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I cry out as my pussy obeys of its own accord, throbbing around his hard cock as my orgasm blasts through me. Again and again, I milk him, pulling him further into my depths. Ilya snarls and slams into me, his hips jerking. Hot wet cum spurts inside me, making me so wet it trickles from my entrance and down my ass crack. The unexpected arousal from feeling him come inside me launches me into a third orgasm before my second one has even had a chance to fade, and I sob with the overwhelming pleasure that leaves my ears ringing.
Ilya stills inside me, his chest heaving against mine, trapping my hands between us as we both breathe heavily. Our eyes meet, and in their depths, I can see that this is the end of his scene. His eyes shift down to my lips, and a hint of conflict crosses his face. And then he kisses me. It’s short and almost rough, but passionate, and when he pulls away a moment later, I’m left dumbstruck. My lips tingle with his sudden absence, the feel of him lingering.
In one swift movement, Ilya slides out of me. He leaves me on the bed as he stalks toward the bathroom, and I hear the shower turn on. Glancing down at the state of me, I can’t help but notice how jelly-like my legs feel. They’re bent haphazardly, lying where Ilya left them when he departed. I feel well and properly fucked, and I slump back on my pillow, looking up at the ceiling of my new room as I think about everything that’s happened tonight. I’m enjoying this dirty play way too much, and if I don’t watch out, I just might be in danger of getting in too deep, even though our relationship has only just begun.
12
WHITNEY
One Year Later
Striding into the corner shop of the building housing the Coffee Studio, I take in the familiar exposed brick lining one wall, the rich scent of fresh-baked goods mingling with the sharp smell of espresso, and the babble of customers occupying the tables just beyond the counter. Over the last year, this has become a favorite spot to come for coffee and a chat with my girls, since it’s not too far from my apartment.
And after a summer without Tammy and Tori, I can’t wait to see them. With our junior semester about to start, everything feels fresh and exciting. After the way Rosehill kicked our training up a notch last year, I’m sure this year is going to be even more eye-opening. And with Professor Moriari as my choreography instructor, I really feel like this could be a good year. A hard year, but a good one. From what I’ve heard–and have seen of the upperclassmen before me–he’s as relentless as he is talented, and he knows how to push his students to be their very best.
As I scan the room for a familiar face, it takes me no time to spot the twins. They sit at a table in the far corner, coffee mugs stationed dutifully before them as they clasp their classic lattes like one might on a cold winter day. Something about the Coffee Studio makes addicts of us all. Since I found this quaint little corner cafe, I’ve come to realize that all the other brews are inferior. I don’t know how my mom and I survived on drip coffee every morning for years.
My feet carry me toward the front counter as I keep my eye on the twins. Tammy sees me first and waves. I wave as Tori turns and returns the gesture in kind, a smile splitting her sun-kissed face. Pointing toward the counter, I indicate that I’m going to place my order first, and they give me a thumbs up.
“So, tell me about your trip to the Land Down Under,” I say when I finally slide into the chair across from my two friends, espresso macchiato in hand. “I want to hear everything. Do the toilets really flush in the opposite direction?”
Tammy rolls her eyes, even as she flashes me a smile. “Only you would ask that as your first question.”
I shrug and raise my mug to my lips, taking a sip of the hot brew without breaking eye contact.
Tori giggles. “I didn’t even think to look.”
“No one in their right mind stops to think about which way the water is swirling after they just used the toilet,” Tammy quips. “But the whole word-shortening thing, it’s real. I’m not sure I heard a single sentence that didn’t involve something along the lines of grabbing some tinnys and watching the footy on the telly or some such nonsense.”
I laugh at her weak attempt at an Australian accent. “But you guys had a good time?” I press.
“Oh yeah. I mean, gorgeous beaches, hot boys who can teach you to surf, incredible snorkeling,” Tori gushes.
“We even took diving classes,” Tammy adds.
“That’s so cool!”
“Right? And we swam with sea turtles,” Tori says.
“You’re joking. That’s amazing.” I smile trying to envision the two of them paddling alongside a turtle in crystal-blue water.
“Yeah, I mean, Australia’s freaking cool. We had a blast. But I’m so glad to be back home. I don’t know how Paige is planning on flying in the day before school starts. That just sounds exhausting,” Tammy says.
I nod. Though I’ve never been out of the country to experience firsthand how bad jet lag could get, I can imagine. But that’s Paige for you, living it up at her family’s summer home and whisking into school at the last minute like everything has been on pause, just waiting for her return since the day she left.
Over my year of getting to know Paige, I’ve come to consider our friendship a bit of a mixed bag. She can be fun to hang out with and certainly knows how to have a good time, but at the same time, our grossly different backgrounds feels like a wedge between us. Sometimes, the girl can put my teeth on edge. But the twins like her, so I try hard to.
“I don’t get how she can do so much of her parents,” Tammy adds. “A month solid of family time is exhausting. Sometimes, I think a little more space might do us some good, right, Tori?”
Ironic, coming from the girls who are all but glued together at the hip.I try not to smile at their apparent need for more independence.
Tori nods. “Definitely. Though I think Paige’s parents kind of let her do her own thing while they go off on dates and stuff. I don’t get the impression that they force her to endure the same level of ‘quality time’ that we do every summer.”
Tammy laughs and lifts her mug to take a sip.
“You can hate it now, but someday, that quality time will be gone, and then you might just find you miss your parents,” I say, trying not to sound preachy. “I feel like my mom and I have grown apart some since I moved out last year,” I add as way of an explanation.
“Isn’t she just like a half hour south?” Tori asks helpfully, her tone sympathetic.
