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Then it begins.
The hurricane.
It starts with him spinning in a circle. I blink, wondering if this is some kind of performance art I’m not cultured enough to appreciate.
“That’s just the warm up,” he says, catching my expression.
He lunges toward the bed with the grace of someone who’s slipped on a banana peel, landing half on me, half on his duvet. His elbow connects with my ribcage.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. And not in a sexy way.
When he kisses me, it’s less of a kiss and more of a face washing. His tongue swirls around my mouth like he’s trying to clean my teeth. I pull back, gasping for air.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Just…need to breathe,” I manage.
He nods enthusiastically. “Right, right.”
I stare at him for a second, trying to decide if I’ve made a critical life error or just a regrettable detour. I kind of need him to stop talking and flailing so he can just do the thing.
I don’t need fireworks. I don’t even need sparks. I need friction. Pressure. A solid five minutes of adult distraction.
What follows is a series of moves that seem choreographed by someone who learned about sex exclusively through poorly translated instruction manuals.
Just shut up and fuck me. Is that too much to ask?
I sigh and slide my hands up his chest. Not because I’m overwhelmed by lust, but because if I start undressing him, maybe he’ll get the hint.
It works.
His eyes go wide, and for one blessed second, there’s silence.
Then he moans. Loudly. As if I’ve just performed a miracle. All I’ve done is unbutton his jeans.
He kicks off his pants as I peel off my top, toss my bra somewhere near his dresser, and tell myself this will be fine…ish. I don’t need perfection. I need release. A full-body reset. Something to quiet the chaos in my brain and the ache that’s been living between my thighs.
His hands fumble with my pants, but eventually, we’re both naked. He grins at me again, and I resist the urge to throw the pillow at his head.
But this is happening. I’m committed. He’s hot even if he’s…a disaster in the bedroom. And I’ve probably had worse. There was that one guy in college who kept calling me champ, and the one who cried after, which, whatever. You do you, ya know? That was until he asked me to hold him.
I lie back and try to relax, mentally coaching myself like I do when I’m about to get a questionable wax job. He climbs on top of me with the determination of a man who thinks he’s about to change my life.
In a way, I guess he is. Just…not the way he thinks.
He fumbles in his nightstand drawer, producing a condom packet that he tears open with his teeth like he’s seen in movies. Except he doesn’t quite get it right, and foil gets thrown across my chest.
“Hurricane’s coming,” he whispers dramatically.
I close my eyes. Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t be so bad.
When he finally positions himself between my legs, he thrusts forward with such misguided enthusiasm that he misses entirely.
“Hang on,” he mutters, reaching down to guide himself.
What follows is a rhythm so disjointed it could only be called experimental jazz. Fast, slow, fast. Stop. Fast, medium. Stop. His hips jerk in what I can only assume is an attempt at passion but feels more like he’s having some kind of medical episode.
“You like that?” he grunts.
