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“Yes,” I whine, panting through the most intense orgasm of my life. “Cum inside me, Cal. I want it.”
Grunting, his body falls onto mine and he wraps me in his arms, rolling his hips and thrusting into me as my still fluttering pussy draws out every drop of hot cum from his body. The squelchy sounds are more noticeable, obscene and filthy. He whispers dirty compliments and kisses me through it, circling his hips, drawing it out as much as humanly possible, until he collapses next to me, pulling my back against his body while we catch our breaths.
I'm so satiated that I weirdly want to cry. I feel overstimulated but also clingy. I remain still, struggling to breathe evenly, so I don't give away the odd rush of emotion I'm feeling. Like I've reached some impossible peak and then dropped suddenly.
Cal kisses the back of my shoulder and strokes my hip, and it lulls me into feeling soothed and comfortable again. I start to doze, but realize I should probably pee before I fall asleep.Despite the comfort I've felt with him, I feel awkward about climbing out of bed and trudging across the hall naked. Will he still be here when I get back? Or will he decide to leave? Does he still want to have dinner tomorrow?
"Hey," he whispers. "I can literally hear your brain doing backflips. Wanna talk about it?"
"Not really," I say with an embarrassed chuckle. "That was just really intense—in a good way," I'm quick to assure him. “I felt like I was coming down from something for a minute there, and then I felt sleepy, but I thought I should get up and use the restroom, and then I was overthinking if that would make things awkward or not.”
I take a breath. “Wow, I'm a mess. You might want to start thanking your lucky stars that you'll be able to escape halfway across the world soon,” I say, laughing at my own awkward joke.
"Oh, come on, that's funny," I say, when Cal seems lost in thought, frowning with a far-off expression.
He shakes his head at me and gives me a smile again. "You're definitely something else, but I'm not trying to get away just yet,bláth fiáin."
I turn over on my stomach, resting my chin on his chest. His fingers lightly rub up and down my spine. "What does that mean, by the way? You've called me that a few times and I keep meaning to ask, but then you distract me with orgasms."
Barking out a laugh, Cal tells me that it's a Gaelic word for wildflower.
"Why wildflower?"
"Because the word for dandelion is too fucking long."
"What is it?"
"Caisearbhán."
"Yeah, that would be hard to slip into the dirty talk."
Cal laughs out loud again, throwing his head back against the pillow. His laughter is infectious, and he has me rolling along with him, the anxiety from moments ago forgotten.
"Are you comfortable with me sleeping here tonight? It's okay to say no. I know I'll get to see you again tomorrow."
"You want to stay?"
"Well, yeah. If it’s okay with you. Why wouldn't I?"
"Of course, you're welcome to stay. I’d like you to," I say, shaking my head because he disorients me in the best ways. "The bathroom is right outside the door to the left. There's a linen closet in there with towels and whatnot. I'm pretty sure I even have a spare toothbrush."
"Perfect. Do you want to go first and then I'll follow? I'm going to find where I threw my phone and set an alarm. I'm supposed to meet Ezra at the gym at six, but I’m going to text and see if I can move it a couple hours later."
When I come out of the bathroom, Cal is standing in the hallway, looking at the random photos and art on the walls. "I'm not much of a decorator, I just kind of hang whatever I like without any real care about if it matches anything else," I say, explaining the eclectic decor.
"Is any of this yours?"
"The art? Definitely not. I don't display my own art," I say, laughing like that would be obvious.
"Ezra has one of his pieces hanging in his place." He roams his eyes over my body, which is currently wrapped in a towel. His expression is thoughtful, like he just figured out a puzzle.
"Yeah, well, Ezra is areal, honest to goodness artist."
"And you're not?"
Head shaking, I smile. "Nowhere near his level."
"That's not what he said. But either way, even if your style of art is squirting paint at a canvas with a water pistol, it's art. Which makes you an artist. Otherwise, I couldn't call myself one."
