“It is. It’s so good.”
“So sexy. So goddamn sexy. Come again for me. Want you to come again.”
As he drives into me more furiously, his moves send me soaring over another cliff, and I come hard for the third time. I cry out, then I beg, “I want you to come.”
But I don’t really have to ask. His body stiffens, and then he grunts, “Coming,” and collapses onto me.
He’s panting, moaning, and saying my name over and over. Whispering it. Then my new nickname, spoken quietly in my ear. “Cupcake.”
It’s a slow, soft murmur.
Like he’s delighting in it.
And I am too, as aftershocks reverberate in me while Oliver kisses my neck. “That was so much more than being good in bed,” he whispers.
I know, I know.
My throat tightens, and I press my lips together because I don’t dare let a true word escape. That this was so much more than a test, a theory. That it was so much more than sex.
But if I admit any of that, I might lose my heart to him, and if I lose my heart, I could lose him.
The person I depend on, turn to, need.
So I say something else that’s true. “It was. You broke all the laws, Oliver.”
28SUMMER
This isn’t the first time we’ve spent the night. There was that Saturday a few years ago when we were all up late—Stella, Henry, Oliver, and me—playing Would You Rather and showing off our drink-mixing and drink-downing prowess. My grandma was out of town, and we all crashed in the living room in an epic late-night fiesta of drinks, food, and fun that made us feel like we were in college again.
Another time, I was at his apartment, binge-watching Friends from College on Netflix—or cringe-watching, really, since that show is like a train wreck you can’t turn away from—and I conked out five minutes into the final episode.
I woke the next morning covered in a navy-blue blanket, one arm hanging over the side of his couch. We finished the episode over coffee and bagels, lamenting the show’s cancellation.
But this is not that.
This is not either of those.
This is something else entirely.
I’m not even sure how he or we made the decision for him to stay over last night, only that there was yawning and stretching, and a great many I’m so tireds involved.
Now, it’s Saturday morning, and he’s sound asleep on his stomach, the sheets riding low on his waist.
His back is exposed, and as I push up on my elbows, I’m tempted to trace long, lazy lines down his spine to where the curves of his perfect, round butt cheeks peek above the sheets.
Dear sexy ex-boyfriend indeed.
He’s the sexiest.
And the riskiest. Because my heart clutches as I gaze at him, swelling with new emotions.
Or maybe not so new ones.
Maybe ones that have been present for years and became even stronger last night, activated by touch.
Or maybe activated by new moments too.
I flash back on last night outside the jewelry store, the way he apologized, then later at the game as we talked about our families.
Those moments brought me closer to him.
Made me feel more connected to my best friend.
I lift my hand, running it through the air as if I’m touching him. The desire storming inside me is so much more than physical.
It’s not only coming from my body—it’s coming from my heart, my mind.
And that’s why I have to get out of bed, have to get away from him.
If I stay here, I’ll pepper him with kisses. I’ll run my fingers across his warm skin. I’ll try to cuddle him.
My God, if I cuddle him, I’ll give away all this aching in my heart.
And I can’t.
Just can’t.
Last night has to be just sex.
