Arching my back allows his thick, wonderful, magic fuck-stick to hit my g-spot. I let out another moan as I come, holding him tighter. He moves his head down, nuzzling my breasts. I pick my head up and flick my tongue along his ear. Ben softly groans, and his movements quicken.
I nip at his earlobe with my teeth and he pushes into me as deep as he can, moaning as he finishes. He lowers himself, cock still pulsating inside me, and rests his head against mine. A few beats pass before he slowly slides out and rolls onto his side. His arms slip around my waist and he kisses the side of my neck.
I let out a satisfied breath and relax against Ben. I want to enjoy this moment, relish in the fact that I’m all tingly and warm and can still Ben’s big dick between my legs. I’m sure I’ll feel it in the morning too.
But of course, with me being me, I start thinking that something has to be said before this gets awkward. We’ll have to face the music sometime soon, and I have to pee so it’s not like I can pretend to be fall asleep.
Ben trails his fingers up my stomach and gently fondles my sensitive breasts. I shiver and tip my head toward him. He leans over and kisses me.
Could this be any more perfect? I’m convinced he’s the perfect lover.
“That was really nice,” I blurt. “I enjoyed it.” I’m not rating a video game. I squeeze my eyes closed. Fuck, what is wrong with me?
“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I did too.”
I just nod and try to relax. I’m tensing at my own lack of social skills. Is after-sex talk even considered a social skill? I clamp my jaw shut, resisting the urge to ask him “now what?”
He runs his finger over the curve in my hip and presses his lips to my neck. He’s not acting like he wants to jump up and run home. That’s good, right? Another few minutes pass before he gets up and goes into the bathroom, grabbing just his boxers.
I’m overanalyzing everything and it hits me that I really want things to work with Ben. I want a second date. Then a third. And a fourth. I want to see where this can go. I like him, and I think soon I can really like him, given a few more dates and another (okay, more than one please) fucking awesome cooter clash like he’d just given me.
It also hits me that I’m not really sure what to do now. I’m far from being a virgin, but I haven’t had that many relationships. I lost my virginity the beginning of senior year in high school, dated that loser for a while then hit a dry spell until college, where I met, dated, and bedded an even bigger loser—but that’s another story. I swore off men for a while after that, not getting back into the game until after I turned twenty-one. Things were casual, and I had one good fuck buddy until he decided to grow a vagina and develop feelings for me.
Then I dated Mr. Foot Fucker. Yeah … no need to bring that up. But we had actually dated for a while before we hooked up, which, thinking back on it, was probably done on purpose. He made me have feelings for him, made me care before he asked to suck my toes while he beat himself off.
Because I would have grabbed the polka-dot stilettos he always wanted me to wear and booked it the fuck out of there if I didn’t care deeply for him.
And that brings me back to Ben.
Ben.
The cool, confident, sophisticated, sexy artist. I’m not romanticizing him, not at all. I didn’t know him very well yet, we’d only been on—hold the phone.
One date.
We’d gone on only one date. Not two. One. And we slept together. Did that make me a slut? Do I care if it does? (No, I don’t.) But what I do care about is what Ben thinks of me. I’m not easy. I don’t give it up to anyone who wines and dines me. There’s something about him, something that makes me unable to hold back any and all passion, something that makes me so comfortable to be around him even when I’m nervous.
And none of that makes sense.
What is he doing to me?
The toilet flushes and I hear water running. Ben’s coming out any second now. I run my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face, and throw back the comforter, pulling down the sheets. I slip underneath, moving it up to cover my breasts. Not because I don’t want Ben to see, but because that’s what they do in movies.
It’s sexy, right?
Or maybe it’s just a sexy way to censor nipples?
(Fuck censorship, by the way.)
The bathroom door opens, and I know I have to be realistic. Ben can very well tell me he has to go, has work in the morning, blah, blah, blah, and I can’t blame him. I can’t get mad at him.
His eyes meet mine and his lips pull up in a small smile. He picks up the rest of his clothes and my heart sinks a bit. Yep, he’s leaving.
“Well,” I start. Should I thank him? No, that doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Hope to do this again another time? Yeah, that might work. It’s the honest truth, anyway. He lazily folds his clothes together and tosses them on the chair next to my dresser. Then he’s climbing back into bed.