I don't think. I raise my hips to meet him; I kiss him hard; I rake my nails over his back.
Every thrust winds me tighter and tighter, but it's not enough. The angle isn't there.
Then I shift my hips and it is.
An internal clitoral orgasm.
Fuck. I know too much. But I don't care about that either. Only about finding another round of satisfaction.
I dig my nails into his back and I raise my hips to meet him. Again and again, the two of us winding me tighter and tighter.
Then I'm there, my sex pulsing around him, pulling him closer.
He keeps that perfect speed until I release his back, then he moves a little faster, a little harder, the rhythm he needs.
There's something sexy about knowing he's close, feeling the change in his breath, the shudder of his thighs.
Then he's there, groaning against my neck, pulsing inside me.
He works through his orgasm, shifts off me, takes care of the condom, dons his boxers.
"Thanks." I don't move. I don't want to move. I want to lie here and absorb this.
"Thanks?" He laughs again. "You're different."
"What do people usually say?"
"Thanks is good." He takes a long look at me.
"You, uh, you can stay if you want," I say. "But I have an early class and my roomie will freak if you're here alone, so…"
"Do you want me to stay?"
No, but—"I won't kick you out of bed."
"Until tomorrow?"
"Basically."
He smiles. "Next time, we can do this when you don't have class. Go for round two in the morning."
Hmm. Is that why people spend the night after a booty call? "I've never had morning sex."
"I'll pop your cherry sometime."
Sometime. In the future. He wants to do this again.
"If you want." He pulls on his jeans and his t-shirt. "If this was a one-time-thing, I'm happy to be used."
"Is it that untoward?"
"I like thinking of it that way. It's sexy." He finds his socks and shoes and sits on the bed to don them. "But I'm happy to be used again. If you're game."
"If I'm what?"
He smiles, proud he wore me out. "Exactly."
He is handsome. And this was amazing. But it's overwhelming too. And seeing him again… that sounds like a relationship. The start of a relationship. And that's messy. Too messy.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asks.
"I'm just going to sleep here."
"In that case—" He gathers my sheets and drapes them over my body. "Good night, Imogen." Patrick leans down and presses his lips to mine. "Call me if you want to go again."
"Just sex?"
"Just sex." He says it casually, as if he's said it a million times before.
Maybe it's casual for him.
But for me?
A second session of just sex? A third? An entire no-strings-attached arrangement?
Is that actually possible?
Chapter Four
IMOGEN
For a few minutes, I lie in bed, soaking in the satisfaction coursing through my body.
Bit by bit, my blood returns to my brain. My senses shift to their usual I'm thinking about everything, all the time mode.
My sheets smell like Patrick. The pine scent of his soap and something all him.
Hell, I smell like him. The sweat and saliva and other recently utilized bodily fluids.
I find enough energy to move into the shower. I soap, shampoo, condition, try to straighten my thoughts.
Maybe it doesn't have to be complicated.
I want to see him again.
He wants round two. Three. Infinity.
But then he's not in his shower, wondering where I stand. I know I shouldn't stereotype, but he's a man, and he's smooth enough he must be experienced.
My thoughts swirl. Orange-scented soap. The taste of his lips. The feel of his hands on my skin. The way his smile sent my stomach into free-fall.
There's only one thing to do when I'm in this state: write.
I turn off the shower, dry, admire my tattoo one more time (it's seriously amazing), and slip into my pajamas.
Then I set up on the couch with my laptop, and I shift into the zone. It's hard to explain. I'm not a writer, really. I don't have dreams of poetry books, fiction novels, memoirs on Oprah (does Oprah still have a show?).
But, here, with my hands on my keyboard (or around a pen), I'm in the zone. Writing is the only way I can really understand what I'm feeling. And I'm not good with feelings. That's why my life is such a mess. These things don't come naturally to me.
Maybe it's my parents (they barely acknowledge emotions). Maybe it's genetics. Maybe it's the result of the wrong friends, wrong schools, wrong TV shows. I don't know, but I know I'm not like my sister.
She leans on people, works as a team, talks when she's overwhelmed.
I'm only capable of sharing my feelings with anonymous strangers. But, hey, I'm sharing them. That's progress.
How do other people find the energy for relationships, anyway? Even if I wanted something serious (and I don't) and Patrick wanted the same (and he doesn't), I don't have the space.
Between class, swim-practice, and my once-a-week job giving lessons (not to mention Sunday dinners with my parents), I don't have the room for anything else. Even now, during summer session, with a lighter workload and a lack of swim meets, I use my extra time to stay functional.
But maybe this is a part of that goal.
Sex is a part of life. And it's a very relaxing, fulfilling activity. Maybe it's a part of my self-care.
I just need to put it in terms I understand. Scientific terms.
Psychology and economics (I'm double majoring) explain people as well as anything does.
Psychology: Human beings need connections with other human beings. Human beings need to satisfy their carnal urges.
Economics: Random hookups have low opportunity cost, but they present a lot of risks, especially for women.
Question: How can Imogen Nguyen best fill her needs?
Hypothesis: Patrick Murphy is a talented potential friend with benefits. But the relationship part? That's destined to end in misery.
Evidence: Imogen's past relationships (see the ex-boyfriend who called me "heartless"), Patrick's ease of coming and going (or is that a positive? It means he gets it), Imogen's complicated, messy history. Does a guy like Patrick want messy?
Or…
Are all those things reasons why I should try this?
Sure, I'm no good at love.
But sex?
Well, I may or may not be talented there, but Patrick enjoyed himself enough to request a second round. So I'm 1 for 1, so far.
Sex: 1 for 1.
Relationships: 0 for 1 (four, if you count high school boyfriends).
The sound of the door breaks my concentration.
Jade steps inside with a yawn. She hangs her coat on the hook by the door and places her purse over it.
"You're up?" She eyes my spot on the couch curiously.
"Can't sleep," I say.
"You had sex."
How the hell can she tell that?
"You did! Details."