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beth
?. . .?
Christmas Morning
“Fuck, you’re perfect, taking my cock so well.”
“Don’t make it weird,” I groan over my shoulder, as Axl’s relentless thrusts drive deeper and harder into me from behind. So help me, if he’s catching feelings…
He grips my hips tighter as I push back into him. We have to move quickly. It’s only a matter of time before my parents come home. I’m pretty sure my brother, Tristan, and his boyfriend, Myles, are fucking on the couch downstairs. The last thing my parents need is to catch both of their kids being bent over on Christmas.
My hands firmly on the headboard, I arch my back to change the angle. While Axl and I have known one another for years, we only started fucking when I came home for the holidays. Our friends with benefits situation has made being back in Coal’s Lake a bit more tolerable, even if he doesn’t know everything that I need to get off…yet.
Axl reaches around to play with my clit and I send up a silent prayer to the clit gods that he at least knows where it is. Hisslow circles aren’t enough. I reach between my legs to guide him to quicken the pace and increase the pressure. Like the good boy he is, he follows my lead and brings me moments from finally coming. I wind tighter and tighter, almost there… until he kisses my back. It isn’t a hot, growly nip. It’s a sweet, sensual press of his lips against my skin.
With my orgasm leaving the room without so much as saying goodbye, I do what any woman in my position would do…
“Right there, I’m so close.”Please stop kissing my back and come already.I tighten my pussy and begin expertly timed kegel exercises. “Oh… Axl… yes…”
Damn, I hope that’s believable.
“Fuck, baby, I’m coming,” he groans.
Gross, did he just call me baby?I let him finish and decide this has to be the last time I sleep with him. We were good friends before this arrangement, and I don’t want to lose that piece, but I can’t be sleeping with him if he wants more. I’m going back to Calgary to finish my dissertation proposal next week. If I want my masters thesis in sociology approved, and to continue my research for my doctorate, there’s no time for boyfriends or shattered hearts.
Axl’s empties himself into the condom, his breaths broken and ragged. He presses a final kiss to my back and pulls out, sitting back on his heels. “Shit, B.” He palms my ass with both hands. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just faked it with me.”
Fuuuuuuck.
I shut my eyes tight and insist, “No, I didn’t.”
He climbs off the bed and discards the condom in my bathroom trash, as I turn to sit. When he returns, he lightly lickshis lip and demands, “Hands back on the headboard, baby. Since you didn’t come on my cock, you’re sure as fuck coming all over my face while I devour your pussy.”
And just like that… I’m wet again.
beth
?. . .?
January 2nd
I’m an asshole.
And I can’t get away from Coal’s Lake fast enough.
As much as I adore my family, the small town is beyond stifling. Christmas there feels like something out of a made-for-TV movie. Even my brother had a stereotypical ‘grumpy guy is home for the holidays and rescues a hot chocolate stand’ moment. Granted, no hot chocolate stands were rescued, but my brother and his boyfriend had the second chance romance you only see in romcom books and ridiculous holiday movies—the ones that are so bad, they’re good.
There’s not enough spiked eggnog in Alberta for me to tolerate their fucking all over town. That doesn’t even include the random bucket of lube I found while taking out the Comets’ trash a few weeks ago. I know damn well Tristan sent it to Myles—he sends me random as fuck items when he has too much to drink.
I tried to do a good deed, help tidy someone’s house for the holidays because they asked… Boom. Lube. Did I take it for myself? After checking that it was sealed, absolutely.
Despite the glorious find in my neighbour’s trash—that I will absolutely save for a rainy day—I’m on my way back to Calgary. I feel like a fucking dick (not a pussy—those are strong and resilient) for how I treated Axl while I was visiting. We’ve been friends for years, but I used him as my own personal fucktoy for a few weeks.
Driving down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs to early ‘00s alternative, a notification flashes on my dash screen. I click on it and my car speaker blares, “Message from Fuckboy Troy. Meeting was moved up to tomorrow.”
Fuck!
I click my hands-free voice command. “Text Troy.”
