And enter her oh-so-slowly.
He can almost feel her sweet, velvety walls closing around his shaft.
But of course, they had made it clear that they were never going to f**k each other.
He groans. Now what is he going to do about his stiffy?
The only thing he can, of course. Under the blanket, he grasps his diamond hard column of flesh. It is so hard as to be almost painful. He takes a deep breath and starts to polish it with firm, deep strokes. He concentrates on the head, oscillating and jerking his hand back and forth. His arm rapidly gains momentum. He starts to pant with the furious effort.
Ahhhhh.
He arches his back and tips his head against the pillow. His mind is filled with visuals of him stabbing Sam with his prick. Grinding his hips against hers while his mouth explores everywhere else within reach.
Sammie, oh, Sammie. You have no idea. Absolutely f**king no clue of how hot you’re making me.
His hand is a blur of movement. Back, forth, back, forth. God, how he misses jerking himself off. He used to do plenty of it when he was fourteen. Back when he was still this pudgy little kid who hadn’t gotten laid. After he was yanked out of school and put into a stricter missionary one – where the boys practically had to shave their heads and do a punishing hundred pushups before they start their lessons – he developed a body that he could be proud of and which caught many an eye.
He never really had to jerk off much again.
He lets himself come explosively. He quickly whips back the blanket to release his ejaculation. His c**k jettisons his se**n upward. How high he will never know, because he has his eyes firmly closed and fixated on his memory of Sam throwing her head back while being held in his arms . . . on the dance floor.
His spurt of cum seems to go on forever.
When he opens his eyes, the blanket and sheets are stained with glistening white patches. OK, maybe allowing himself to come on the bed wasn’t a good idea, especially with Sam next to him. So she’s going to wake up, look at all this gooey mess around her and say –
“What the hell are you doing?” She sits up, her hair mussed and sexy. She wildly looks around. “What’s all this?”
He lies back on the bed. He can’t help it. He starts to laugh.
His shoulders quake with laughter as tears spring into his eyes. The situation is beyond ridiculous. Here he is, giving himself a hand job while the woman he has been fantasizing about for the past three days – yes, he admits that he has – wakes up in bed beside him and yells at him for messing up the sheets.
He should just take her, press her down onto the bed and f**k her. He’s certain that some part of her wants him at least. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be giving herself so readily to his kisses.
But he doesn’t.
There’s no point really. They have had too much of a history together, and most of it was bad. Besides, she’s only going to get all angsty and miserable after he leaves. That is what comes of knowing someone before f**king them. There are all sorts of weird emotions and expectations in the mix, especially with women, and you never know when they are going to get all weird on you – even though you’ve made it quite clear it’s just a f**k.
That’s why he never gets to know anyone before he f**ks them. Too much fallout. Look at what happened to his mother and father. Relationships and marriages are the pits.
She leaps out of bed, shrieking “Eww, eww, eww, eww.” He bets she wouldn’t be saying that if it was all inside her instead.
She tears back the curtains. Bright light streams into the room. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks wear a high color. So she’s majorly embarrassed, but she manages to look good anyway.
“Oh, stuff it,” she declares. “We’re going to have to go anyway. I hope you’re happy, because the maid who’s going to clean up all this mess won’t be.”
“So I’ll leave two hundred dollars by the lampstand as a tip.” He gets up. “I’m going to need a shower, sweetheart. Last night was incredible.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’re gonna wish you had when you say goodbye.”
It’s automatic, this snark of his.
He can feel her eyes on his back and bu**ocks as he vanishes into the shower, grinning. He hits the hot water, and his grin dissipates when he realizes that he would never see her again after this.
11
It’s twelve noon when they finally gather at the restaurant downstairs. Caleb and Cassie are extremely hung over and looking sheepish, for some reason. When the boys take their seats and peruse their menus, Sam pulls Cassie to the powder room.
Brian says in a loud voice, “Going in there for a girl chat? Don’t forget to tell your best friend how good I was last night.”
Several diners at the other tables turn. Flushing, Sam walks Cassie away quickly.
“Did you?” Cassie’s eyes are accusing.
“No! How could you even think that?” Righteous indignation pours out of Sam’s every syllable. “I’ll be glad to go home and never have to see his mug again.”
“Ah well, to each her own,” Cassie murmurs.
Sam is nonplussed as she follows her friend into the female restroom. Then a light bulb goes off in her head.
She whirls to face her friend. “Oh my God, don’t tell me . . . you slept with him.”
Cassie has the good grace to blush. “We were both drunk.”
“But you hardly know each other!”
“As if that has ever stopped me.”
Sam’s mind is tumbling with possibilities – all exciting. “So are you going to see each other again?”
“I don’t know . . . he’s kind of sweet, don’t you think?” Cassie takes out her lipstick from her purse and starts to apply it.
“Hell, yeah! A lot nicer than Brian.”
Cassie giggles. “He’s terrific in bed. Let’s say that for a short-ish guy – ”
“He’s not that short.”
“ – I said ‘ish’. But he’s certainly not short where it matters.”
Both of them shriek with laughter. A middle-aged lady comes out of the stall to wash her hands. She darts them a murderous glare.
“Hey, free country, lady,” Cassie barks.
The woman hurriedly scoots out of the restroom.
“You’re so mean.”
“I know.”
“If he turns out to be the one, I’m glad for you, Cassie,” Sam says warmly.
“It’s just one f**k. He may never want to see me again.”