I was the silent night. I was one of those royal guards who didn’t flinch. I was… Well, I was in heaven, but it was the devil himself dragging me there, and I was pretty sure you were doing something wrong if the devil took you to heaven.
He made a frustrated sound that vibrated straight into me, stood, and fumbled with something. A moment later, I felt the warm silky pressure of his length sliding between my legs. He took my hands—which also meant removing one of my weapons of silence—and pressed them one on top of the other over my head. With one hand, he held them firmly in place. With the other, he gripped my ass.
Now, I wasn’t about to go making claims like the way he felt inside me was the best thing I’d ever experienced. I wasn’t going to say it was like somebody mixed together the thrill of a rollercoaster, the butterflies of a first kiss, fireworks, and eating fresh baked brownies into a syringe and injected it directly into my veins. No. I definitely wasn’t going to say a word of that. I’d just think it in the privacy of my own damn mind, because wow.
My whole body shook as he gripped my wrists and my hip, gliding into me and stretching me in a way that made me feel like I should probably spend the next few years bowing my head in church and begging forgiveness. Because if I’d learned anything from my forced stay in Sunday school as a kid, it was if anything felt this good, it was one hundred percent a sin.
I clamped my teeth together, bracing against the determined thrusts from Mr. Suit behind me. It was almost exactly like I’d imagined. Him frustrated and determined while I was stony faced and unaffected by his efforts. Except he was breathing heavy now and there was nothing stony about the lust-filled heaviness of his eyes.
And I realized with sudden horror that an orgasm was rapidly rising inside me and threatening to explode. All over him. All over my idea that the reason I couldn’t get off with a guy was just that the right one hadn’t come along—that Mr. Perfect’s penis would be the secret key to my pleasure.
This was all wrong.
I lost concentration just long enough for the fated words to slip from my lips. “Yes, oh God, yes.” Shit. I couldn’t even press a hand to my mouth because he was pinning them. I felt him tense, and from the way his grip went tight, I realized he had finished inside me. Thank God I insisted on a condom.
He pulled himself out, discarded the condom in a nearby trashcan, and yanked his expensive pants back up like he didn’t even care that my arousal was still all over him. Or maybe he was the kind of kinky bastard who liked the idea of walking around all day with me on his cock. I swallowed, wishing that idea didn’t turn me on.
I tugged my skirt down, doing an undignified little shimmy before kneeling and pulling my panties up. There was no sexy or classy way to try to put myself back together in front of him. Not after that. Especially not after he’d won our stupid, ridiculous little game.
“Aren’t you going to gloat?” I asked.
“No.” He straightened his tie, and from the look on his face, you would never know he just blew his load inside me. “I got what I came for.”
Stupid, cocky bastard. “Yeah?” I said, sounding a little too desperate to get something from him before he walked straight out of my life. “You’re just going to leave?”
He moved past me, pulling the door open and stopping just before he left. “Relationships are for people with time.”
“Yeah,” I called after him. “And functioning hearts.” I didn’t know why I was trying to argue with him. There was zero percent of me that thought he and I had even the most remote chance of being compatible in a relationship.
Except… That hadn’t just been sex. It was an experience. It had felt life changing, as overly dramatic as that was. He’d swept into my life and in a few glorious thrusts, he’d unraveled one of my most central theories of the universe. My spell of orgasmless relationships hadn’t been because the right guy was still out there. It was just—ugh. I didn’t even know what it was, but now I could never change the fact that he had been the one to make it happen. I wished that didn’t feel significant somehow.
The door shut, and all I could do was sit down on the cold floor and pull my knees up to my chest. I thought I could feel my life threatening to crack at the seams. And then I felt a strange, warm, and wet sensation between my legs. I shifted a little. I definitely wasn’t still turned on, so it wasn’t like the old girl was still prepping the tunnel for a train.
I put my hand to the source and flinched. Was that… I pulled it back and saw a little fragment of a condom on my fingertip, along with a generous helping of Mr. Suit’s DNA. Before the true shock and horror really settled in, I wondered what kind of supermodel kids were swimming around on my fingertip, just waiting to catwalk into the world and start ripping people new assholes.
I flicked my finger and scooted back, shuddering all over.
The condom broke.
“It broke,” I said it aloud, just because that’s what my shocked brain seemed to think it needed to do. “The fucking condom broke. He came inside me.”
I jumped up and put both my hands on my head. I did some frantic calendar counting and determined that I shouldn’t be ovulating. And thank God for that, because I read this terrifying article about what Plan B does to your body once. I swore I’d never touch the stuff after that, except this might’ve justified an exception.
I briefly thought about running after him and telling him the truth—of slapping his shitty quality jacket pocket condom remains in his face. But no. I just needed to calm down. Biology was on my side. It was okay. I’d get tested to make sure I was still clean, and that would be that.
Note from my future self: you see where this is going, right?
3
Damon
I wasn’t particularly proud of it, but I was the king of the one and done routine. If I had my way, I’d eradicate the biological urge to stick my dick in warm, wet holes entirely. As it was, I couldn’t do that, which meant I occasionally took detours. The more temporary, the better.
Except my little session of bumping uglies with tennis Tinkerbell felt like the kind of detour I could get used to taking. I liked that she had stood up to me. Of course, she’d ultimately folded like all of them did, but the resistance had been a welcome change. It was also entirely possible I’d just enjoyed fucking her and the rest were excuses to pursue a second-round performance.
I straightened my tie and double checked that my belt was in place. Whether I would’ve liked to revisit Chelsea again at some point in the future, it was irrelevant. I couldn’t afford to tie myself down with commitments, and she’d only disappoint me at best and betray me at worst.
The only thing to do was move on and leave her where she belonged: my past.
When I found Chris, his hair was a mess, like usual, and he was trailed by a long-legged woman in a skin-tight dress.
Chris was a quarterback in the NFL, and he’d always had a way with girls, even before he was rich and famous. It was probably the rugged bad boy aesthetic he had going on. Tattooed, muscular, and quick with a joke. He also occasionally needed guidance like an over-eager dog, but as his bigger brother, that was a job I was willing to take.