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“That someone’s going to cover my toilet bowl with cling wrap again.” I start laughing. So does she. “You know,” she says, “I still poke my finger in the toilet every time I pee to make sure? My god, you traumatized me. I ruined my favorite flip-flops.”
“It was just pee.”
“Have you ever flooded your shoes with it?”
“No, but I still sniff every beer can or bottle I open to make sure it’s not covered in habanero juice.”
She falls back on the bed, laughing, and it burns. Notthe memory of the hot peppers she kept smearing across my six packs. It’s the desire I have for Blair, again and again.
“Answer me for real,” I press, needing more of her. “What are you afraid of?”
“Failure,” she answers. Her eyes stop laughing, and she turns to face me. “I’m afraid of failing at my dream. At the one thing that makes me happy.”
“Which is?”
“Writing.”
“How can you fail? You’re doing it, aren’t you? You’re writing books.”
“Yeah, but,” she sighs, “I make a little money on my books, but then I have to reinvest it in my next one. Honestly, I’m starting to lose money, and how stupid do I have to be to keep going? At some point, you have to give up on your dream and face reality.”
Damn, she’s beautiful like that.Honest and fragile. That’s the Blair I couldn’t have. The one who crushed my torn heart.
It’s like we both couldn’t have what we wanted back then, and it still feels like that now, pulling me to her even more.
Her red lipstick has worn off. I think half of it’s on my dick where I wanted it, but now I can see Blair’s natural shade, pink like bubblegum, and I want to kiss her again, so damn bad, but I have to know.
“What do you write? Like how-to sex books? Because those would be best-sellers based upon tonight.”
I make her smile, but she shakes her head no. “I’ll never tell you what I write because I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Oh?
This will be fun.
“I can just look you up and find out.”
“I write under a pen name.”
Like a fish on a hook, she’s got me. I pick up the tray, turning to set it on the floor beside the bed before I turn back to find her still shaking her head. Like she’d rather die by a thousand paper cuts than tell me. So I climb on top of her, straddling her, pinning her wrists over her head, and she doesn’t fight me.
“What do you write?”
“Nope.” She pops her lips. “I’m not telling the guy who sent me a cake in Geology class with ‘You blow me away with your farts’ written in brown icing on it what I write.”
I lean down, burying my chuckle in her neck, whispering in her ear, “Will you tell the man about to fuck you again what you write?”
She giggles, trying to twist away from me. “Hell no.”
“Come on. I promise I won’t laugh.”
“You already are, you sexy fuck.”
“Tell me.”
I wedge my knee between her legs, my cock surging when she doesn’t fight me anymore. She opens her thighs for me.
“Thank you,” she says, “but I’m trying to cutbackon humiliation this year.”
