I could’ve left the details out, especially about toys, but Samantha has taught me that they can be a vital part of pleasuring oneself and nothing to be ashamed of. Gritting his teeth, Carter asks again, “You weren’t a virgin, though? I mean, you’ve had sex before?”
“Oral and fingers,” I admit, “but not . . . what we did.”
It’s only when he pulls his now-soft dick out of me and deals with the condom that I realize this conversation has all been with him still inside me, post-orgasm. “Holy fuck, Luna! I would’ve been more . . . or less . . . if I’d known. That’s the sort of thing you tell someone beforehand. You should’ve told me.”
I can feel the heat of a blush creeping up my neck, and lying here with my dress around my waist seems sleazy when he’s freaking out and already regretting this. I squirm, trying to shove my dress down, desperately wanting to hide. Or escape.
“I wouldn’t have changed a thing, until this moment.”
I swing my leg around him, sitting up and reaching for my heels. I dread putting them back on, but I’m going to strut out of here with every piece of my armor in place or die trying.
“Luna, wait. I didn’t mean it like that. Your first time—” I hold up a finger to argue, and he begrudgingly corrects himself. “First time with someone should be special. Not a rough fuck on a couch. I would’ve . . .”
I don’t wait for him to tell me all the ways that what we did was wrong. Because I know what he really means. “You would’ve stopped.”
We both know it’s true. I really don’t think first times—with someone—need to be this rose petal covered bed, a special occasion. But Carter does. Or at least he thinks I should think that. Either way, the net result is the same.
I’m wrong. For what I want, for what I’ve done, even for what I haven’t done. I stand, stepping out of reach as he tries to stop me. “Wait. Luna, wait.”
“I’m gonna go. Good luck with . . . everything.”
How dare Carter ruin what we did with a whole preconceived notion about what sex is supposed to be with some ‘should’a, could’a, would’a’ bullshit? Like I didn’t know what I was doing or what I wanted?
I should’a slapped the panic off his freaked-out face.
I would’a if I’d thought of it at the time.
And I still could’a turn this car around and go back and do it.
But I don’t. I go where I know I won’t be judged.
A few minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Sam’s apartment building. I knock on her door, and she calls out, “Come in.”
I open the unlocked door . . . except Samantha’s not alone.
“I am not wearing a butt plug with a raccoon tail while he takes me from behind,” a female voice says.
I stop, going deer in the headlights frozen at the group of people staring back at me.
“Uh . . .” A noise of uncertainty is all I can muster.
“Luna?” Samantha says in surprise. She’s leading the group, sitting crisscross-applesauce on the floor with the circle of people. “Sorry, everyone.”
The apology is for the others, but her eyes are locked on me.
“I–I . . . Sorry!” I try to backpedal and close the door.
“Wait!” Samantha says, hurrying over to me. Lowering her voice, she asks, “Are you okay?”
I should say I’m fine and go home. Or at the least, tell Sam to call me later. But what pops out is, “I had sex with Carter.”
“Practice group’s over, people. Everyone out,” Sam says flatly, her eyes wide and jaw hanging open.
There’s a mumble of voices, and I think I hear someone say ‘what?’ and ‘can she do that?’ But with Sam helping people up, the other group members take the hint and rise, walking past me. I apologize over and over, hating the attention until one girl confides that they’re not mad at the interruption. They’re mad they’re not getting to stay for the tea.
“I don’t know your situation, girl, but there ain’t no shame in getting some when you need or want it,” she reassures me. She cuts her eyes to the man at her side, sassily adding, “As long as he doesn’t want you to be a face down-trash bandit while you do the deed.”
“It was a fake scenario, Rebecca,” he says with an eye roll. To me, he says, “We do those to practice what we’d say when a client says something like that.”
I blank for so long that Rebecca pats me on the shoulder and leaves before I can compose a response to her assessment. Way too late, when she’s down the hall, I call out, “Thanks!”
She looks back and smiles, but it’s in that ‘what a weirdo’ way that I’m all too familiar with.
Great, the raccoon-obsessed lady thinks I’m the strange one? Seriously?
Once Samantha gets the apartment cleared—promising a makeup session to one guy who doesn’t seem to want to leave—she slams the door shut. “Tell me everything.”
I start with the dinner—how Carter kissed me in front of everyone and kept his hand on my thigh the whole time. I kick my shoes off as I relive the foot massage with her, sit on the couch as I tell her about letting Carter’s fingers do the walking right up to my center, and then mindlessly bounce my knees as I reveal how we had sex.
I look up to judge her reaction, but she’s wearing the blank, non-judgmental therapist’s face she’s been working to perfect, not her bestie face. “What?”
She blinks patiently, letting the quiet grow. “What else?”
“Huh? That’s everything.”
She tilts her head curiously, still silent. I sigh and confess, “It was so damn good, Sam. Better than I ever dreamed. Carter’s got a filthy mouth, and I loved it. He made me ask to co—”
Sam holds up a finger to stop me and asks tightly, “He denied you pleasure?”
My eyes drop to where I’m fidgeting with the hem of my dress. “No, definitely not. It was . . . to show I was a good girl.”
“Ooh, I like where this is going!” When I risk glancing up, Samantha’s therapist face is completely gone and she’s smiling widely. “And were you a good girl?” she teases.
I giggle and nod. “A very good one.”
“Then I’m confused. So, why are you here?”
And poof, there goes my good mood again.
“He, uhm . . .” I swallow, not wanting to say it aloud because it’ll make it real. Right now, I can pretend it was a nightmare. Why not? It’s no different than pretending I’m Carter’s wife.
Except the way I felt with Carter inside me. That was real.
“Luna?” Sam says gently as she scoots next to me on the couch.
“Afterward, he flipped out.”
She flinches. “Flipped out how, exactly? Are you okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Not like that,” I say quickly. Sam’s ride or die, and if I don’t call her off, she’d be busting down Carter’s door. With a kitchen knife and the Taser she carries on campus.
“Okay.” She sighs in relief.
I’ve told Samantha a lot, nearly everything. We’ve talked about sex for hours . . . in theory. I’ve helped her study for countless tests, read her research papers, and we’ve talked about past partners. Hers, obviously, though I’ve shared my paltry experiences. I’ve just never explicitly told her . . .