“I actually feel kind of great,” I say.
Earl doesn’t say anything.
“Earl?” I say, opening my eyes and looking at him. I guess there won’t be any Round Two this afternoon, because Earl Grey is sound asleep. I place my head on his chest, and soon I’m drifting off as well . . .
Chapter Thirteen
WHEN I WAKE UP from my nap, I’m alone in bed—Earl Grey’s bed. He’s left a green lava lamp lit on the nightstand, and it looks totally sweet bathed in the Dorm Room of Doom’s black light. If you would have told me a week ago that I’d be here, I’d have called you crazy. Insane. Wacko. But it’s real. Well, at least as real as sparkly vampires.
In the distance, I hear mournful tambourine playing. I get out of bed to investigate. I pull on my panties and find Earl’s button-down shirt, which smells faintly like his coconut-lime body wash. I slip into his shirt and follow the sound of the music into the living room.
While I slept, the sun set and downtown Seattle lit up, marking the end of another gorgeous day in the Emerald City. The view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the city at night is amazing, but not as amazing as the view of Earl Grey. He’s still naked, and he’s sitting on a barstool with a tambourine in his left hand. He shakes it rhythmically to a tune only he can hear in his head. His eyes are closed, and he’s completely lost in his playing. He has a sad, anguished expression on his face, like white guitar players have when they’re playing the blues. A single lamp beside him illuminates his body like he’s on display in a museum. I’d pay twenty dollars for the Earl Grey exhibit.
I walk quietly toward him, drawn in by his forlorn tambourine playing. He’s holding the instrument with the same long fingers that were all over me. I smile inwardly at the memory, even though it happened only a few hours ago. I can’t wait for those long fingers to be on me again.
He must hear me approaching, because he stops playing and opens his eyes. “Hello, Anna,” he says.
“You can keep playing,” I say. I hope he’s not mad at me for disturbing him.
“Playing the tambourine . . . or playing you?”
Oh my.
“You’re good,” I say. “At both, ah, ‛instruments.’ What was that song?”
“A little something by Poison that I have vague memories of my mother singing to me when I was a child. The song is called ‛Every Rose Has Its Thorn.’”
“Which one of us is the rose?”
“Ask me later,” he says. He looks me up and down, sipping my body in like a baby drinking apple juice from a sippy cup. “Risky Business. I like it.”
“Risky what?”
“The dress shirt and underwear look. Nevermind,” he says.
He seems sadder now than when he was playing, so I change the topic of conversation. “How long have you been playing tambourine?”
“Since junior high school,” he says. “The tambourine is only one of many percussion instruments I’m trained on.” I try to imagine the broad-shouldered, sexy beast before me as a child, but it’s impossible.
“Anna, your finger is in your nose again,” he says.
I yank it out. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You have no idea how badly it turns me on when you do that,” he says. “If you pick your nose in public, I might not be able to stop myself from taking you where you stand.”
“Yikes.”
“Which reminds me: Are you feeling okay? From earlier, I mean,” he says, his eyes wandering to my nether regions.
“Yes,” I say. “More than okay.”
“Good. I’m glad,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
I shrug. “I had a big breakfast. Remember?”
“How could I forget? Then what are you hungry for, if not food?”
“I think you know the answer to that, Mr. Grey.”
He hops off his barstool and we head back into the Dorm Room of Doom. Looks like Round Two will happen after all . . .
Back in his waterbed, Earl flips me over onto my stomach. “On your hands and knees,” he growls.
“Yes,” I say, raising myself.
I feel a firm hand slap my behind. “When we’re in the Room of Doom, address me properly, Anna. ‛Yes, Sir.’”
“Yes, Sir,” I say. It feels so natural.
“Good girl,” he says, rubbing the spot on my bottom where he spanked me. I love his touch.
I hear him tearing into a foil condom packet. “I’m going to do it to you doggy style,” he says.
“Should I bark?” I ask.
“Why would you bark?”
“Well, I thought maybe that’s why it’s called ‛doggy style’ . . .”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t bark like a dog,” he says. “I’m not into bestiality.”
“Well, someone’s not very kinky,” I mutter.
“Just hold still,” he says, thrusting powerfully into me from behind. He grabs ahold of my hair and pulls gently. “You like?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir,” I say as he slides in and out of me. It’s not as romantic as earlier, but there’s a raw, primal feeling to what we’re doing that makes me want to howl like a wolf. I’m afraid if I do, though, he’ll stop, and I can’t bear the thought of him stopping midcoitus.
I moan, and then moan again, and again, and again, until his rhythmic thrusting pushes me over the edge. This time, my orgasm turns my arms and legs to jelly, and I collapse on the bed.
“Turn around and sit up,” he orders me.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, giggling. He’s screwed me
