The Ex Talk(63)

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I could go get some?” But the rain only seems to pelt the tiny house’s roof harder, reminding us of the storm and the fact that the nearest drugstore is at least twenty minutes away.

“I . . . kind of don’t want to stop.” I lean in, palming his erection. “There are other things we could do.”

He closes his eyes and lets out another groan. I could get addicted to that sound—Dominic struggling to stay in control. I grab at the elastic of his boxer briefs and help him out of them. A naked Dominic is almost too much: the cut of his stomach muscles, the V shape that drags my attention downward. He’s more beautiful than I thought he’d be, and I have thought about him like this a lot.

“You are . . .” I gesture to him, struggling to come up with an adequate compliment. “You are an extremely attractive man.”

That earns me another grin. I swing a leg over him and settle into his lap, feeling him through the fabric of my underwear.

“Christ. Shay,” he says. A warning and a plea. His hands are on my hips, guiding me as I roll forward. He feels so goddamn good like this that I have to wrap my arms around his neck to steady myself. My breasts press against his chest and I grind into him harder, faster, the friction bringing me closer and closer to release. “You are killing me. I have to touch you. Please.”

He waits for my exhaled yes before he takes charge, pushing me onto my back and inching off my underwear, letting it drop to the floor. He nips at my throat as he teases me with one finger. At first he’s tentative, drawing soft circles everywhere but the place I need him most. He moves so achingly slowly that I buck my hips, trying to encourage him to go faster. This makes him laugh, a rough noise at the back of his throat.

Don’t go too fast.

Distantly, I wonder if this is what Dominic is always like in bed: determined to make it last as long as possible. Maybe he wants to savor it, too. He slips a finger inside me, and I can’t help it—I gasp. He picks up speed, and I let my head fall back against the pillow.

“You have no idea how hot you are right now,” he says. “My imagination didn’t do you justice.”

Half his mouth curves into a smile, like he knows how close I am. Knowing he imagined this sends me right up to the edge. I let out a whimper and squeeze my eyes shut. The pressure turns ruthless, white-hot, shimmering as I come hard against his fingers.

When I blink myself back to earth, he’s grinning like we just hit the Apple Podcasts Top 10.

“So smug,” I say, trying to catch my breath even as I’m reaching for his cock.

He flinches. “Only if you want to.”

“You think I’m not dying to see you go fucking wild after that?”

He’s already lying back, letting me take control. I watch what I’m doing play across his face: the twitch in his jaw, the fluttering of his eyes, my name on his lips. And the sounds he makes, these growls and grunts that spark right to my core. I haven’t done this—given a hand job as anything except foreplay—since college, and the power is intoxicating.

Suddenly, he turns, slipping out of my grasp. “I want you to come with me,” he says, voice shredded, trailing a finger up my leg.

Those words alone nearly make me collapse. I spread my legs to help him find that perfect spot again, and then I ride his hand as he drives into my palm, each thrust of his hips more frenzied, more desperate as he chases his own release. It’s almost too much, touching him like this while he’s touching me, but somehow I manage to hold on.

“I’m close,” I say, and that’s when he brings his fingers to his mouth, licks them, and returns them to the ache between my legs. “Dominic—”

I fall apart a moment before he spills into my hand with a low moan.

I am boneless. Weightless. Wrecked.

Both of us go still, the only sounds the rain on the roof and the rhythm of our breaths.

Neither of us speaks when he excuses himself to clean up. I pull on a T-shirt, suddenly feeling a little cold. There’s an awkward moment where we switch places so I can wash up in the bathroom too, one that makes me hyperaware of the fact that we are Shay and Dominic and definitely not a couple.

To thousands of people, we are the opposite.

When I get back to bed, he’s slipped on a clean pair of sweatpants, but he remains shirtless. His face softens into a smile and he pats the bed next to him.

“Come here,” he says, and my whole body sags with relief.

“That was . . .”

A half grin. “Better than the fun drawer?”

“Significantly.”

I’m not sure why I assumed he wouldn’t want to hold me afterward. Maybe because we haven’t discussed what this is or what this means, if it’s a onetime thing, or if not having a condom necessitates a redo once we’re back in Seattle.

I settle against him, trying to ignore how natural it feels to rest my hand on his chest. His fingers play through my hair, feather across my back. We’ll have to get up eventually—have to talk about this eventually—but for now, I want to curl up inside this moment of not-quite real life.

So I pull that moment tight around us, and I don’t let in anything else for the rest of the night.





22




His side of the bed is empty when I wake up. I feel for him with my hand first, eyes closed, trying to ignore the knot of disappointment that settles in my stomach when I find cold sheets, a dip in his pillow but no Dominic.