My fork pauses midway to my mouth as I look over our water glasses and right at his smirking face. “There’s no way you fake it. You can’t fake sperm.”
“Girls don’t check the condom, unless that’s something you do.”
“Eww, no, gross. Please change the subject, I hardly see how this is an appetizing conversation.”
“Sex is always an appetizing conversation.”
“Yes, well, not the details of you acting like you fake it and what’s in or not in your condom.”
“I’m not acting like I fake it . . . I do.”
“Okay, JP.” I give him a thumbs up. “Good for you on your accomplishments.”
His lips quirk to the side before he lifts his fork to his mouth. That’s right, eat up so we can get the hell out of here. Honestly, conversation with this man has been one failure after another. I felt hope with the movie topic, but that burned down really quickly with him tearing apart Sleepless in Seattle. And I would never admit this to him, but now I’m wondering . . . how was that boy able to just fly across the country like that?
“Fuck,” JP whispers as he grips the edge of the table. His fork is resting on his plate and his head is down as if he just hurt himself.
And because I’m the person that I am, I ask, “Are you okay?”
He lifts his head slightly so I can see his teeth roll over the bottom of his lip. “Mmm,” he groans.
“Did you bite your lip? You know, I do that sometimes. It might develop into a canker sore, so be mentally prepared for that.”
His head falls all the way back now as he leans backward in his chair, hands still on the edge of the table while he man spreads. “Fuck . . . yes.”
Wait, hold on. What is happening?
He shifts and clenches his fist as he wets his lips. “Yes, baby, right there . . . mmm, you feel so good.”
My expression falls.
My nostrils flare.
I fold my arms over my chest.
Could he be any more immature?
“Are you really doing this? Are you really doing the scene from When Harry Met Sally?” I ask.
“Fuck. That mouth of yours. Yes, suck me deep.”
Oh dear God.
My face flames as I lean forward and tap the table. “Hey, yoo-hoo, you can stop that now. I get your point.”
But he doesn’t stop. Not even a little.
Nope, he continues to moan, to groan, to bite on his lip . . . move his hips.
“Yes, baby, your pussy is so fucking good. Uhhhhh, yes, fuck, I need to pump harder.”
“No, no, that’s okay, no pumping necessary,” I say, but my mind starts to visualize and my neck starts to sweat.
You are NOT getting horny from this, you ARE NOT!
“Shit . . .” He slams his fist on the table and I watch in absolute horror—and secret suspense—as he moves closer to the table, his eyes still shut, his head bent down. “You’re going to come, I can feel it, but not yet, not until I tell you,” he groans.
I wet my lips.
Cross my legs.
Look away, only for my eyes to look back at him.
His hand reaches out and grips his cloth napkin. He crumples it in his fist. “Not yet, baby, don’t you fucking come, not until I give you permission.” His head falls back briefly. “Ahh, fuck, good girl. Hold it.”
I lightly pat around the base of my neck with my napkin when he’s not looking. Did they turn off the AC or something? What’s with the pressure cooker up here?
“Jesus, your pussy is so good, so good. Yes, fuck me like that. Keep going, baby.” He slams his fist on the table again and groans so loudly that it feels like a gallon of lava is pouring down my spine.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to distract myself, but it’s no use. A dull throb pulses between my legs, my palms are sweating, and my gaze doesn’t leave him as he grips the knife in front of him, pounds it into the table, and moans so loud, I KNOW the people below us are wondering what the hell is going on.
“Mother . . . fucker,” he shouts. “Come, baby, come on my greedy cock.” And then . . . he grinds down on his teeth, his neck veins bulge, and the most guttural sound falls past his lips.
Oh.
My.
God.
My tongue tingles. My cheeks are on fire. A light sweat glistens on my forehead. Did he actually just come? Because . . . I mean, that was so convincing, so sexy, so— “Uh, everything okay up here?” Helix asks from the stairs, startling me right out of my chair and onto the floor with a loud plop.
Jesus Christ, Kelsey, get up.
Humiliation consumes me while I scramble to my feet, press down on my dress, and straighten my spine. “Yes!” I shout. “Everything is . . . yes. We’re fine. Nothing going on up here. Just, uh, chatting and whatnot. No need to worry about us. Yup. Nothing freaky happening.”