Page 76 of Jonesing for a Spy

I don’t know. I hope I never find out, because if this is us and then we go average, I’d rather never know.

“I credit the hormones and the distance.”

He kisses under my ear and glides in an out with his softening cock. “I assume it’s you. My cock seems to have a mind of its own around you.” He pushes up to hover above me. “You okay? Did I hurt you?”

Rocking my ankles into his shoulders, I tilt my pelvis and squeeze against him. “Never better.”

“This angle”—he continues his strokes—“is my new favorite.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m willing for it to be dethroned. Or to pursue testing things out.”

I laugh at that. And he moans when I do.

“I need to clean up, honey.”

His whimper is cute. But he leaves me and rolls onto his back, his curved cock resting lazily on his belly.

“I’ll be right back.”

I do my thing and grab a moist washcloth to clean up Strider when a thought strikes me.

I count. Recount. Count again.

I need my calendar and my pack of pills to be sure, but barring me missing something big…

I’m late.

My thoughts race, my heart speeds, and I pad out to the room, trying to keep my cool and school my features to not give anything away.

I stand over the man who’s almost fallen asleep during my freakout. Jeans and underwear just above his knees. One socked foot, one still with a shoe on it. His black eye is swollen and pink due to blood flow. The bruises around his neck stand out in stark relief with no place to hide them.

I clean him up, all the while he watches me, watches my hands, my face.

Tossing the rag aside, I pile onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling beside him.

The chill in the air from my overheated skin and the sweat that lines it is too much and a shiver runs down me until my teeth almost chatter.

Strider stands, shucks the rest of his clothes, and turns the bedding down, allowing me in ahead of him. He follows, enveloping my body with his, warming me up.

My mind whirls. I pull up a mental calendar and count yet again. The man behind me snores ever so slightly telling me he’s under, even if it’s not six in the evening.

He left two weeks ago tomorrow. I’m religious about taking my pills, though they may have been slightly off schedule with me sleeping in the wrong—no, not wrong… a different—bed. And then there was Taiwan. Who the hell knows what time was what there? But I didn’t miss.

So, why am I three days late?

Cartoon me thinks it’s just three days.

Real me knows it’s three whole days when we could set the atomic clock by my damn cycle.

I blow out a huge breath.

“Are you getting warm?” The grumbly, soft voice at my ears purrs.

“Yeah.” I nestle back into him.

“I’m hungry.”