Then this. The cruel, delicious thrust that slices me in two, separating the me who was without him from the me who is so very with him. He’s meant to be here. Inside me. Thick and hot and steel. Solid. Still. Something I want to clutch onto and I try to hold him there.
But then he moves, not giving me any time to adjust before he pulls out and thrusts back in. Over and over, like a jackhammer with his force and speed. The ball of desire in my belly stretches and thins like a rubber band, growing so taut that I know when it releases it’s going to shoot through me like a pebble in a slingshot. His hands slide under my shirt and push my bra up, setting my breasts free. Then he grips them, plumping them with firm fingers.
I slip my hand down between my legs to rub my clit. At this tempo, he’s going to go fast and I want to go with him. God, there. With my finger on my bud and that spot he’s hitting.
“Is that it?” he asks. “Am I hitting the right place?”
“Uh huh,” I manage. He knows my body. He shouldn’t have to ask.
Our thighs slap together and his jeans chafe against my skin. But I welcome it. I do. As much as I welcome the uncomfortable way the table edge is digging into my waist.
“Am I big, Gwen? Do I feel good?”
“Yes, yes. You feel good.” You always feel so good, JC.
My orgasm is inching up now. I increase the pressure on my clit and then it’s almost…almost there. The edges of my vision blur and my toes lift, the muscles in my calves tightening. I brace myself for the release, knowing he’s near too. Have to get there fast if I’m going to go with him. Have to…
A sharp pain shot through my breast, knocking me out of the race to orgasm and abruptly ending my fantasy. “Ow!” I cried.
At the same moment, Chandler’s climax hit, and like he usually did, he narrated his release with his two favorite words in the English language. “Fuck yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck yes. Yessssss.”
He’s nineteen, I reminded myself. If you’re going to bang a boy, you better have limited expectations. Luckily, his over-vocalization masked my groan of disappointment over my lost climax. Over my lost memory of JC.
Chandler finished rutting and collapsed over me.
Jesus, sometimes he was so smothering. Literally and figuratively.
“Uh, can I get up?” I said, as nicely as I could while still being completely sexually frustrated.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” The second after Chandler pulled out, I had my pants up. I straightened my bra before turning toward him.
In general, I tried to refrain from making eye contact with him during or after our sexual encounters. Looking at him during made it difficult to imagine he was really JC. Looking at him after made it difficult to not bear the guilt for pretending he was someone else.
God, I was an awful person.
This time, I accidentally glanced at him. I had eleven years on him but his face was so youthful, it sometimes felt more like twenty. Especially when his features wore the afterglow of a quick fuck, every muscle relaxed, his smile goofy and blissed out.
“Damn, that was good. So good.” His post-coital dialogue never differed. “Was it good for you too?”
No. You pinched my nipple, ruined my JC fantasy, and failed to make me come.
But I lied. “It was awesome.” Then I felt guilty for being dishonest on top of everything else.
Awful wasn’t a strong enough word for what I was.
“It was awesome.” He grinned and leaned down to kiss my cheek before heading to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and clean up. As soon as he closed the door, I wiped his kiss away with my hand. It was weird that the gesture bothered me. I could let him put his cock inside me, but not his mouth on my cheek? What the hell?
Maybe it was a problem that would go away when I hit my JC quit date. When I stopped wishing that it were he I was with instead of this boy.
Or maybe I was just really a bitch.
I sighed as I crossed to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. Then I leaned back against the counter and took a long swig, wishing it were something stronger. Knowing that even if it were, it could never be strong enough to drown my guilt.
The pathetic thing was that I felt guiltier about “cheating” on JC than I did about using Chandler for sex. Not that I was using him any more than he was using me. He’d been the one to start things between us. We’d met at Alayna and Hudson’s wedding rehearsal, and he’d immediately made his interests in me known. Then at the wedding reception, he never left my side, coming on to me repeatedly with all the confidence of a preppy, rich, extremely sexy nineteen-year-old.
It had been cute. Charming. Naughty.
And I’d been lonely.