Again.
In the corner screen I stole a glance at myself. My long brown hair and brown eyes didn’t look too shabby, if I did say so myself. And I wouldn’t put myself in the “flashy” category, but I had thrown on some eye shadow tonight because I felt like it. I thought I looked damn good.
Scott, my boyfriend, hadn’t mentioned anything yet, though. I always wondered if he really thought I was pretty.
“What’s that noise in the background?” Scott asked me via Skype, his face scrunching up. I stared into my computer’s web cam while I sat on the bed of my tiny room. Behind Scott, I could see into his dark bedroom. It was almost 11 p.m. here, which made it about 4 p.m. for Scott back in Chicago.
Nevertheless, for the past half hour, we’d been trying to Skype while hearing constant banging on the headboard, moaning, and growling in the room next to me. Chandler’s room. Him and one of his chicas.
“It’s my freaking host brother.” He’d only been back for a week, and I was already getting frustrated by his nightly ritual of bringing a woman home. For once, my boyfriend Scott and I agreed on something: Chandler’s behavior was ridiculous. “He’s been having sex for…oh, I don’t know, the last hour? I always hear a lull, I think it’s going to stop, and then it just starts back up again.”
Scott shook his head. “Who the hell is this guy? I mean, who has sex for that long? It’s really distracting.”
Scott had no idea just how much. I decided not to tell him about the morning sessions. And, sometimes, the afternoon sessions. “His name is Chandler. He plays basketball at the University of North Carolina,” I told him, pausing at a particularly loud bang. I eyed Scott. “Honestly, I met him the first morning about a week ago and since then I haven’t even seen him. He gets up late, goes to basketball practice, then goes out after, and brings a friend home almost every night.”
“That’s gross. He should really get a room.”
“Well, um, he kind of has a room,” I pointed out, a little surprised that I was defending Chandler. “But yeah, it’s annoying for me. I’ve been thinking about requesting a host parent change, but the program is really full this year.”
“Your host mom doesn’t mind?” he asked, looking down at his watch and sounded bored. He also seemed distracted.
“No, apparently not,” I answered, honing in on the weird vibe from Scott. “According to her, I guess it’s kind of a manly thing here to bring a girl home. And her room is on the opposite side of the apartment so I don’t think she hears it like I do.”
“I see. Well…I have to go,” he said, already reaching toward the top of his laptop. “I hope you can sleep tonight with that!”
I wasn’t expecting his abrupt cutoff. “Wait, Scott, I had an idea.” I puffed my lips as best I could, in a ‘Blue Steel’ kind of expression. I felt a little ridiculous, but I needed to carry out my plan to spice things up.
Scott rolled his eyes. “What? What now?” he snapped. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise, so I tried fluttering my eyelids a little bit and puffing my chest out to make him wonder what might be under my robe.
“Babe, why are you getting all upset?” I asked. My tone inferred that I was getting a little upset too.
“I’m not upset,” he said, his tone of voice and expression hard and biting. “That’s usually your department.”
I flinched at his remark. But for once, he also had a point. Even though I took my meds daily, there was still no guarantee that they worked effectively all the time, every hour. I did get moody with him but I thought he understood that about my disorder.
My level of depression was in the moderate to high range but my therapist, Dr. Han, had also warned me that most antidepressants only worked on really severe cases of depression. It’s why my therapy sessions were focused on keeping a positive attitude and learning ways to relax and control my anxieties instead of solely relying on drugs. Dealing with depression while abroad had been a huge area of contention between me and my mom. Luckily, with help from Dad convincing her I’d be fine, she’d been more okay with it. And, Dr. Han had thought it would be good for me and we Skyped once a week so she could closely monitor me.
Despite the fact that I’d been diagnosed with persistent depressive disorder when I was young, I still struggled with understanding and dealing with it sometimes. I could be okay and then fall into a depressive episode for years and then swing back out and be good for a while. A number of factors played into all kinds of mental disorders and it was hard to say what exactly was the root cause of mine.
When it came to telling people about my depression—I didn’t. Unless I had to or felt comfortable enough with another person to divulge that part of myself. I’m usually an upfront and confident type of person but my disorder was a vulnerability. It made me feel weak when I knew I was stronger than that. It made me self-conscious and doubt myself, adding to the cycle of depression and anxiety if I didn’t have careful control over my moods. It was a daily but private and personal struggle, and I didn’t see the point in opening myself up to criticism by people who wouldn’t understand and didn’t want to.
It’s also why I was at a loss as to what to do with my crumbling relationship. I’d been dating Scott for ten months and for the first half, it’d been perfect. I’d felt comfortable enough to tell him, a little, about my disorder. What was weird was that he hadn’t really reacted at all and it’d made me feel like he didn’t care; and that he accepted me for me. I guess I’d taken that for something it wasn’t.
I’d been taking the lowest doses possible since my therapy seemed more effective than being drugged all the time. It’d been a huge triumph and I’d credited Scott for some of that.
Now, sitting here, I was rethinking everything. Getting verbally beaten down again was getting old, especially when I’d opened up to him. I could admit that managing my depression and everything that came with it could get taxing but I thought we were on the same page. However, I didn’t want to fight again. I reminded myself again of Dr. Han’s mantra of staying positive instead of giving in to the disorder when things got difficult. Like now.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, trying to be understanding but I also felt like I needed to defend myself. I might have depression but I wasn’t a goddamn doormat either. “I am staying up late to Skype with you, you know—because you asked me and I wanted to do something for you, too. If I had passed out two hours ago like I’d planned, I wouldn’t have to be up and listening to this…noise.” I gestured with my hand in the direction of Chandler’s room. “So about my surprise…” I forced a smile.
“Listen, I just can’t do this right now, Amy,” he said, impatiently. “I need to get to class. Okay?” He raised his eyebrows in a menacing way that conveyed the conversation was over.
My disappointment was instant. “Okay. See you. Talk tomorrow?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said, not looking at me. “Might be busy. I’ll message you on Facebook. Bye.” He signed off.
My heart sank. Something about our conversation didn’t sit right with me. I had been wearing a silk robe the entire time on our Skype call and he hadn’t even asked me about it. He hadn’t even acknowledged the “surprise” I’d mentioned: the black thong and black lace bra I wore underneath. I’d planned on doing a little virtual striptease for him since I knew how much he loved a good performance; but instead, he decided to get all passive aggressive on me.
Oh well. His loss.
I tried not to let it drag me down but he hadn’t even tried to hide his indifference. It was difficult to not to be hurt by his disinterest, but this was becoming more common and I wasn’t exactly shy about expressing myself. I’d been trying to ignore his bad attitude, like the comments he made about how I looked or performed in bed, and just tried to be a better girlfriend. I knew the distance wasn’t helping, which was why I tried even harder with these Skype calls, but it was having the opposite effect.
I closed my laptop, took off my robe, and got under the co
vers, still in the lingerie. I hated being in this aroused state. I could take care of myself, but thinking about Scott’s odd behavior put me out of the mood. Maybe I was overreacting to the way Scott had acted. He did have to get to class, and I’d felt off since I’d arrived in Barcelona.
For a moment, I heard a lack of creaking coming through our shared wall, and I thought, maybe the rocking would be done and I could get some sleep.
And then I heard the moans start up again. After a few minutes, the creaking was so constant that it actually sounded soothing in the way the rhythm went.
I stared at the ceiling, and laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. How fucked up was this? I was being lulled to bed by the sex noises of my host brother as I wore lingerie for my boyfriend who hadn’t asked about it.
I wasn’t sure if irony was what I was experiencing, or maybe this was payback for some past life of mine. Either way, I couldn’t live like this. Tomorrow, I would have a chit-chat with Chandler and ask him to keep it down. I wasn’t going to put up with this shit during the two and a half months I would be staying with Doña Maria.
Should I take off my lingerie? It felt like a shame to let a good show go to waste. I laid on my back, under the covers, and ran a hand down my stomach.
As long as I was riled up, I might as well take care of myself tonight. Orgasms were therapeutic, right?
I slipped my panties to the side and put my middle finger on my clit. I closed my eyes and tried to think of Scott.
Our fight overtook my consciousness, and my head repeated the words he’d said and the way he’d snapped.
Weirdly, thinking of him seemed to dry me up. Damn.
I contemplated pulling out my phone and going through my Tumblr app, which was my go-to when I needed a little dirty inspiration.
That’s when Chandler’s girl’s screams began to crescendo. She was about to come.
Oddly, that turned me on, and I found myself good and wet again.
This wasn’t right. I’d never been a voyeur of any kind. Yet my arousal was uncontrollable.
“Yes, yes!” she screamed. “Oh my God!”
I leaned back, continuing to finger myself. I ran my finger in my slit, and started to work it inside myself.
I pulled off my lingerie bottoms and spread my legs shamelessly.
I doubted a guy—a man—like Chandler would ever want a girl like me. I was another girl from the suburbs with brown hair and light brown eyes studying marketing.
Even if Chandler did want a girl like me, I could already tell he was bad news.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to imagine what he’d feel like inside me. On top of me. Underneath me. I didn’t even know the man, and he already had me so damn wet.
I flipped over onto my stomach and bit into my pillow. How would his muscular body feel as he fucked me? Would he have a gentle touch to go along with his massive muscles? The fact that he was a basketball player seemed to indicate he had more finesse than the average jock.
Those big hands. Running along my spine. Pulling my hair.
How big was he? I couldn’t help but wonder. Even though we’d only had one meeting, it was evident he was cocky as hell. And the way she was screaming in pleasure, it sounded like she was being exorcised of her sex demons. A sexorcism.
On my stomach now, I hooked a finger inside and found the spot I was looking for. This wasn’t right, fingering myself to someone else.
No, it’s fine, I told myself. It was just like watching a porno. Or specifically, listening. This was live-listening, action porno.
I found a one-two rhythm and pressed inside my walls.
“Harder, Chandler,” she moaned. And by the increasing volume of the skin on skin slaps, he evidently obliged her.
My pleasure built until it was pounding through every inch of my insides. When I climaxed, the feeling overtook my entire body. My legs trembled. I let out a soft, timid moan.
Without even taking my makeup off, I fell asleep in a pool of my own satisfied sweat.
In my elated state, the noises next door became less annoying, and simply soothing.
Still, Chandler was an asshole. As hot as my session right now had been, I couldn’t put up with this on a nightly basis. Tomorrow, I would have it out with him and set some boundaries of what’s acceptable. And, Chandler wasn’t my type. I never liked the jock types.
I was fine with indulging in a fantasy for a night, but I’d never be with anyone who was as much of a manwhore as Chandler.
Three
Amy
I was tossing and turning for most of the night that when I did finally get some rest, I was thrown into such a slumber that the next morning I slept straight through my 7 a.m. alarm. I woke up at quarter to nine or so and I’d already missed my 8am class. If I hurried, I could make my Tuesday Spanish Lit class at 9:30.
Rushing around and all the while swearing at Chandler for his late night activities, I quickly wiggled out of my lingerie, grabbed a towel and padded down the hall to jump in the shower. I rinsed off quickly then turned the water off to shave my legs.
My host mom had thoroughly drilled into me the fact that Spain was in a drought, and as a result, we needed to turn the water off for whenever we were doing anything non-shower related.
So, like a good little water conservationist, I turned the water off and applied shaving gel, all the while ruminating and scolding myself like I usually did. If I wasn’t careful, I could head back toward full-on depression mode, negative self-talk and all. Even though I recognized myself-chiding thoughts, I couldn’t stop them.
I’d missed class in just my second week and it was all Chandler’s fault. This damn guy. I had only met him for fifteen minutes during breakfast, and yet, he had my blood boiling.
Maybe I was just jealous of him and the fact that he actually takes care of his girl. Shouldn’t a guy want to screw his girlfriend for an hour every night? Or at least every once in awhile? Talking about sex with Scott had become a huge area of contention between us—or rather, not talking about what was off lately. I had no problem talking about anything or trying new things in bed but Scott was putting it all on me—shutting me out—and that wasn’t fair.
I ground my teeth. Thinking about Scott and Chandler’s good or bad character or bedroom prowess was pointless. I felt powerless in both situations, and it only served to infuriate me more.
Suddenly, through the haze of my rumination, I heard water running in the bathroom.
Was someone else in the bathroom?
My heart beat out of my chest as I peeled the curtain back and peeked.
A broad-shouldered man stood with his boxers pulled half down his ass as he peed. It was quite a nice ass, too.
I heard the sound of a solid stream of water running into the toilet.
Chandler.
Of course asshole roommate would just barge in! Did this guy even knock?! I fumed, getting exasperated that he acted like he owned the place and had zero consideration for anyone else in the apartment! The door was freaking closed!
I’m a very nice person until you cross me. And this asshole was about to get a strong dosage of Bitch Amy. Coupled with my disaster call with Scott last night, I was going to let Chandler have it.
I opened my mouth, but then I became flustered the more I noticed his—well, all of him. Suddenly, I couldn’t find the right words to say what I wanted to. And he, apparently, didn’t even see me, off in his own little world while he did his business.
The thud-thud of my heart went faster as I stared at Chandler. Anger mixed with lust as my eyes scanned his body. He was tall with the broadest shoulders I could ever remember seeing. And oh, dear God, those back muscles. He looked like he was flexing as he leaned one hand on the wall. Was he flexing? Who flexes when they are just peeing?
He yawned and let out a loud, low, throaty noise that was close to a growl. I guess he was probably clearing his throat, but this really sounded like he might be imitating a tiger’s low grum
ble. Finally, his stream ended. I snapped out of my haze, and found the nerve to say something to this entitled asshole.
“Doesn’t anyone knock any more?” I piped up loudly from the shower, my tone seething.
He whipped his body around, facing me. I had my angry face on and used the curtain to cover my body while I glared at him.
“What the fuck? I did knock. Three times,” he shot back in an accusatory tone. “And I said ‘hola, alguien está?’ Did you not hear me?”
My heart dropped to my stomach as I realized that I’d been so far in my own world, I might have not heard him at all. Right about that same moment, my eyes went wide and I couldn’t help but drop them below the Chandler’s waist. I couldn’t look away. I’d seen good ones but my God. This man was blessed by the Almighty Father. And for some reason my eyes lingered on his cock like I was a moth and it was the fire.
“My eyes are up here, by the way,” he said, smirking.
He pulled his boxers up so I couldn’t see the giant one-eyed snake I had been staring at for too many seconds. I brought my eyes upward, to the face of the man who’d been the basis of one of my inward distractions in the shower. My anger momentarily melted away as I stared at his dark blue and green eyes, cocky smile, dark hair, and muscles that rippled from head to toe.
I think my staring impacted my balance, because I suddenly slipped back, beginning to pull the whole shower curtain down with me, the rings ripping off the rungs holding it up.
Chandler saw what was happening and quickly reacted. He jumped toward the shower and grabbed my body through the shower curtain, his huge hands wrapping around my waist and holding me up like I was nothing but a feather. My head was inches from coming into contact with one of the ledges in the shower, and I was breathing hard from all the adrenaline being pumped through my body. I grabbed Chandler’s shoulder for balance. He would have been touching my naked body if not for the thin layer of shower curtain separating us.
The Casanova Experience: A Friends to Lovers Romance (Ballers Book 2) Page 2
