He smiles into the line of my shoulder. “I’m part of it.”
“Of what?”
“The money laundering scheme.”
I giggle and hug him tighter while it swells inside me, a surge of happiness and adoration and something hazy, something hopeful and young that I cannot quite define yet. His cock twitches against my inner thigh. He shifts me higher to pretend it didn’t happen and pulls me in for another lazy kiss. Hmm.
I try to wiggle and reach between us, but he stops my hand by twining his fingers against mine.
“Do you not—？”
“Ignore it,” he says, nuzzling his face against my throat. He bites me, firm, playful, almost distracting. Almost.
“But you—”
“Shhh. It’s fine, Sadie. We should quit while we’re ahead.”
I frown, propping myself up to look at him. “We’re not ahead. I am ahead. It’s a firm one to nothing.” Probably more like twelve-blending-into-one to nothing. But.
He laughs softly. “Believe me, it did not feel like nothing—”
He closes his mouth so abruptly, I can hear his jaw click. Because I’m sliding back, and his erection is nestled against me. First, the curve of my ass. Then, right under my core.
He inhales, harsh. Fingers dig into my waist. “Sadie—”
“I thought you said I could be in charge,” I tease him, rocking on his cock like I did on his mouth. The lips of my core surround his shaft, plump and puffy. We look down at the scene at the same time. The sound he lets out is feral.
“We need to stop,” he grunts out, but his hand splays on my lower back and he presses down to get better friction.
“Why?”
“Because—” The head of his cock hits my swollen clit, a sharp stab of pleasure up my spine. Erik arches up, hugs me tighter to him, and closes his eyes. “Fuck. Oh, fuck,” he slurs. “I’m going to fuck you, am I not?” His breath catches, and we’re almost aligned. Then we are aligned, him hard against my entrance, and I bear down because I want to, I want to feel this delicious, immense pressure that will split me at the seams, and it feels good, so good, floodingly, druggingly, overwhelmingly good—
“Condom,” he gasps in my mouth. “If we’re—we need a condom.”
I still. Shit. “I—” I try to scramble off him, but Erik holds me right there. He’s still kind of inside me. Just the tip. “Do you . . . Do you have one?”
“I think so. Somewhere.”
Somewhere is right in the drawer of his bedside table, underneath a bottle of allergy pills, a phone charger, and two books in what I presume is Danish. He holds the condom out to me and I accept it without thinking.
The foil is golden. Trojan, it says. And underneath: Magnum. Which maybe explains a lot.
“Should I . . . ?”
He nods. We’re both flushed and clumsy and out of breath, and I have no idea how to put on a condom. But I don’t want to say, Please, do it yourself, because my school didn’t really do the banana part of sex ed, and my mom put me on birth control on my third date with Oscar. Erik is staring eagerly at the foil in my hand, like it’s a gift of myrrh for the newborn king, and I think he’s more than a little into the idea of me doing this for him.
I grin. I have a Ph.D. in engineering: if I can build sophisticated machinery, I can figure out how to put on a damn condom. And there’s some trial and error, but Erik doesn’t seem to mind, spellbound by the way my small fingers work on him. When I’m done, his breathing is shorter. More stilted.
“Come back here.” He pulls me down to him.
“I— Do you want to be on top this time?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I think I’m okay with—”
“Sadie. I want to fuck you, and I need you to like me fucking you. So you’re on top for now.”
I have no clue what the parameters for the magnum size are, but I do get why he needs it. I’m as relaxed and turned on as I’ve ever been, but it still takes a while to work him in, with small increments and false starts and lots of careful maneuvering. By the time he’s in as far as he’ll go, I’m sweating, and Erik is drenched. He smells delicious, like salt and soap and his intense skin. So I lick the place on his jaw where the drops have been collecting.
“Can you . . . ?” He arches experimentally into me. We both let out a groan.
“What do you want?”
“I want to feel your tits.”
“Oh.” I’d forgotten about my top. I straighten to take it off, which involves some twisting and grinding that has Erik gasping and trying to still my hips again. They’re not much, I almost warn him. But I remember something he said earlier. Uncanny combination of every single feature I’ve ever found attractive. “Did you mean it? When you said I’m your type, physically?”
His pupils track the progress of my hands, blown wide. “I noticed you.”
“Noticed me?” I undo the clasp of my bra. He twitches inside me. His jaw ticks with restraint.
“In the building. The lobby.” He closes his eyes. Then opens them. “Once in the elevator.”
I take off my bra, feeling stupid to have been worried. He’s staring at my body like it’s somewhere between holy and utterly, deliciously pornographic. “What did you notice?”
“Sadie.” His throat bobs. “A lot.”
“And . . .” I push down on my knees and circle my hips twice, working him a little deeper. A fraction of an inch, but the friction, the sense of fullness—my eyes roll back in my head. I didn’t know anything could be so far inside me and feel so good. Couldn’t have imagined. “And what did you think?”
“Oh, fuck.” A desperate sound comes out of Erik’s throat. “This. This, and more.” He swallows. “Lots of other things, and—Sadie, you’re going to have to give me a minute to adjust or I’m going to—” Erik sounds just as astonished by this as I feel. His eyes are screwed shut, and his hands grip me so hard, and his teeth sink into my shoulder. “Sadie, I’m about to—”
“Don’t worry,” I pant against his ear, fluttering like I’m about to go under. “You’re doing so well, Erik.”
I come like an avalanche, and then he does, and when I squeeze my arms around his neck, I don’t ever mean to let go.
* * *
In the morning, I watch him shave in front of the mirror just because I can.
He uses a razor that looks like the ones I buy for my legs （i.e., cheapest at the supermarket）。 If he minds the bleary-eyed girl who had less than two hours of sleep and is currently sitting wrapped in a towel on his bathroom counter, he hides it well. But I’m almost sure he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s the one who put me here.
“You’re so tall,” I say, a little tired, a little stupid, leaning back against the mirror.
His mouth twitches. “You aren’t.”
“I know. That’s what I blame the end of my soccer career on.”
“Isn’t Crystal Dunn pretty short?” he asks, rinsing his razor. He dries his hands on his pajama bottoms, which hang deliciously low on his hips. “Meghan Klingenberg, too. And—”