"You don't stare at client's breasts?"
"Unless the piece requires it." He crosses the space to me. "How does it feel?"
"Huh?"
"You need help with after-care?"
"Right."
"Did you wash with soap?"
I nod.
"A&D ointment?"
"Not yet."
"Allow me." He pulls a small tube from his pocket, places it on the kitchen table, washes his hands in the sink, and turns to me.
His hands brush the hem of my t-shirt. His fingers skim the bare skin on my stomach.
Fuck, he's close to where I need him. No one has been this close in a long, long time. The soft touch is enough to set me on fire.
He moves to my left side as he rolls my t-shirt up my stomach. He only lifts enough to expose the new ink, not enough to expose my breasts.
I hold the extra fabric.
He squeezes ointment on his finger and applies with a gentle touch.
It's strange—not at all what I expect from a booty call—but it's only sexier for its oddness. He's tending to my body, my skin, the work he put on my skin.
We collaborated on this. Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with him. Because I shared a vague idea and he turned it into something beautiful.
I want to celebrate being alive but acknowledge how hard it is too. Is a heart covered in thorns too cliché?
Maybe it is. But he made it into something unique and beautiful.
"There." He holds the t-shirt above my new tattoo. "Perfect. You want to see?"
"There's a mirror in the bedroom."
"That wasn't a come-on," he says.
"That either. It's that or the bathroom."
"Do you have a bathroom kink?"
"Not that I know about."
He smiles that same you're interesting and I like it smile. "Can you hold this?" He drops the fabric.
I don't reply. I let the fabric fall and I lead him into the bedroom. My bedroom.
When was the last time I invited a man into this space? Anyone into this space? The marvel of a main room is I don't have to share my bedroom with anyone.
The last time I slept with someone… my ex, his place. It wasn't great. It was never great, but it wasn't his fault. It was the combination of my meds and my inability to let go.
Patrick is a near stranger. I don't need to worry about what he thinks of me tomorrow. I don't need to consider our future or whether or not I love him (or if I'm even capable of the kind of love he expects).
No, this is crystal clear—sex.
Only sex.
The end.
I toss my t-shirt over my head and turn to the standing mirror. "It looks perfect."
"It does." He pulls a condom from his pocket and tosses it on the bed. Then he closes the distance between us. He places his body behind mine, wraps his arm around my waist. "Anything you don't like?"
"Having to issue verbal responses." I can't form thoughts and stay in my body at the same time. Not usually.
He laughs. "Then show me."
I can do that. I turn so my neck is to him.
He understands my request. He presses his lips to my neck as he pulls my body against his.
My eyes flutter closed. It's almost too much, already. I want him too badly, already.
Is this how normal people feel? No wonder they make terrible sexual decisions all the time. This is fucking amazing.
A moan falls from my lips as he pulls me against his hard-on.
He kisses a line down my neck, brings his hands to my hips, turns me around, so we're eye to eye.
For a split second, I look up at him. I try to find intention in his green eyes, but I only find desire.
It's intoxicating.
I bring my lips to his.
He kisses back with the perfect mix of need and patience. He meets me halfway, soft where I need that, hard where I need that.
I fall into the back and forth, my tongue playing with his, my hands curling into his skin. I'm a horny teenager, lost in the bliss of making out, happy to kiss and touch for hours without any expectation of more.
Only I want more. I want everything.
I pull back with a sigh. He does away with his t-shirt and lowers me onto the bed.
My body responds before my brain has a chance. My brain is already slowing down, letting my thoughts dissolve. The same zen state I reach when I race.
There's only me and my body.
Only here, there's me and my body and his body and an intense desire to enjoy his body.
I turn onto my side and tangle my legs in his.
He toys with me as he kisses me, his palm on my breast, his thumb against my nipple.
He's good at this. Way too good at this.
It's intense, almost too intense, but that feels good in its own way.
Only, I have no idea how to respond. I feel too good to respond. I can't stop to consider what he wants, how to give as much as I take. I'm too wracked with bliss.
Sensation overwhelms me as he toys with me again and again.
I surrender to the feeling for minutes. Hours maybe. I'm not sure. Finally, my anticipation slows, and I find my footing enough to push him onto his back and climb on top of him.
I kiss him here. I roll my hips against his.
"Slow down." He lets out a low groan and digs his fingers into my thighs. "Or I'll come too fast."
My entire body buzzes. Yes. I want that. I want to make him come. It sounds so obvious like this, but I've never felt the desire before. I've never craved a man's orgasm.
It was… obvious. Expected. Of course, he'd come. That's how it always goes.
But right now?
I need it. I need it so fucking badly.
"Fuck me." The words fall off my lips. It's easy. Too easy, but I don't care about that either. I only care about finding satisfaction. "Please."
He responds by flipping me onto my back.
I do away with my panties.
He slides his hand between my legs.
I nearly come from the contact of his thumb against my clit. I have to kiss him harder. I have to dig my hands into his hair.
Even then, it's not enough. Every brush of his thumb winds me tighter. Tighter. So tight I can barely take it.
Then I'm there, groaning against his lips as I come, pleasure rocking through my pelvis, spilling all the way to my fingers and toes.
It's almost too much to take.
He rubs me through my orgasm, then he slips two fingers inside me. He warms me up, slowly at first, then faster.
"You're wet." He groans into my neck.
I nod. Then I let my head fall back. This is good. Too good.
He stretches me again. Again.
And, again, I'm too overwhelmed to respond.
Again.
I reach for his button. His zipper.
I rub him over the fabric of his boxers.
"Fuck." He groans into my neck as he reaches for the condom. Then it's his jeans, his boxers.
And he's there, naked in my bed.
We're naked in my bed.
He rolls the rubber over his cock; he spreads my legs’ he brings our bodies together.
He fills me with one slow, steady stroke.
I'm ready. I take him with ease, even as he stretches me wider, drives deeper.
I wrap my legs around his hips, and I kiss him hard.
We stay locked like that, moving together, bodies a tangled mess as he pumps into me again and again.