Please don’t bring up our conversation from this morning, I found myself thinking. I knew damn well he’d seen right through my clumsy avoidance, but it had been instinctual. Defenses had kicked in before I knew what I was doing, and now it was done. Not that I’d do anything different. He’d hit upon not one, not two, but three different triggers: blowjobs and swallowing, being restrained, and cuddling. And the nature of our relationship. And my insecurity with how he felt about me.
So more than three.
Fuck.
I’d ducked and dodged and picked a fight, and he’d seen through it all. But hadn’t called me on it. I gave him kudos for that.
But right now he was a little distant.
Instead of trying to bend me over the couch, he was cuddling up and watching a movie—a girly movie, too, not a guns-and-tits-and-explosions dude movie. Which, honestly, I would have preferred. Rom-coms are too saccharine and too touchy-feely and too much about love and happily ever after—all the things I hate and despise and don’t believe in.
But I couldn’t bring myself to move out of his arms. It’s not that it didn’t feel good. It’s not that I didn’t feel at home, and safe and secure.
I didn’t feel the things Myles had talked about.
No way.
I didn’t do cuddles. I didn’t do…this.
But I just couldn’t move. I’d been awake last night, late. I’d passed out after we had sex, but then had woken up with Myles wrapped around me like an octopus, arms and legs coiling around every part of me, his cock nuzzled between my butt cheeks and his hand on my boob, nose against the back of my neck, hot breath on my spine. I’d been hot and uncomfortable with being held like that.
Yet then, like now, something deeper even than my deeply rooted disgust at cuddling had prevented me from moving away, from disentangling his hands, from throwing off his legs.
I was tired. It was all right, at best, being here on this jet, held and safe and comfortable. But just okay, though.
A bed, alone, a bottle of wine, and my vibrator. That’s what I really wanted.
For real. And I meant it.
That’s definitely better than being safe and secure at forty thousand feet, in the arms of a sexy, talented, wealthy, famous country music star who was absolutely gaga for me, who would do anything for me, who looked at me like I was his sun, moon, and stars, who gave me more and better orgasms than all the other men combined in my past.
Yeah.
I didn’t believe it myself, but a girl can try, right?
And it was totally logical and sane to be trying to convince myself of that in the first place.
Right?
Right.
Myles
She fell asleep halfway through the movie. It was only when she fell asleep that her tension receded at all—until then, she’d been stiff as a board, every muscle tensed, as if just relaxing on the couch with me was some awful punishment. It seemed to make her uncomfortable—as uncomfortable as when I brought up the status of our relationship. Or asked about her past. Or acted like I felt anything for her beyond sexual attraction.
Granted, my sexual attraction to her was off the damned charts. Believe me when I say I’ve considered every position and angle I could have her on this jet, and that I’ve been sitting here, while she slept, imagining them all. As if I hadn’t fucked her stupid last night, and again this morning, and then less than an hour after fucking her this morning, she’d given me a handjob to end all handjobs which, until Lexie, I hadn’t thought was even a thing, apart from having been a typical teenage boy. Until Lexie, the last handjob I’d gotten was at sixteen with my first girlfriend, and that had been the first thing we’d done beyond kissing and over-the-clothes groping. Lexie made it…sensual. Erotic. Not just jerking me off, but…something else. Something way, way hotter.
The Lexie Special.
I considered her statement from earlier this morning that she didn’t do blowjobs. Meaning, that she didn’t swallow. I mean, sure, that’s her prerogative. Totally her choice, and no problem on my end with it. And I’m in no way slut shaming her, but it just seemed out of character. She was hypersexual. She wanted me as much as I wanted her—she instigated sex as much as I did if not more. She used her mouth on me, and to incredible effect. But it was always part of something else, and never to finish. I didn’t know what to make of it. I wouldn’t push it, because if that’s a line for her, I respect that utterly. But considering how much of a sexual creature she is, it just strikes me as…odd. There has to be a story behind it.
But good luck getting that story out of her, though. I knew that all too well.
She never talked about herself. I wasn’t even supposed to know about the affair and the abortion—I’d overheard the story as she delivered it as an outburst, spontaneously and angrily, to her sister Charlie. There’d been nothing else of her past related to me in the almost three months I’d known her. I’m not saying I’m gonna propose any time soon, but I’ve got real feelings for the girl, and fuck if I know what they are or how to deal with them, especially when she spooks if she gets so much as a whiff of anything smacking of feelings.
She had some shit buried deep. I wondered if her family even knew, because she is cagey as shit about it, whatever it is.
I mulled it over, wondering if I’d ever get anything real out of her. Was this “thing” we had doomed to be nothing but a run of mind-altering sex with a woman
