You, Again(77)

“I’ve taken a whole fist, you know.”

“Not mine.” He spanks the fleshy part of her ass. “Brat.”

God.

Despite her fist-related bluster, a soft curse escapes her lips because this angle feels like…uh, more than she was anticipating.

He waits for them both to breathe in and out a few times before pressing her flush against the mattress, legs straight.

It’s slow at first—which is good because she has no leverage; it’s the kind of thing she never allows herself to do with random hookups. But not being in control at all is a minor revelation, and she’s just never trusted a man like this before, maybe ever, and it’s…

Well, she usually thinks of herself as fucking the other person.

His hands move over hers, fingers intertwining again, like a pervy inversion of yesterday’s intimacy.

There aren’t any tears this time.

He lowers himself onto his elbows, covering her back with the weight of his torso, thrusting deep and slow. Ari catches her breath just before he moves her hair aside and drags his mouth over the back of her neck.

“Just keep…doing…that,” she mutters.

They breathe in the same rhythm, both groaning when he nudges that same spot, over and over.

Josh reaches underneath her, palm flat against her rib cage, and pulls her up and onto her knees in front of him, until her back is pressed against his chest. The angle is shallower and his movements are more careful, but now he can reach his hands everywhere—cupping around the underside of her breast, thumbing the nipple, making her whimper.

It’s on the verge of too much.

“Are you always this…” She can’t come up with the words. What are words? “This…this—” Her hands reach back for anything to hold on to: She scratches at his shoulder, his back, pulls at his hair. She really has been missing out on morning sex. Holy shit.

His mouth is just barely on her ear and if he says anything—a deep vibration of any kind—she’ll fucking lose it.

“Arch your back more.” Gah!

She complies without a second thought, pushing her shoulders back against his chest. Maybe sex is better than a killer stand-up set.

“I’m almost— Don’t stop. I’m—I’m—” Pleasepleaseplease.

“You could be waking up like this every day.” His other hand nudges open her legs a little wider, just enough to position his fingers almost exactly where they need to be. But not quite. “Better than a vibrator?”

“W-why not both?”

“Bring it next time.”

Maybe she shifts her weight; maybe he changes the angle a tiny bit. Maybe it’s the mention of “next time.” Whatever does it, the smallest adjustment sends a lightning bolt down her spine, straight to her core, blotting out everything else.

“Right there, right there. Oh God. Josh. Oh God.” He holds her tight against his chest. “God, I fucking love this. I love you. Fuuuuuuuuck.”

She catches it just after the tidal wave rolls over her body.

Shit. SHIT.

Her heart thuds against her chest—and not because of the orgasm.

What was that?

For a second, she’s not sure if she’d actually said it. Like, maybe some insanely impulsive part of her brain was just super loud inside her head.

She lets herself go slack as Josh presses her down against the mattress again. He utters her name a few times and comes in several long bursts before collapsing on top of her like the world’s heaviest weighted blanket.

But, like…she wasn’t in her right mind. People say all sorts of insane things in the heat of the moment.

He knows that. He must know that.

The phrase rolls around her head like a marble in one of those handheld maze games.

Why? Why did it have to be those words?

She’s sweating. Physically and metaphorically sweating. A flashing neon sign in her brain warns: Get out of here. Leave. Get your shit and go.

Funny. That’s the exact same thing she tells herself immediately after some random hookup. It’s like a mantra.

She reaches behind her to tap on whatever part of him is accessible. “You’re, uh, kind of crushing me.”

“Oh. Sorry, I just—” He rolls himself off her, running his hand through his hair, still breathing hard. “Fuck, that was…” She slides cautiously off the mattress, finding her footing on the floor. “Where are you going?”

“I need to get up,” she says, careful not to set off any alarm bells.

“You’re leaving?” Josh sits up a bit on his elbow and stares at her with a faint hint of suspicion. “Now?”

“I need to pee,” she adds, backing away from the bed. “And I have the dog-walking tryout. And then I’m meeting”—oh God—“I have an appointment. I told you.”

He can’t argue with any of this.

“We could get breakfast. The Smile?”

“You hate that place.”

“Yeah, but it’s right downstairs. Or bagels? Russ & Daughters? Tompkins Square? David’s? Wherever you want.”

“It’s six in the morning, Josh. They’re not open yet.”

“You could cancel. Say you’re sick.”

Ironically, she does feel quite ill.