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“It’s been like an hour, and I’ve missed your perfect tits.”
“They missed you too.” He lunges at them and sucks so hard I think I might topple over. So good. He’s so good at this, at conversation, at flirting. But right now, this. This. This.
We barely make it to the bedroom, condom in hand. I surprise him by pulling it from my purse. This time is a little more vigorous and robust. I come so hard I see stars as he pounds into me. He utters my name repeatedly until he loses his words.
I catch my breath and watch his hot body walk away. “There isn’t enough time.” I smile.
He leaps back into bed. “There’s not enough you.” He grabs a handful of my breast as he spoons me from behind. I arch into him.
He speaks softly into my ear as sated fatigue overtakes over our bodies.
“What’s after Vermont?”
“Home, then Wisconsin, because I bribed a guy to get laid.” He rubs his semi-hard dick on my back and thrusts. I laugh at this. Then he lightly grazes the length of my body, tracing it up and back. “Wisconsin then back to LA to tape. Then we’re doing a couple of live shows around the county and probably canvassing in the OC. Where are you tomorrow?”
“Hilton Head, then Charleston for three days. We really don’t have a choice, do we? Our schedules betray us.” I sigh, and he pulls me closer. He kisses my neck, and I arch into him. He feels too good.
He says, “We could quit our jobs and have sex for a living. We’re really good at it, and I think we should share our gifts with the world.” He bites my ear then laves the bite with his tongue.
“We need Instagram sponsors for that.”
He pulls me even tighter, and I feel his laughter.
“Why three days?” he asks.
“A series of appearances, readings, and mentoring.”
“Mentoring?”
“Middle School writing workshops. It’s my favorite part of traveling. I freaking adore writing and am not suited for anything else in this life, but mentoring middle school kids fills my heart.”
“Do you get paid for that?”
“No. I worked with 826 New York City to develop a writing program. My idea came out of the experience. I wish someone had come to me in 5th grade and said my voice matters. I might have found the courage I lacked earlier in life. I luckily found it through tennis.”
“Tennis?”
“Yes. A sport played with a racquet and a fuzzy yellow ball where you get to smash the hell out of it while grunting.”
“Explains this steel ass of yours. You play a lot?” I flex my ass into him, and he groans.
“I’ve played a bit. It was a place to go when my parents were splitting up.”
“Where are your parents now?”
“Nope. Those are stories for more than a one-night relationship.” We settle into my words. Then he’s back at my ear.
“It’s the goddamned FOMO,” he whispers while caressing my ass.
“HMMM,” I moan at his touch, “What is?”
He says, “The problem with going our separate ways.”
“It nags at me too. Maybe we lie to ourselves tonight. Make up stories of how this can all work.”
He pulls my face to his and says, “What if we made a plan? Not a vague notion of a timeframe.” I flip onto my back, and he hovers, propping himself up on one elbow.
I say, “I love a plan.”
