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I start fucking myself again, feeling like I’m right on the edge. “I’m going to come soon,” I gasp.
The orgasm starts to spiral through me, and then it fills me up in crashing waves. I come down, and feel another peak coming on, even stronger than the last.
In my fantasy, Carter starts to come as well, his cock spurting all over me. “You’re so,” Carter says, “fucking,” he pauses and moans as he jerks his cock harder in his hand, “beautiful.”
“Carter,” I call into the room.
The shame that wasn’t there moments before starts to trickle through me as I hear his name on my lips. This man all but ruined me before, and here I am, coming to the image of him. I come down from the high and lay there panting in bed, no longer horny, but emotionally drained.
Only a few minutes have passed, thankfully, giving me enough time to get my head on straight before Carter returns. I head to the bathroom, and wash my body as well as I can in the sink, wishing I had a hot shower to luxuriate in. When I’m confident I don’t smell and am as clean as possible, I drip dry and then get dressed again in my same, sweaty clothes from yesterday’s hike.
In my fantasy, I was wearing expensive lingerie and my hair looked perfect.
Sigh.
I try not to think too much about that fantasy, as I sit back on the bed and wait for Carter to return (because there is nothing else to fucking do in this cabin). It was only my imagination, and it’s going to stay that way.
The few times we had sex, years ago, were incredible. To me, it meant the world—sharing an intimate part of myself with someone like that, getting to know their body and their heart. The sex I’d had before Carter had been fumbling in the dark with boys I barely knew at college. Carter was the first man who truly cared about my pleasure, who took the time to learn what I wanted.
After, when Carter stopped returning my calls and texts over the summer, and I went back to school, I tried dating again. But I wasn’t cut out for college hookups. Every boy I was interested in wanted to keep things casual. We’d hookup for a while and then he’d stop texting me.
Every time it happened, it sent me spiraling back to what happened with Carter. But still I tried. Tried to be a cool girl. Tried not to care. Tried to be relaxed and tolerant and willing. Good at giving blow jobs, never asking them to care about my needs, never expecting a text back.
But I always,alwaysgot emotionally invested in them, no matter how horrible they were to me.
First there was Brian: the guy I slept with for half of junior year, right after Carter. I told myself I was in love with him, that he was so much better than Carter, that my pain about Carter didn’t matter anymore because I’d found someone new. But the whole time he was fucking other girls and I was pretending to be fine with it, because we weren’t exclusive, whatever that means.
And then, Kevin, the guy I “dated” senior year. We went out for coffee a few times, and spent weeks hooking up, but he never wanted to be my boyfriend, not even after he admitted to really caring about me.
And a string of guys in between and after. Guys while I was in grad school getting my master’s in nursing. Guys I met over the summer in Harborview, who were there just to work or on vacation.
Nothing ever lasted. Nothing ever stuck.
What was wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone really want me? Why did I always choose the wrong guys? Did I want to be hurt—was I trying to be abandoned? Was I really such a masochist?
These were the thoughts that kept me up at night in my early twenties. Thoughts I’d shaken off only by quitting dating all together, about two years ago. I did it to protect myself and it worked. Now, I had my collection of vibrators, an audio porn subscription, and the odd fantasy about Carter here and there, and that was good enough for me. It would have to be.
Because I was never going to be abandoned again—not by Carter Steel, not by anyone.
10
CARTER
The weatheroutside is nastier than it looked in the cabin.
I walk for ten minutes in a big circle around the cabin before I find one bar of cell service. The whole time my cock presses into my pants expectantly, and rain spatters across my face. Every few minutes the wind blows my hood off my head, and my hair gets drenched.
I try calling Jamie, but nothing. The call won’t go through. I send him a text, saying that we’re still in the cabin and will head into town as soon as the storm stops. I also text Donna and Kate, reassuring them that things are fine, and that we should be back in Harborview by tomorrow or the day after.
I know I could make the hike in by myself right now, but I’m worried about Angela. Even if I give her my coat again, she’ll probably freeze. And patches of the ground are icy, due to the low temperatures overnight and the mix of rain, snow, and hail that fell. She’s wearing pink sneakers that match her pink shirt perfectly, but they aren’t made for this type of weather.
I’d carry her out of here if she let me. But I can imagine how well that suggestion would go over—she’d never agree to it. At the thought of carrying her, her warm body pressed into mine, my cock surges to attention again.
An image of her on her knees before me springs into my mind.
And then I trip on the rock in front of me and fall on my knees.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
