Boy, who knew I’d become such a hopeless romantic? Guess it just took the right lover and a few too many romance novels.
Not up for calling Chloe yet, I decided I would write that romance story. The story of us. It wasn’t long, just a one night stand, but I was the queen of short stories. I hoped somewhere in that process that I could finally locate that morsel of information to explain his behavior. Maybe if I picked it apart, moment by moment, something would click to explain why he’d abandoned me after the best night of my life. I needed an answer. I was sick of sounding like a broken record already, if only to myself, and it was barely noon.
Maybe then I would even follow up, create that happy ending I’d just imagined, with words. I’d write it into being. The whole ask and you shall receive thing. I’d make the universe my bitch. I laughed out loud, then. Amused by my new found determination, I pulled my ass up off the floor.
The sound of the laptop firing up as I crawled back under the covers of my bed had my mind reeling as to where to start. I decided to go with the moment I’d laid eyes on him on the stage at the club last night. My fingers flying over the keys, the tapping this time still soothed, even if the story content that I related from memory made my heart race.
I struggled to find the proper words to describe his body. Not that I couldn’t see it with a heightened clarity, but the descriptors, the words I had at my disposal, fell short of depicting such perfection of the male anatomy.
How could I describe the way my hand had moved over the thick roping of his neck muscles? What words would convey how I’d traced the dip at his shoulders and then cupped the mounding delt and pecs so prevalent on his chest and upper arms. I couldn’t conjure the adjectives to relate how I’d let my fingers do the walking over his abdominal muscles, rippling over each peak and valley etched in his stomach. My vocabulary fell woefully short of saying anything about the protruding abdominal v-shaped cut that hung above his manhood.
My fingers froze over the keyboard. I swallowed hard the saliva that my mouth had produced, despite the sudden tightness in my throat. Letting my fingers fall away, I hugged my lower abdomen where it quivered at just the thought of his erection. It had risen to attention over his ripped, thick thighs. He could have sprung himself on top of me, and I wouldn’t have complained. My inner walls pulsed with the lack of him inside me. Even as I remembered every stretch, every slide, every otherworldly contraction, my breathing increased. I nearly hyperventilated at my keyboard, and I was only on the description of his body.
By the time I’d finished the first sex scene, reliving every moment, from the gentle way he’d kissed my breasts to the hesitant way he’d first smacked my ass, I had worked myself into a frenzy that would need a cold shower to fix. Sadly, my dildo in the drawer needed batteries. Didn’t matter, he’d ruined me for anything so basic, even if a need did yell to be met. I figured that if I made myself come, my heart just might finally break in two and stop beating for the lack of him.
The finale of the second, though much briefer, much more hurried sex scene, left me exhausted. I slouched back against the pillows. My ass ached from the odd angle it rested at on the bed. My arms hung heavy. My wrists, ones that would require ice tonight after typing so furiously, rested on the keyboard with my fingers looking all bent and arthritic, propped over the keys themselves.
Gulping down what was left of my now cold coffee, I reached with my other hand into the bedside table drawer for some bargain brand pain killers. Headache or not, I was giving myself a happy ending today, fantasy or not. I wrote the sweetness of his apology. I even dared place tears in his ice blue eyes to match the ones swimming in mine, preventing me from seeing all of the words on the screen. In my scene, I continued on with gentle, hesitant touches at first. Then, I ramped it up to a quickie, though not one devoid of toe-curling passion. I liked the idea of not being able to hold back after our time apart.
Once I’d finished and hit save, I slid the laptop to my side. Sinking down under the covers further, I let my shaky, right hand venture down over the soft pouch of my waist. Lingering there with lazy circles that steadily increased in both pressure and speed, I slipped my fingers under the waist of my pants. My clit throbbed for attention. Closing my eyes tight, I imagined his thick fingers running over my mound. I pressed harder myself. Slipping between my folds, I played at my opening to gather the abundant moisture my story had caused there. With my other hand, I opened myself up wider, then allowed the wet fingers on the other hand to make hard circles on my now exposed clit.