my neck, his nose brushing my frantic pulse. “You’re so good, baby. You’re gonna come for me.”
Sliding his hand between our sweaty bodies, he jerks me fast and fuck if this isn’t his first time but he somehow knows right where my prostate sits, exactly how to grind his tip against it. I come so hard my jizz splatters the wall above my head.
Before I can even come down, he puts his elbows on either side of my head, his chest slipping against mine, andfucksme, biting down hard enough to leave a mark on my shoulder as he comes.
We’re both gasping as he collapses next to me, and I study the light fixture over my head, covered in spiderwebs.
This is the part I hate the most. It’s cold after sex, empty, a mess leaking out my ass, and I always feel small and dirty as I watch my partner go for a piss, get dressed, and leave. I keep an extra-large hoodie by my bed that I pull on as I curl up in a ball, waking up hours later in the dark with my bare ass sore and my thighs sticking together.
I don’t want to see the moment where he loses interest in me, where all that heat we’ve built day after day leaks away and he’s done with me. Because for all the shit I say, I’m the one who’s weak. So I roll over on my side and bury my face in my arms, trying to slow my breathing.
I hear him get up, walk to the bathroom. I close my eyes so tightly I see lights.
His hand runs down my side, lingers on the swell of my hip. Gently prying my hands away, he tips my face toward him and wraps his lips around mine. He kisses the tip of my jaw, my ear, and slides his arm under my head where I can smell him and feel his bicep move against my cheek.
His knee slips between my legs, supporting them as he runs a warm, damp towel down my crack, along my thighs, up my stomach.
I haven’t cried in ten years. I’m never going to cry again. “Stop.” Rolling onto my back, I push him away. “Calm down. We’re a couple of lost causes that fuck each other, not lovers from some regency romance you keep under your pillow at home.”
He studies my face for a long moment, looking a little hurt, then gets up and tugs on the covers. “Scoot.”
After he switches off the light, we lie side by side in bed listening to the sprinklers hiss past the window again and again. His breathing deepens into sleep, but I can’t even get my eyes to shut. I remember how it felt in the car, when he let me fall asleep on his chest.
I slide under the covers, where I like to hide. But tonight, I’m not alone down here. Gingerly, I stretch out my hand and find the muscled curve of his back. I can’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around his hips and pressing my face into his rough, sweet skin.
I’ll move before he wakes up.
