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She gasps as my hard-on presses against her ass, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps the same perfect, torturous rhythm, grinding against me again and again, until I’m not sure if I want to beg for mercy or more.
We stay there for a few songs, then she releases me, brings her lips to my ear. “Bathroom. Be right back.”
I feel the loss of contact immediately. My body wants hers. It needs hers.
It’s not happening.
It doesn’t matter.
Sure, I watch her walk away, but that doesn’t mean anything, either. Only that the teal fabric of her dress hugs her hips just so.
I’m a man.
And an artist.
I notice shapes. Lines. Colors.
The pink flush on her cheeks. The color of wine on her lips. The patent black of her boots. Say, as the heels dig into my back.
Fuck.
I rush to the men’s room and splash cold water on my face. It doesn’t work.
A million memories hit me at once:
Deanna, diving into the pool in a simple black swimsuit.
Sweat dripping from her skimpy jogging outfit.
The sparkle of her eyes as she listens to Carole King in the backyard, sure no one is watching.
Yes, she’s gorgeous. So what?
After one more splash of cold water, I gather my jacket and meet her on the dance floor.
I don’t have to ask what she wants. It’s written all over her face: the fun is over.
“Lexi is on her way,” she whispers in my ear. “She hasn’t been drinking, so she’s good to drive. She’ll be here any minute.” She takes my hand and leads me outside and I can’t help but wonder if she texted Lexi so nothing more could happen.
The air is cool. The temperature drops so quickly here. I forgot how that feels. The loss of the day’s warmth.
Deanna’s Tesla is already here. And there’s Lexi, wearing a pink dress and a smile, waving for us to come inside.
“I guess this is it?” Deanna asks. “Destiny. Right?”
Right.
This is what I want.
Everything I want.
Exactly what I want.
Deanna is the one who doesn’t belong in this picture.
Not Lexi.
And not me.
