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The answer continued to elude me.
For every couple I helped, I watched dozens implode. I want to believe love conquers all, but I haven’t found the evidence to convince me. Because of this, my dating history has been spotty. I try, but only to a certain extent.
No matter how well intentioned the guy is, I expect him to let me down.
Until now.
Slater is emotionally unavailable and can’t offer me much. I know he’s temporary.
Maybe that’s what makes him different.
For the first time in my life, I’m able to accept what’s in front of me without expectations. We have no future together, and to be neither hopeful nor doubtful is strangely freeing.
When he asks if I want to have sex with him again, I don’t hesitate. I slam my body into his. He catches me and shifts, and I’m underneath him on the couch before our lips even meet. The kiss is slow and soft, exactly like it was last time.
Where’s his urgency?
I want unbridled passion—not leisurely seduction—so I weave my hands into his hair and try to tug him closer. Instead of yielding to my obvious plea, he teases me with soft kisses along my jaw. I pull at his hair, attempting to get his lips to meet mine again, but he’s unmovable.
I abandon his hair and move my hands to his waist. If I can’t control the kissing, I can shift my focus to other parts of his body. In an effort to feel his weight on me, I dig my fingers into his hips. They aren’t cooperative, either. Why does he have to be so strong and fit? And why is he determined to take this slowly?
I arch my back and barely manage to graze his erection.
I huff in frustration. “Stop holding back. I want to feel you.”
He doesn’t listen. His lips travel leisurely along the other side of my jaw.
I try to slide my hands into the waistband of his pants, but they’re too tight, and my fingers get stuck after an inch. “Pants off,” I demand.
He kisses my eyelids. “Why are you so impatient?”
The better question is—why isn’t he impatient? We had mind-numbing sex. We have the chance to do it again and he wants to linger over soft kisses.
“Fuck me,” I demand.
He pulls back enough so I can see his expression. “What’s wrong with kissing?”
I’ve done a remarkably good job of putting a lid on our one-night stand. I don’t relive it, I barely even think about it. I can do that because it happened once. It was an anomaly—the exception to the rule—but if he’s sweet and seductive, I’m afraid the wires are going to get crossed in my brain.
“Nothing is wrong,” I lie. “You asked if I wanted to have sex, not if I wanted to make out like I was thirteen.”
A wrinkle appears between his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed, but either way, he doesn’t move.
“More orgasms. Less talking.”
I unbutton my jeans and shimmy them past my hips. My sweatshirt won’t make it over my head while I’m flat on my back with a football player hovering over me, so I pull it up enough to expose my unrestrained breasts.
“Slater,” I whine when he doesn’t move. Why isn’t he taking off his clothes?
“The wine. The lighting. It’s romantic, and I thought…”
“No romance necessary. This is a hook up.” Isn’t that what he wants?
“Right.” He levers himself up and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I finish yanking off my clothes. It only takes me a second, so I get to watch as he shrugs out of his shirt and stands. He peels off the tight pants and his boxer briefs. His erection pops free. Before I can reach for it, he blankets me with his body and…holy crap, this is what I was waiting for.
How does he always feel so good?
Our bodies press together. He’s warm and firm, and my skin tingles with arousal. When our lips meet this time, there’s nothing gentle about it. Our tongues duel as we try to swallow each other. His erection nestles between us as I wrap my legs around his hips. He only allows me to rock against him once before he untangles my limbs and flips me so I’m kneeling on the sofa. My chest is hanging over the back, my legs are spread wide, and I’m desperate for him.
