The Firework Exploded (The Holidays #3)(2)

Sam isn’t a dud. He could never be a dud. He’s just having some…issues. I really have nothing to complain about since I’m currently lying underneath him, in our bed, in the privacy of the home we share, with muscles that now feel like jelly after my recent orgasm. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for the doubt, worries, insecurities, and chafing to set in.

Fifteen minutes, to be exact.

I smack both of my hands against his ass and help him move faster. I start nibbling on his neck. I whisper every dirty thing I can imagine into his ear. All the things that usually work and have him coming in record time. Not that I ever really want sex with Sam to end, but you know, sometimes a girl gets hungry, or she starts calculating how many hours of sleep she’ll be able to have if this thing can get wrapped up in five minutes or less, or maybe there’s an episode of The Real Housewives of New York on the DVR calling her name.

Sadly, none of the tricks I have up my sleeve work. Just like they haven’t worked in the last six weeks. Sam keeps drilling into me, and I try my hardest not to look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, or wince when each thrust feels like it’s going to start a small forest fire because all the wetness from my orgasm has long since fled the coop. The coop, in this instance, being my poor, dry, chafed vagina.

“Shit, shit, shit, f*ck,” Sam suddenly complains, collapsing on top of me and then quickly rolling away with a huff, throwing his arms over his eyes. “I had it. It was right there, and then I lost it.”

Six weeks of me getting an orgasm every single time we have sex and Sam stopping when it starts to become a health hazard to both of us. He’s blamed it on the combination of being preoccupied with work and the stress of planning a wedding with my insane family. Both valid reasons, but all I can do is try not to freak the f*ck out that maybe I don’t turn him on anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says with a sigh, dropping his arms and rolling to face me.

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing. In case you didn’t notice, I got mine. Sorry about your luck.”

He laughs at my attempt to make a joke, but then the room is suddenly filled with awkward silence. I refuse to cry or beg him to tell me he still thinks I’m pretty. I already did that three other times, and I’ll be damned if I do it a fourth. This whole falling in love at the speed of light over Christmas, getting engaged on Valentine’s Day, moving in together immediately, and planning a wedding thing is stressful enough. Sam will never have another orgasm again if he has to keep watching me snot all over my pillow, crying about how I’m not sexy enough and let it slip that I only said, “Fuck me harder, big daddy,” because my best friend Scheva guaranteed it would work every time and he’d come like a freight train.

Obviously it didn’t work, considering we’re going on week six with no Sam-orgasm and it made him snot all over his pillow and cry because it made him think of my father, which isn’t hot or sexy for anyone to think about, and I immediately regretted my decision of taking any kind of advice from my best friend.

“I’m sure it’s stress. I swear I’ve never had this problem before,” Sam informs me.

Great. Just what I want to hear. He’s only ever had this problem with me. Guys only stick their dick in your vagina for the sole purpose of having an orgasm and now I’ve broken him.

“Is this my fault because of the whole toilet seat thing?” I ask hopefully. “I mean, in my defense, that’s rule number one of living with a woman and you had it coming.”

He leans up on one elbow and glares at me.

“Really? I had it coming? Having a toilet seat covered in piss chucked at my head at three o’clock in the morning was not necessary.”

Grabbing the sheet tangled around my thighs, I angrily yank it up to my chest, refusing to let him stare at my boobs for one second longer if he’s going to be like this.

“And I’m pretty sure I followed the rules,” he continues. “I never ONCE left the toilet seat up and you should be thanking me that I was so considerate!”

I scoff at him, crossing my arms over my chest to hold the sheet in place.

“Oh, I see how it is!” I fire back. “Just because I didn’t get an ass bath in the toilet bowl in the middle of the night, you think you deserve a medal. That’s not how this works. That’s not how ANY of this works!”

I realize I’m picking a fight with him over something stupid that happened a month ago, but I can’t help it. Fighting about this is much better than screaming at him, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOUR PENIS CAN’T DO WHAT IT WAS PUT ON THIS EARTH TO DO!”.

Moving into Sam’s house with him after we got engaged and learning how to cohabitate was surprisingly easy. He never left wet towels on the floor after his shower, he didn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink, he always put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder when we ran out, and he didn’t squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube like some sort of terrorist. And fine, so he never left the toilet seat up after peeing, forcing me to stumble into the bathroom in the middle of the night half asleep and then fall down into the bowl. The first time I found out about his one little bad habit, I nicely asked him to stop doing it. After the fifth request, I started leaving him notes written on Post-its, stuck to the bathroom mirror so he’d see them when he got up before me for work. I will admit, the post-it notes escalated to an unhealthy level, but he STILL didn’t do what I asked, so he can’t blame me for anything that happened after.