“Yes, sir.”
Jesus. Not helping.
I hover over her, cock in one hand, the other finding her throat. My muscles contract at an erratic pace. I watch as Indy fingers her clit, so much of her arousal covering her hand, and like the dirty bastard I am, I want to coat my hand in her and use it to get off.
But I don’t because I’m already crossing way more lines than I intended to tonight.
She keeps her attention on me. “Come on me,” she begs. “Oh fuck. I—”
“There it is. Good girl, Blue. You’re doing so fucking good.”
Her reaction to my words is immediate, her feet digging into the sofa, her stomach stiff and her tits pebbled with goosebumps. Her lips fall open as her entire body contracts, and when she closes her eyes and says “Ryan” like a prayer, I come with her.
Avoiding her red dress, I come on her stomach, covering her in me. We ride it out together, ecstasy and euphoria buzzing between us.
As I catch my breath, I watch her recover. I see the dazed and thankful glint in those mocha eyes. The unadulterated bliss in her expression. The flush of an overly needed orgasm warming her skin, and I’m ruined.
I’m fucking ruined.
If I thought I was fucked after the last time she came on me, this time, with my fingers contributing to the bliss, I’m done for. In what world did I think I could touch her, watch her touch herself, come all over her body and act like I could live another day without doing it again? How could I live another day without being inside of her?
As the post-coital fog lifts, realization hits me. This is my sister’s best friend. My sister who doesn’t have many friends because of who I am. Not only that, but Indy needs to live here. She needs to save money, and this could easily ruin our living situation.
But those aren’t the real reasons why my anxiety is settling in.
Quickly, I stand from the couch and tuck myself into my pants, grabbing a dish towel and wetting it under the sink.
“Are you okay?” she asks from the sofa.
Gripping my hands on the edge of the sink, I take a deep breath.
Get it together. This is fucking embarrassing.
Panic begins to run through every nerve in my body. It prickles against every inch of my skin.
I exhale, long and slow, hoping to calm myself down. “Yeah.”
Back at the couch, I avoid eye contact as I clean up the mess I made.
Indy grabs my hand to stop me. “Ryan,” she says, forcing me to look her in the eye. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I blurt out too quickly.
I clean Indy up and fix her dress, pulling it both up and down to cover her beautiful body.
What is wrong with me? That was amazing and wonderful and fucking terrifying. I know why I’m panicking, and I was hoping that being with Indy in this capacity would fix it for me. That I could get over it.
It’s a fucking joke, thinking I’d be able to do that without wanting to have sex with her. As if abstaining from kissing her would help placate that fire. But all I can think about is the reason I’ve abstained for so long. The crushing feeling of being lied to by someone I trusted. The dark depression it dropped me in.
She curves a palm around the back of my neck. “Hey, look at me.”
I can’t. I feel like an asshole and a coward all wrapped into one. I place a swift kiss on her palm. “I’m sorry, Ind. It’s not you. I just need a minute.”
Without looking at the blonde beauty, I rush to my room, closing the door behind me. I drop my head back against the door and catch my breath.
Why am I like this? I’m a twenty-seven-year-old man who is panicking over sex. It’s a horrible combination of knowing what we just did isn’t enough for me, coupled with a fear to go further. It’s not sex that scares me. It’s the blind trust in another person that’s petrifying.
I was head over heels in love with a woman once, until I learned it wasn’t love at all. She lied to me. I trusted her more than anyone and she was trying to use me in the worst way possible. Clearly, my radar is off if I could fall for someone like that. Who says that’s not happening again?
A soft knock at my door startles me. “Ryan?” Indy says, hesitating for a moment.
I stay silent because I’m a fucking coward.
Her voice is soft and low, tenderly patient behind the door. “Thank you.”
It’s at this moment that I hate myself. I just made a kind, funny, beautiful naked woman come on my couch then left her there because I can’t get past my own shit. She doesn’t deserve that.
I have to fix this, and I have no fucking clue how.
23
INDY
Every muscle in my body aches the moment I stepped out of bed. Chills take over as soon as I finish my morning shower, and a numbing headache is fast approaching behind my eyes.
I feel like shit.
Only a few hours ago I felt amazing. Euphoric. Satisfied. But waking up this morning my body is done with me. After too many red-eye flights, a late-night engagement party, and stressing over ensuring Maggie’s bridal shower turns out perfect, the exhaustion is catching up with me.
You’d think my body would be thanking me for giving it the hardest release of my life last night. It should be grateful the eight-month dry spell is behind us, but no. It’s rewarding me with a cold.
At least my dress is cute. Purple floral fabric flows away from my body. Thank God. The thought of anything touching my aching skin makes me want to cry.
I hope the girls like it.
Translation—I hope they like me.
I’ve spent so much time and money planning this bridal shower, partly because I want it to be perfect for Maggie, but also because I feel like I need to impress my friends. Which is odd, seeing as I’ve known these women my entire life. We’ve seen each other through every awkward phase. Every tragic and happy moment. But ever since the breakup, I’ve felt left out, and I miss being included.
Does that make me pathetic? Desperate? I’m sure it does, but I can’t explain how excited I was that the girls asked me to help with Maggie’s shower. It seems like a step in rekindling our friendships that have been lacking as of late.
I heard Ryan leave early this morning while I was lying in bed and not getting any sleep. Last night was incredible and confusing all at once. It hurt my feelings, if I’m being honest, seeing him run away from our moment to hide in his room. For him, maybe it wasn’t a moment at all. Maybe it was just a weak instant as he finally caved on the mutual lust. Or maybe he took pity on me and did his poor roommate a favor by helping her come.
Does he regret it?
It’s not lost on me that he didn’t kiss me last night. He doesn’t like faking intimacy, he said so himself. And even though his fingers were coated in my arousal, and even though he came all over my chest, maybe that wasn’t intimacy for him. It was getting off hurriedly and hard. Nothing about it was tender or loving, not that I needed it to be.
But as more of the post-orgasm fog lifts, the clearer our night becomes.
Did I romanticize what happened on the couch? I must have. How embarrassing.
Another humiliating moment on display for Ryan Shay to witness, and the realization that I grossly misjudged our night has my already sick and aching body feeling even worse.
January in Chicago is bitter cold, but the restaurant where Maggie’s shower is being held is only a few blocks away from the apartment. It seems wasteful to drive, even though my feet are aching with every step I take.