Sweet Filthy Boy

Clothes come off, he—literally—trips out of his pants, the room tips, and when I open my eyes again I see the ceiling above and feel the soft sheets at my back. He kisses down my neck and along my shoulder, licks a path down to my breast. It’s darker back here than I’d expected and I almost forget we’re naked until Ansel moves to his knees and stretches across me, fumbling with the bedside table and returning with a condom.

“Oh,” I say, pulling my eyebrows together. I guess we’re ready to go. Also, I guess the blood test results aren’t in yet. “Are we . . . ?”

He looks down to the foil packet. “I checked the mail and . . . we didn’t . . . I mean. If . . .”

“No,” I blurt. “Good. It’s fine.” And could this be more awkward? Is he thinking I have something? Does he think Vegas was, like, an everyday occurrence for me? And what about him? What about the other one? Miles of naked chest and arms are in front of me, his flat stomach, his c**k hard as it juts out between us—how many other women have enjoyed this exact view? “We definitely should use one, to be grown-up about it until we know.”

He nods and I don’t miss the way his hands shake as he tears open the wrapper, when he reaches for himself and rolls the latex down his length. My legs are open and he settles between them, his eyes flickering up to me.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod and choke on a little breath when his fingers find where I’m wet, moving in small circles before he replaces them with his cock.

And oh . . . okay. That feels . . . nice.

“Still okay?” he asks again, and this time I bring my legs around his hips and tighten, pulling him forward.

He exhales as he pushes inside, stilling when his body is flush with mine. His small sounds vibrate along my skin and I nod to tell him I’m good, to keep going. He pulls out, pushes back in. His hair brushes along my chest when he looks down between us, watching the way he moves in me. Over and over.

I’m aware of every breath he takes, every word and grunt as it leaves his lips, the sound of his skin where it slaps against mine. There’s a shout from outside and I look over toward the window. Ansel touches my chin, smiles as he brings my attention back, and kisses me. I can still taste the wine he must have had while he started dinner; I can smell the lingering trace of his aftershave. But I can also hear sounds on the street, feel the heavy, humid air in the apartment pressing down over us.

It occurs to me that I didn’t notice any of those things before, not when we were together in Vegas or his hotel room. I was so lost in the fantasy of where we were and what we were doing, pretending to be someone else with a different life, that I forgot to think or worry; all I wanted was him.

Ansel speeds up and reaches between us, his fingers slipping to where he’s inside me before moving up to my clit. And it feels good, it does. Being with him feels good and his sounds are amazing and it’s only been a few minutes but . . . oh . . . I feel something.

There? There.

“Yes,” I breathe, and he curses in response, hips accelerating. And wow, that is definitely helping because there it is again, a flicker, a tightening deep in my stomach. Pressure builds, heavy and there again and I’m close.

I think?

Yes.

No.

. . . maybe?

I shift my hips and he shifts his in response, harder again and faster until the headboard begins tapping steadily against the wall behind me and . . .

That might be hard to tune out. What about the neighbors?

Ugh, brain, shut up. I squeeze my eyes closed and refocus, take a deep breath and look up. Ansel is gorgeous above me, whispering dirty little things in my ear, some of them I understand and others, hell, he could probably read me his grocery list and it would be hot.

“I can practically hear you thinking, Cerise,” he says into my ear. “Stop.”

God I’m trying. I slide my legs higher up his sides and try to guide him, silently begging my body to get back to that place where my limbs melt and I hear nothing but white noise and the sound of him coming and coming but . . . shit, that is so not happening. Stupid body. Stupid brain. Stupid temperamental orgasm.

“Let me hear you,” he says, but it sounds a lot like a question. Like he’s asking me. “You don’t have to be quiet.”

Am I being quiet? I groan at how awkward I feel and close my eyes, wondering if I should just tell him he doesn’t have to wait for me, remind him that sometimes my body takes too long or, I can’t believe I’m thinking this, if I should fake it.

“Ansel,” I say, and tighten my grip on his shoulders because frankly, I have absolutely no idea what’s about to come out of my mouth. “You feel so good, but—”

Apparently that’s all he needed.

“Oh God,” he moans. “Not yet, not yet.”

He bites his lip, twists the fingers of one hand into my hair while the other moves to cup my ass, lifting me to him. Closer. He leans down and groans into my mouth and if I wasn’t so lost in my own head dear God all of this would be hot.

“Fuck, f**k, f**k,” he growls and pushes into me one final time, so deep I feel like I’m practically folded in half. The air escapes my lungs in a whoosh as he collapses against me and I blink up at the ceiling.

I’m familiar with this moment; it’s the same one I’ve had over and over throughout my life. The moment when my body didn’t quite get there and I’m left with this worry that there’s something wrong with me. That maybe I’ll never have routine orgasms with another person.