“Definitely the other way around too.”
“So what now?”
“Whatever you want, princess.” He relaxes back against the couch, staring at me hotly. He still seems to be holding something back, but I’m not in a fit condition to really analyze what it could be.
So here’s both the benefit and the problem of being on top. You have to make all the decisions. And I’m just not used to making them in sex.
I rock over him slowly, experimenting with the position. The feel of his cock shifting inside me is very nice, so I do it some more.
He inhales a wet breath, his hands holding my bottom but not forcing any motion. “Do whatever feels good. Not what you think I want. Just let go.”
So, my natural instinct is to try to be pretty and sexy—put on a nice show for him so he will hopefully think I’m something special. But he’s been right about everything else in sex, so maybe he’s right about this too.
Instead of thinking about how he might want me to move, I try to move how I want. At first, it’s kind of slow and hesitant, since I don’t really know what motion and angle will feel the best. I just haven’t ridden a man much before.
But it doesn’t take long before I figure it out, and soon I’ve found a really good angle—one that hits all the right spots inside me and makes me clit feel good too—and I’m speeding up as the sensations intensify.
“That’s right,” Jack murmurs, still holding onto me as I ride him. “That’s so good, baby. Just let go. Just take what you need.”
I need this. Desperately. I’m huffing now and making little breathless grunts as I get more and more excited. I’m bouncing hard on his lap, but he’s holding me in place enough that he’s not slipping out of me, despite my eager motion.
I feel a climax rising up—different than before, deeper, slower—and I want it so much I can’t stop, can’t even care about how I look, shameless and clumsy and sweating and blazing red.
“Oh, God,” I gasp, digging my fingernails into his shoulders as I hold on. “Gonna come. So hard.”
“That’s right. That’s so good. Just let it all go.”
And then I do, and it overwhelms me so much I cry out wildly. He loses it too and bucks up into me from below, releasing a hoarse moan of utter abandon as his body shakes beneath mine.
When the most intense of the pleasure has past, I slump against him. We’re still rocking into each other with the lingering tremors, but his arms have gone all the way around me.
He holds me tightly, his face buried in the curve of my neck. He’s mumbling out something, but I can’t really hear what it is.
It seems like something I want to hear, so I try to focus, try to listen. His arms are warm and protective, and I snuggle into him, our bodies still intimately connected.
“What?” I say at last, when he’s stopped saying whatever he was saying.
“Nothing, princess.”
“What were you saying?” I demand, pulling back enough to look at his face.
He looks just as flushed and sated as I feel. “Nothing. Just that you’re amazing. You take my breath away.”
I’m not convinced that’s what he was saying, but it’s still nice to hear. “Oh. Okay.”
He pulls me back into a hug, stroking my hair when I relax against him.
Hey. What can I say? I’m a girl.
I like this part as much as the sex.
Six
There’s this particular feeling after having sex that I absolutely hate. I don’t know if I’m the only one who gets it. Maybe it’s just me and my neurotic personality, but I feel it almost every time I have sex.
It’s this heaviness in my stomach—shortly after the orgasms happen (or not, depending on how good the sex is). I never have a long, happy afterglow. The heaviness sets in pretty quick.
I don’t know exactly what it is. But there’s this uncertainty—a really uncomfortable one. I don’t know what I should say or do. I don’t know what he will say or do. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen now or if the sex really meant something. Or even if I should care whether it means something or not.
So I get all heavy and stiff and awkward, and I hate, hate, hate that feeling.
I start to feel it now, even tangled together with Jack on the couch.
It’s not about whether the sex is good or not. This sex was the best I ever had, and it doesn’t make a difference with that heavy feeling.
It’s more like a secret acknowledgement that something is missing—although I’ve never been one of those traditional types who thinks sex has to be about love.
But still…I can’t get rid of that heaviness.
Right now, as I feel my belly start to clench, I shift awkwardly in Jack’s lap.
He releases his grip on me—since he’s been holding me tightly against him.
“You okay, princess?” he asks, although I don’t think I’ve done anything to indicate any discomfort.
“Yeah. Of course. We should do something with the condom.”
Jack releases a soft groan—a different kind than he was giving before. This one is more like reluctance. “Yeah. I guess so.”
He helps me pull off him and then I move over onto the couch. My legs are sore and kind of shaky, and I’m definitely sore between the legs, so I huddle up, trying to get rid of that annoying heaviness.
Jack messes with the condom, pulls his pants back up, since he’s otherwise fully dressed, and then gets up to throw the condom away.
I sit there like an idiot in a naked ball for a minute before I realize I’ll feel better if I get dressed, so I grab my scattered clothes and then go to my room to pull on a t-shirt and yoga pants—since I care more about being comfortable than looking hot at the moment.
Jack is standing at the window with his back to me when I emerge, and the heavy clench tightens painfully.
I can’t read anything definite into the posture of his back, but I know, I know, this can’t be good news.
I don’t know why I would have assumed that one round of sex means we’ll be in some sort of real relationship, but that’s where my heart has leapt anyway.
So much for my man-fast. I’m always doing the same stupid thing—assuming sex means more than it does.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, when he doesn’t turn around. My voice quavers slightly, and I hate the sound of it, so I clear my throat.
He turns around, and I can see some sort of reluctance on his face.
I don’t need any more of a sign. “You can just say it,” I tell him, pretending to be blasé and nonchalant. “Did you think I expected a proposal or something?”
“No. Of course not. What we just did was amazing, but still…”
“Still you don’t want it to go any further?” I shrug, because that’s what you do to show you don’t care (even if you do). “That’s totally fine with me.”
He frowns and peers at my face. “It’s fine?”
“Of course, it’s fine. Did you think I was going to start bawling over how desperately I’m in love with you? It was sex. I knew that was all it was from the beginning.”
He strides over to where I stand and takes my face in his hands. “I wish it could be more. I want so fucking bad for it to be more.”
Okay, now I’ve got that heavy clench and I’m also completely bewildered. “If you want it to be more, then why isn’t it?”
He shakes his head and drops his hand. “I can’t. I can’t just take what I want. Not if it means…”
“Means what?” The last word is almost a squeak, since I’m suddenly realizing there might be more here than I thought.
It’s not that Jack was just fucking me casually. It’s that he, for some reason, thinks we can never be anything more.
He opens his mouth but then evidently changes his mind. He shakes his head again and glances away from me. “I’m your bodyguard.”
This is true, but it’s not what he was first planning to say. “So what?”
“So that kind of thing just doesn’t work.”
“Right. The bodyguard code of conduct. Well, I’m sure this death-threatener isn’t going to be around forever. Maybe when you’re not my bodyguard anymore, then we can talk again.”
This is about as assertive as I can be with a man, and even that much leaves me feeling shaky and vulnerable.
He shakes his head and doesn’t answer.
“No? Why not?” I’m starting to get upset, despite my best efforts. You’ll understand if you’ve ever tried to have a somewhat personal conversation with a man who refuses to tell you what he’s really thinking. You know there’s more, but he just won’t say it.
It’s damned annoying, is what it is.
“You’re using the excuse of being my bodyguard, but then you say there’s no hope even if you’re not my bodyguard. So what the fuck is going on then? If you just don’t want me, that’s totally fine. Men have not wanted me before.”
He suddenly tenses up and his blue eyes blaze. He reaches out to take my head in his hands again, and this time they hold it even tighter. “Every man who hasn’t wanted you is a blind, ignorant jackass.”
I blink. “Oh.” I can’t really move because—you know—he’s got my head in a vice, but I’m so disoriented I’m not sure I could move anyway. “What?”
“Don’t you ever say or even imply that I don’t want you.”
I feel that rush of feeling again—the one that turns me to jelly. “Oh. Okay. Then why…”
“We can’t always have what we want, no matter how desperately we want it.” He lets go of me at last and turns away.
Okay, so I’m getting it a little more now. He does want me (desperately), so that much is good. At least I haven’t completely fooled myself about that.
But, even so, he doesn’t think a relationship is within the realm of possibility.
“And you’re not going to tell me why?” I ask, rubbing my face with both hands. I should have washed them for longer, since they both still smell like sex.
“I can’t. All I can say is that you’re better off without me. I’m…dangerous.”
Dangerous. Sure. That makes a hell of a lot of sense.
“Dangerous to bad guys? I can buy that. But how are you dangerous to me?”
He isn’t going to answer. I can see that very clearly. He’s going to be dark and broody and silent…and generally obnoxious.
“Okay,” I say after a minute. I sure as hell am not going to beg for him to go out with me. So what if it was the best sex ever? It’s not like I can’t do without it. “Fine.”
He turns his head back to look at me, and I see that tension in his body again—like he’s holding back something too strong, too powerful, too overwhelming to be released.
I really wish he’d just release it because holding back something so big has just got to suck.
“Are you oaky?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m okay. What did you think? That I’d have a breakdown from being deprived of your dick?”
He makes an impatient gesture with his hand and steps closer to me. I can feel the heat from his body. I know I’m not imagining it. “You know that’s not what I mean. I never should have done this.”
“Neither should I. But we did. It’s not the end of the world.”
It does kind of feel like the end of the world—like all the potential I was just offered has been violently ripped away from me. But I’m not going to let him see that.
If he doesn’t want me, then I don’t want him. That’s always the way it’s worked with me.
I don’t put myself out there for someone else to stomp on. The closest I’ve come to doing that was with Carter, and even with him, I never let him see me cry.
The person who makes you cry shouldn’t get to see you cry. That should be a rule.
“So we’re good?” he asks, still peering at me, like he doesn’t quite believe what I’m telling him.
That just means I have to make it more convincing. “Yes. We’re fine. You’re my bodyguard and nothing else.”
It somehow feels like he’s always going to be something more than just my bodyguard. I can hardly believe that just a half hour ago, we were intimately entwined, as close as two people can get.
But that closeness was obviously just physical. I’m an adult…for the most part. I can have sex without letting it rip me to shreds.
I’ll feel better tomorrow.
“I’m always going to be something else, princess.”
I make an impatient growly sound. “Screw you, Jack. You can’t say things like that and then tell me nothing is going to happen between us. If you don’t want something more, then you don’t get anything. You don’t get to talk like we’re…we’re…close.”
For a moment, he looks almost angry—like I’ve taken away something important to him. But then his expression changes and his shoulders relax visibly. “Right,” he says. “You’re right.”
“Good. I’m right.”
“So, I guess I’ll leave, if it’s all right with you. Bill is outside.”
“I know he’s outside.” I stand and wait, but Jack doesn’t actually move. He’s so big and masculine and real somehow that I can hardly keep from reaching out to touch him.
But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to do that again.
“Well?” I demand, when he just looks at me without moving, something aching in his expression I can’t possibly pin down.
“Okay, princess. I’ll leave.”
“So leave.” I sound kind of hard, almost brittle, but it’s the absolute best I can manage right now.
“Okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just leave.”
And so finally he leaves. I watch him walk away.
And I’ve got to tell you, there are a lot of lies out there in the world—books and movies and songs and stories that keep telling us that sex creates intimacy, connection, affection. Love.
It doesn’t create any of those things. It just masquerades as them.
And all you’re left with afterwards is a heavy clenching in your gut that reminds you, over and over again, that you played the part but still don’t have what you really want.
Sex makes it worse. It shows you everything you don’t have.
And it seems pretty clear that I’m never going to have it with Jack.
I’m not going to cry about it. I’m absolutely not going to cry. So I go to sit down on my couch, but then jump up, remembering that I just fucked Jack there.
I stare at the familiar upholstery and remember how good it felt—body and heart—to be in Jack’s arms.
Screw it. So I cry a little after all.
***
So here are the top ten benefits to being on a man-fast.
One – You don’t have to shave nearly as often.
Two – You don’t wake up every morning concerned about whether the men you encounter will like how you look.
Three – You can concentrate more on your classes, since your mind doesn’t keep getting distracted by daydreams of that certain guy.
Four – When you talk to your friends, you’re not constantly glancing past them to see if a guy across the dining hall is looking at you.
Five – You don’t have any awkward first dates.
Six – You don’t end up fucking your bodyguard, when you know very well it’s not a good idea.
Seven – You don’t let yourself develop feelings for your bodyguard when he’s made it clear he’s emotionally unavailable.
Eight – You don’t get trapped in a painful conversation about how the sex doesn’t mean you can have something deeper with your bodyguard.
Nine – You don’t have to spend most of the night brooding about it, with an awful heaviness in your stomach, telling yourself you’ll feel better in the morning.
Ten – You won’t get your heart broken.
***
I don’t feel better in the morning. I feel like crap with aching eyes and queasy st
omach.
But I’m not about to let Jack see that I’m really upset by what happened, so I take a long, hot shower and put on a lot of make-up. I also put on one of my sexier outfits that’s still class-appropriate.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but it’s a hard balance to achieve between sexy and appropriate. But I wear a short skirt—the ironic kind that’s plaid and pleated like a schoolgirl’s outfit. (I can’t tell you how much Carter loved this skirt.) Then I wear a little blouse that buttons up the front so I can leave a few undone and my favorite boots that come up over my knees.
Then, to make it seem like I’m not dressing up, I pull my hair into a loose ponytail.
If I showed up like this in Carter’s office last semester, he’d have me turned over the desk with his cock out in no time flat.
Jack is waiting outside the door when I emerge from my apartment. His eyes bore into me, but he doesn’t say anything.
He also doesn’t look overwhelmed by lust, so maybe my outfit isn’t as good as I think.
“Ready to go?” I ask in what’s supposed to be a bright, cheerful voice. It sounds a little fake to me, but Jack will probably not notice.
He looks terrible, by the way. Not that he ever looks really terrible. He still looks quite slurpable, as far as I’m concerned. But he doesn’t look like he shaved this morning, and his eyes are bloodshot.
Either he drank or he stayed up all night partying. Or both.
I prefer to think of him stewing alone with a six-pack of beers, but I have no evidence of that being what he did.
He doesn’t say anything. Just walks with me down the stairs and into the garage.
And that’s fine too. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, then I’m definitely not going to make an effort to talk to him.
I feel kind of like pouting, or maybe snapping his head off. But I acted yesterday like this is no big deal, so it’s not a good idea to show him that it really is a big deal to me.
Not if I want to maintain my pride.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, pride is very important to me.
So it’s a Thursday, which means I have two classes in the morning and then literature with Professor Bitch in the afternoon. The morning classes are fine, and I study as I eat lunch, so I don’t have to try to make conversation with Jack.
Knowing Jack Page 10
