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There’s no way that sex with her this time will clear my head of thoughts of her. I’m greedy and know that I’ll be desperate for her every night and probably many mornings. What the hell did I just do?
I’m totally and royally fucked.
November 21- Savannah
Clearing my throat, I circle the teabag in my cup, avoiding Wilder’s eyes across the table. Maybe it’s lack of experience. More likely, I can’t look at him because he circled a vibrator on my asshole, and he’s now eating toast across from me like it’s no big deal. Things like that don’t happen in my world or even the books I read. Whatever the reason, I can’t meet his eyes.
He must notice because he covers my hand with his, rubbing his thumb over the top. “Why are you so shy the morning after sex? You have no reason to be embarrassed, Savannah.”
“Were you there?” I ask, shaking my head, even as the flush moves up my neck. “Do I need to remind you of the whore I was last night?”
He laughs and takes another bite of toast. “Oh, I was there. I know exactly what you did, you little minx. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re ashamed of it.”
I take a sip of tea and dip my spoon into the cereal I haven’t been eating. “I don’t know about you, but that just doesn’t happen to me on a random Sunday night. I just need to center and come to terms with what happened between us.”
“We had sex, Savannah. That’s all that happened.” He gets up from his seat, walks his toast plate to the sink, and rinses the toast crumbs away before putting the dish in the dishwasher. He shuts the door and turns back to me. “It was just sex, right?” He chuckles, and it’s an awkward sound that catches my ear. I’ve never heard him laugh or chuckle when it sounded insincere, and this sounds fake. “Cuffing season partners have sex.”
“I know,” I laugh, and the sound is the same as his. I don’t recognize my own voice, and the laugh is fake as fuck. “Just sex. I just need to get used to the idea of me…” I pause to search for the words. Thoughts bumble around my brain, but it takes a few seconds to form a coherent sentence. “I’ve got to get used to the idea of me actually having sex.”
He puts his hands on his hips and looks around my kitchen like he’s looking for something. His cheeks are red. Is he embarrassed now? Did my sexual awkwardness spread to him like a bad case of gonorrhea?
I open my mouth to speak again, but he beats me to it. “Well, get used to it, baby. I’ve got all kinds of moves for you, and I’m determined to break you so that you’re a brazen temptress by the time cuffing season is finished.”
He gulps when he finishes his sentence and looks at the ceiling, shaking his head like he realized he said something wrong.
“Sure!” I fake smile. I can act chipper about this. I don’t know if I should really be doing these sordid things with someone I won’t be with in March, but I don’t want to make him feel bad. “I’m not sure you can break me of being wound up tight.”
I stand and take my own dishes to the sink, and he moves away from me, like the intimacy of last night is forgotten. Like a stranger.
“And you’ll get on my bike more.”
“It’s the middle of winter, Wilder.”
“There are random nice days.” He steps toward me but still doesn’t touch me. He restrains himself, even though I can feel the crackle of energy between us. Like we both want to wrap our arms around the other but won’t do it first. Are we really in a pissing match over who will break first and touch the other in the light of morning? We didn’t have a problem last night.
I turn to face him for the first time since he left my bed this morning. “You won’t break me,” I whisper.
“I will, Savannah Smart.”
“What makes you qualified to break a socially awkward librarian stuck in her ways?”
“I have a GED, a nice smile, and a big dick. The world is my oyster.”
I laugh, and he smiles. “You just described most male entitlement that is everything wrong in the world.”
He steps to me and kisses my cheek, a chaste movement compared to the way he mouthed me last night. As soon as his lips meet my skin, I blush at the thought of his lips and tongue circling and sucking my clit as he moaned from between my legs.
“Have a good day, Savannah,” he whispers, pushing a lock of hair back from my head.
He broke first. He touched me before I could touch him. Did he feel the standoff like me, or was that only in my head?
He turns to leave, grabbing his lunchbox off the counter, and reaches into the fridge for his thermos. “Um, Wilder?” I ask, stepping forward and wringing my hands.
“Yeah, baby?”
My knees about give out at the term of endearment. No big deal him calling me “baby.” I can handle it. Breathe, Savannah. “My mom is having Thanksgiving this week. I know we haven’t talked about how the holiday meals would work, but I was hoping you wanted to have Thanksgiving with us.”
I blow out a sigh, and I realize that I’m breathing harder than I would in a normal conversation. Am I nervous he’ll decline the invitation? Am I more nervous he won’t?
