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He feels so good, I can’t stop all of the sounds that are coming out of me. I’ve always been a quiet girl, not one for theatrics, but I can’t stop myself. This doesn’t feel like sex, this feels like forever. It feels more powerful, more real, more everything. We move in sync with one another, my body slowly getting wound up tighter and tighter. I’m so tight, I’m going to explode.
I can tell he’s getting closer, his thrusts are starting to turn frantic. Each thrust rubbing my clit takes me higher and higher. He starts to piston in and out of me and that’s when it happens. I see stars, I explode all around him and he keeps goingas I come and come and come. I’m so blissed out that I barely realize that he’s slowly milking his own orgasm, his groans becoming louder than mine. After he comes down he slowly pulls out of me and lays down beside me, pulling me close to him and spooning me from behind.
As we lay together in his bed, my only thought before I lose consciousness is when can we do that again.
THE ABYSS
January 2, 2010
Ihaven’t spoken to myboyfriendin two days now. I text him and get short replies after long delays. I also haven’t seen him since the night of his firm’s holiday party. The same night we had sex for the first time. I would have immediately thought it weird, but he’s expressed to me several times how stressful and hard it is to study for the bar. If he was any other guy, I would think that he’s ghosting me, but not Brad. Iknowhe wouldn’t do that to me.Would he?
He’s set to take his test in just a few weeks. He’s been studying for almost six weeks already. When he gets home from work he studies before he has to turn around and do it all again the next day. Once he takes it next month, he may have to wait awhile to find out if he passes but at least the majority of his stress will disappear. The wait would kill me. Really the test would, too. There’s no way I could do a twelve-hour test even though it’s broken up into two days.
I pick up my cell phone and scroll through our last few text messages. I notice the pattern of the messages. They all seem tostart with me making conversation and then him responding back just a few words in reply. Maybe I’m thinking too much into it, overanalyzing every detail when I just need to stop and live in the moment. I can’t help but continue to compare it to how he was with me in college. I never felt like I was a priority when he had me in the friend zone and then after everything happened, I wasn’t a priority at all.
This time around once I left his house in December, it feels eerily similar to back then but just in a different way. It’s like when I’m out of sight, I’m out of mind to him and I know how that plays out. It doesn’t end well for me. I just know that I still feel something for him and I hope he feels the same way about me.
Thankfully, I’ve had Erica in town to help keep me busy. She’s been home visiting her family and trying to decide if she’s going to move back to the area. I vote for a yes to move back to town because then I’d get to see her a lot more. I miss hanging out with her every day. I know she has to leave tomorrow to get back to work but I shoot her a text anyways hoping she’s not busy.
I start going back through my texts with Brad and I think he might be avoiding me.
It only takes a minute to respond.
We’ve talked about this. I think he’s just busy. He’s working a full-time job and studying to pass the bar. Cut him some slack.
Ugh! We literally had great sex, I got up the next morning and drove back to town. Everything was fine. Then we didn’t hang out at Christmas or New Year’s and his office was closed both those days.
I wait for her to reply with more reassuring words but they don’t come. A few minutes later, she finally responds.
Meet me at theSpaghetti Housein ten minutes.
Yes! I’ll be there.
I run a brush through my hair, throw on some lip gloss, and slip my shoes on. Throwing my big, puffy jacket on, I get out to my Kia and start up the engine. It’s freezing cold but mercifully I only live a few blocks away from theSpaghetti House.I check my watch and it’s a few minutes past noon. The place is going to be packed, but hopefully we can score a booth. If not we’ll have to sit at the counter. The place not only has the best spaghetti around but it’s also world famous. Everyone from pop stars to Presidents have come to town and dined here. You can even pick a booth that someone famous sat in to eat your plate of spaghetti.
When I park my car and get out, I see Erica standing outside the door, her hands in her coat pockets trying to stay warm.
“You’re late. That took you…” she pulls out her hand and looks at her watch, “twelve minutes.”
I laugh and playfully push her hand away that’s wearing the watch. “Oh stop. You literally just text me to show up.”
We stroll through the front door and we’re immediately greeted with a wait line. “I had to talk you off the ledge.”
“Ha. Ha.” I deadpan. “You are so funny. No.”
She laughs loudly and several people turn to look at us. For such a small town, I don’t recognize anyone in here today. “Want to sit at the counter?”
“Thank God. I thought you’d never ask. I’m starving.”
We walk around the line and ask the hostess if we can take seats at the counter. She hands us the menus and gestures for us to go on. We take two seats further down away from the people already eating.
Once we get our coats off and are sitting on the spinning stools, I broach the subject. “Have you decided if you’re going to take the plunge and move back?”
She rubs her hand over her forehead, grazing her eyebrows with her fingertips. “No, and my parents are really pushing for me to come back and join the family’s accounting firm even though I have no accounting experience.”
“What would you do for them? Write their promotional materials? I mean you literally went to school for creative writing.”
She snort laughs. “Exactly, I would just get stuck doing busy work all day while my dad tries to talk me into taking some more accounting courses. I can’t do it. I don’t want to do it. I just want to write books and live life and not have to worry about adulting.”
