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“Is it good?” His voice is low and breathy. “Am I doing a good job?”
“Yes. Yeah. Yeah, you are, Lucas. Keep going.” It feels so good and —
“I want to cum,” I whisper. “I want to cum. Lucas, can you — ?” I don’t finish the sentence because somehow, inexplicably, he starts jerking me off even faster, and his fist is so tight, and the subtlest wet sounds are coming from it because my dick is glistening with pre-cum.
All of a sudden, the orgasm hits me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Behind me, Lucas lets out a long, sexy groan, before he’s kissing my neck as hot wetness splashes my inner thighs. After a moment — I don’t know how long — my breaths even out and my heart rate slows down. Lucas untangles himself from me, and I open my eyes.
My thighs are a mess, and so is the wall in front of me. On the floor, my pants are damp from draining shower water, and I’m sweaty and tired. But who cares? Most of all, I feel blissed out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lucas
Age 19
When I was six, I proudly announced I was going to marry Charlie when I grew up. I was at his house for a playdate, and we were lying on the carpet, drawing, while our mums drank coffee on the couch. They immediately starting cooing and saying that was adorable. Charlie turned red.
For a month after that, at every dinner, Mum would ask me who I was going to marry, and my answer would be the same: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. Mum would giggle while Dad was less amused and told Mum to stop asking silly questions, but she didn’t. She’d ask me about the wedding venue (a pirate ship), the wedding cake (orange — Charlie’s favourite colour at the time) and whether she’d be invited (of course, you’re my mummy).
When I was a moody fourteen-year-old, the memory of my younger self saying all that stuff made me want to neck myself. Sometimes Mum would tease me about it and I’d snap and overreact and slam my bedroom door.
Now I’m less moody and slightly more mature, and the thought of six year old me no longer makes me feel queasy. In fact, I think he was onto something. I don’t know why I stopped letting myself want what I want for as long as I did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Now
The Singaporean restaurant is bathed in hues of gold and amber, and spicy aromas fill the air. Lucas sits across from me at a wooden table, in front of a window that showcases the modern Melbourne cityscape under the dark blue sky.
As I scan the menu, I catch myself stealing glances at Lucas. Before we left the gym, he combed through his hair with his fingers, but it’s still slightly messy at the back, and the sight is both unsettling and thrilling.
I don’t regret what happened in the shower. I refuse to. I don’t want a repeat of the shame I felt after the first time with Lucas. The way my gut ached as I slipped out of his bed and disappeared into the cold Melbourne morning.
No. If I could redo anything, I would be more careful with my clothes, so I wouldn’t have to spend fifteen minutes holding them under the hand dryer.
The waiter comes over, a handsome Asian guy who looks our age, and he takes our orders. After he goes, I watch Lucas as he fills up our glasses with the complimentary tap water.
“What?” he asks when I’ve been staring for too long.
“He was cute.”
“Who?”
I huff a laugh, certain he’s playing dumb on purpose. “That waiter guy.”
Lucas scowls. “Was he?”
“He had black hair.”
“Incredible.” Lucas takes a sip of water, and the column of his throat works as he swallows.
“I have black hair,” I say.
“Do you?” His eyes glint, and yep, he’s definitely playing dumb on purpose.
“I’m just saying,” I begin, leaning back in my chair, “maybe he’s your type.”
“Do you think any guy who looks a tiny bit like you is automatically my type?”
