: Chapter 5

I EXPECT HIS MOUTH TO crash into mine. For him to tug my skirt up around my hips, for him to grab and pull and fumble, but he doesn’t.

His mouth is soft, gentle, testing. His hand moves from my chin, tracing my jaw until his fingers skim the sensitive area beneath my ear, continuing until it’s entangled in my hair at the nape of my neck.

Our mouths break apart and his forehead rests against mine for a moment. “I’m not expecting anything from you, y’know. We can stop at any time.”

My heart has no right to be beating as hard as it is. “You know the same applies to you, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

It’s the bare minimum we should expect from each other, but it still makes me feel relieved. He’s the same man he was downstairs; he didn’t change as soon as he got me alone. I didn’t let myself get played by pretty words and an even prettier face.

His lips meet mine again, but this time he’s all in. He helps me pull off his T-shirt, taking a sharp breath when my hands trail his abs and reach for the buckle of his belt. Discarding his sneakers, then his socks, he shimmies his jeans to the floor, stepping out of them so he’s left in only his boxers.

He starts at my feet, carefully unbuckling the tiny strap around my ankle, pulling off each heel, sliding his hands along the backs of my calves and thighs, until he’s high enough up to lift me from the desk.

It’s not a long walk to the bed, but it’s long enough for my brain to register how perfectly my legs fit around his waist, how he isn’t clumsy like I thought he might be and that, maybe, I don’t care that much about not getting my veggie pizza with Emilia on our way home if this is the alternative.

He’s careful as he lowers me onto his bed, immediately moving to kneel between my knees. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, helping to take off my skirt as I pull off my top. It makes me feel dizzy, the way he compliments me. Like he’s unsure how to say something, but he means it wholeheartedly. His eyes lock on to my face and I suddenly feel twice as naked.

My eyes travel up his body, shamelessly scanning every hard ab and inch of suntanned skin until they’re back on his face and his dimples appear.

I’m not shy. I don’t think I’ve ever had a moment of feeling shy in my life, but the way he touches me so tenderly, the way his breath hitches as he pulls my panties down my legs slowly, and the way he looks at me when I let my legs rest open is making me feel freaking shy.

He leans over to kiss me, harder this time, keeping his body hovering above mine so I don’t get any satisfaction from feeling his weight on me. I can’t decide if he’s purposely teasing me or if he’s just really enjoying taking his time. There’s something polite about it, respectful, not something I’ve ever labeled a random hookup.

His kisses move lower, sparking a fire in every place he touches. Neck, breasts, stomach, hip bone, until his head is right between my legs. He keeps watching me as he finally, finally, puts his mouth on me, moving my legs over his shoulders, and after that I don’t know what he does, because my eyes roll to the back of my head.

There’s nothing polite or respectful in the way he goes down on me. My heart is thrashing against my rib cage, breathing erratic, body writhing so much he uses an arm to pin me to the bed while he licks and sucks and—

“Oh my. Oh fuck. Yeah, like that.”

With one hand in his hair and one hand clinging to the duvet, my back arches while my feet dig into the muscular planes of his back, pressing myself further into his face. I’d be embarrassed if my actions weren’t met with satisfied moans. My stomach tightens, his fingers and mouth keep the same pace. “I’m going to… oh my God.”

He keeps going as I squeeze around his fingers, crying out his name, and when the orgasm finally subsides, I’m pretty sure I’m goo.

Russ collapses next to me on the bed and my brain knows I want to be near to him, but my body doesn’t even know what planet we’re on. Shuffling closer, he kisses me softly, the taste of me on his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Feeling like I should have put more effort into the lap dance. Didn’t know you were going to put on the performance of your life, jeez.” My brain and body finally start communicating again, allowing me to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. “Do you have condoms?”

The expression that settles over his face is like something out of a horror film. It’s funny really, the moment he realizes he fucked up. “Sorry, I’ve just moved and haven’t had a chance to get some and I wasn’t expecting to… I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” He looks down at the erection pressing against his boxers and blows out a sigh. “I’ll check Henry’s room.”

“As much as I’d love to see you try and hide that from a houseful of people, I have some in my purse.”

By the time I’ve retrieved one and thrown it onto the bed beside us, the look of panic has disappeared. He sits up, leaning back against one hand, cupping my face with the other. I’m waiting for him to say something, again. Nervousness floods my system as he strokes his thumb across my bottom lip. “So perfect.”

I want to fill the silence with every thought in my head for reasons I don’t understand. I think his awkwardness has rubbed off on me a little.

Pushing him back down, I pick up the condom and tear the wrapper with my teeth, lifting myself up to let him move his boxers down until his erection springs free. I release less of a gasp and more of a surprised hiccup when I realize what we’re dealing with here. He takes the condom from my hand, rolling it on while I evaluate.

“There’s no way that’s going to fit. I mean I love a challenge, but I can only be challenged so much, y’know?” He pulls me down to him, our mouths aligning, my stomach moving with his as he chuckles at my crisis.

He still tastes like me when his tongue moves against mine; he groans into my mouth when I roll my hips against him. His eyes close, voice strains. “We’ll make it fit.”

Oh Lord.

Carefully, and while kind of wishing I took another shot for courage, I push myself up from his chest and sink down onto him slowly. “Holy fuck.” Russ’s hands grip my hips tightly. “Is this okay?” he whispers.

I nod as I lift myself up and sink down a little more, then again, until I’m finally taking most of him. My nails dig into his chest, his fingers sink into my skin, and the sound of our bodies slapping together echoes around the room.

Why did I think I had the stamina to go on top?

“You’re taking it so well, sweetheart.” I work a little harder, clearly motivated by words and moans. “That’s it, good girl.”

Who knew Mr. Helpful and I would be so compatible. I like it when he praises me and he really likes it when I swirl my hips on the end of his dick. Dream team.

One of his hands travels between my legs, rubbing exactly where I need him to, and my body moves instinctively, grinding and chasing the building feeling.

“Russ… Yes, yes.” He keeps praising and rubbing and letting me take what I need until my entire body tightens and I collapse on top of him, crying out. Rolling me onto my back, he takes his weight on his arms while I pant beneath him.

He brushes my hair out of my face, slowly moving in and out of me again. His head falls to my neck, kissing my skin lightly as I wrap my arms and still shaky legs around him. “You feel so good, Aurora,” he whispers. “I want to feel you come around me again.”

Where the fuck did this man come from?

The sweet way he talks to me, kisses me, even the way he looks at me, is totally contradicted by the confident way he freaking pounds me into the bed. I’m exhausted, satiated—and yet I don’t want it to end. My hand slips to where we’re joined, frantically working to finish when he does. His body falls out of rhythm, breathing gets heavier; I’m nearly there.

A few more thrusts and I’m falling off the edge again, dragging him with me. We’re loud and sweaty and so freaking satisfied.

Holy shit.

Who cares about basketball when hockey players exist?

WELL, I WASN’T EXPECTING THAT.

He rolls off me onto his back, and we both lie staring at the ceiling trying to catch our breath.

“Do you need anything?” he asks softly.

My arms cross over my face, covering my eyes as I shake my head, attempting to work out how to ask for that, like, twelve more times. “No. I’m good.”

I feel the bed shift as he stands, various noises of him shuffling around the room filling the silence, before I eventually hear the bathroom door close. My body feels like it’s made of Jell-O, and it’s a mental battle to convince myself to find my underwear.

Reaching toward the bedside table for my cell phone, I bring up my chat with Emilia.

I’m not taking it personally that Russ went into the bathroom to wait me out. The prolonged trip to the bathroom so the other person gets the hint to leave is something I’ve done many times. I once had to spend so long in my bathroom before the guy understood that I rearranged my entire skin-care collection into alphabetical order.

I don’t need to be forced out the door, I’m more than happy to sleep in my own bed tonight. Normally I wouldn’t wait so long, but I just assumed he wasn’t a hide-in-the-bathroom-post-hookup kind of person.

My legs tremble as I stand from the bed, a sign I put in a lot of effort and, more important, that I need to start working on my legs or something because I feel like a newborn deer learning to walk. Switching on the lamp on the table beside the bed, I’m immediately drawn to the small stack of books now visible in the light: Engineering Thermodynamics, Addicted to the Game: A Story of Recovery, Roll of the Dice… I reach for the book on the top of the stack, picking it up to inspect it. He’s reading The Beautiful and the Damned. What the hell?

The English major in me cringes at the cracked spine and folded page corners, but the soft girl in me is squealing at the idea of him lying in bed at night reading. The superhot, kind of awkward, great at sex, full-set-of-bedding-using, Division One hockey player reading in bed after getting laid. It kind of makes me wish I wasn’t about to go, but the idea of his face dropping when he eventually leaves the bathroom and sees I’m still here is not one I can stomach.

I mean, worst-case scenario, he comes out of the bathroom when I’m half dressed and we have a really great conversation about how my deep-rooted abandonment issues mean I’ll never expect more than the bare minimum from a man, and how my father’s blatant disinterest in my existence has given me a stifling fear of rejection, which has shaped every romantic interaction I have, so I’m not judging him for wanting me to leave.

Or, alternatively, I can bottle that up and make a therapist really rich one day.

I put the book back where I found it and scan the floor, which is suspiciously free of clothes. I look around the room and my gaze lands on his desk, and the shuffling around when he got out of bed suddenly makes sense.

He was folding my clothes.

I don’t take long to dwell on the unfamiliar, fuzzy feeling that floods my stomach at the realization before quickly pulling my clothes back on and heading toward the door. At this point, I’m ready to be in my own space again. I back out of the room slowly, holding down the handle to close the door as quietly as I can so he doesn’t think I’m storming out of here.

I’m satisfied with my efforts to leave, maybe feeling a little smug, since Emilia and her ballerina friends tell me I’m about as quiet and graceful as a drunk hippo. Well, feeling smug until I turn around to leave and two pairs of inquisitive brown eyes are staring right at me.

“Why do you look like you’re fleeing from the scene of a crime?” Russ’s friend Henry asks at a volume I’d prefer him to lower.

“I don’t.” The girl he’s with gives me a sympathetic look that says you do, without her saying it out loud. “I gotta go, sorry.”

They both step out of the way as I rush past, hoping with everything I’ve got that it’s not going to be difficult to get a ride and I’m not going to be forced to do the walk of shame.

“He’s a good guy,” Henry says. “A really good guy.”

“I can tell,” I mumble. “I really do have to go.”

The party is in its final stages. The only people around to potentially witness my disappearing act are too wasted to care, and by the time I reach the front door my shoes are back on my feet. I can’t get an Uber to accept my request, so I set off on foot in the direction of home.

The feeling scaries is what Emilia calls the moment of clarity you get after you’ve left a situation you were wrapped up in. It’s the sinking feeling in your gut when the anxiety sets in and you consider whether you did the right thing. It’s a moment like now, when I’m alone with only my thoughts to keep me company. When I weigh whether what I just did made me feel better or worse. Whether I’d have done that if I’d stayed off my phone and minded my business. And how long that hit of validation and feeling wanted is going to keep me going before I’m looking for the next place to get it. Then finally, whether any of this really matters either way when nobody cares what I do.

The feeling scaries isn’t necessarily regret, it’s reflection, and I prefer to be distracted rather than reflective.

“You’re a clown,” Emilia says as I climb into bed beside her. “Stop playing chicken with your safety because you’re too impatient to wait for a ride.”

“Noted.” Maybe if I’d managed to get a ride I wouldn’t have spent the entire walk home thinking of the guy I just left.

“Your pizza is in the kitchen.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

Emilia sighs heavily. “Go to sleep. You’ll need the energy to break up your parents’ brawl.”

“Are you sure you want to go for breakfast?” I don’t get a response, just a pillow launched in my general direction. “We could just fake our own deaths.”

“Your mom would know. You really need to sleep, Ror,” she says through another yawn. “Just think, a whole summer without sharing your location in the middle of the night. Just weeks and weeks of keeping small children alive and uninjured, and self-development.”

“The dream.”