by J. Lea López
My fingers work my clit until my body is practically numb with bliss. I come in a frenzy of whole-body shudders and gasps, uttering yes yes yes over and over again as he continues to fuck me through the orgasm, finally seeking his own pleasure with my body. I push my hips back against each of his thrusts.
I would let him take me to the extreme and back. I would do deliciously depraved things to and for him, if he ever asked, and I know he'd do the same for me. Without question. Without judgment. Probably without me having to ask explicitly. He'd somehow know, like he always does. I would trust him to keep me safe.
“Oh god, yes.” It's Josh moaning the words this time. His fingers dig into my hips with one last push and a deep, visceral groan. A moment later my knees give out and we collapse onto the bed, spent. He brushes a hand over my ass. “How are you doing? You're pretty red.”
“I'm good.” I don't know what will happen in the morning, or a week from now. I just know he's left his mark on me, in more than a physical way.
“Sure?” He pulls me back against his body and tucks his knees behind mine.
This is enough for now. I have no idea if I'll see him again, or if we'll simply go back to long-distance flirting, reading between the lines. I do know that whatever happens, he will forever be a weakness for me. No matter the question, for him there will always be one answer:
“Yes.”
THE END
Keep reading for an excerpt from J. Lea López's upcoming novel, Sorry's Not Enough.
About J. Lea López
I'm an introvert with a touch of shyness, but I have a secret world full of snark and other naughtiness in my head, and I love to let it out through fiction. And sometimes on social media, too, so let's connect!
Twitter: @JLeaLopez
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jlealopez
Coming in May 2013, Sorry's Not Enough is the story of Charlotte's struggle with life, love, and forgiveness when "sorry" isn't enough to cover the scars. Here's a sample:
Chapter One
Sanguinolent sunset. There's a word you don't see every day. Charlotte circled it with her red pen and drew a smiley at the end of the line, below where she'd called out a different phrase for being trite. She continued making notes in the margin as the others took turns giving feedback. By the time she was done marking up the poem, the paper was also sanguinolent.
She looked up when the group grew quiet. Her turn. She looked down at the poem again and hoped its author wouldn't be offended. What was his name? Steven.
“It's a little confused,” she said. There was a pause and a shuffle of papers.
“What don't you understand?”
She snapped her chin up and was taken aback by the force of his gaze. No adjective could adequately describe the shade of green staring back at her.
“I'm not confused. Your poem is.”
His gaze dropped to his copy of the poem. She could almost see his brain struggling to acknowledge that there could be any imperfections. He probably thought it was soooo amazing! like Aubrey, the bubbly redhead to his left, has proclaimed moments earlier. She had gushed to an embarrassing extent, obviously more interested in getting his number than saying anything meaningful. It had been sad and funny at the same time. With a pang of something she refused to believe was jealousy, Charlotte realized that, of the two of them, Aubrey would be the only one taking any numbers.
Whatever. She certainly didn't want Steven's number. Not when he looked at her again with an aloof, almost cocky grin, apparently waiting to hear more of her thoughts about his poem. Well, if he insisted.
“The style isn't consistent. The first stanza is really concise, like you chose each word for a reason.” The red smiley face she'd drawn next to sanguinolent sunset caught her eye, but she ignored it. Aubrey could pad his ego. “But the last couple of stanzas have some ornate description that's just a waste of space. And some clichés that need to go.”
“Lots of authors use clichés,” Aubrey said and shot a hopeful glance at Steven. “It can be an effective tool.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Except it's not. Not here. They don't help create a tone or anything, and this isn't satire. A cliché without purpose is still just a cliché.”
Aubrey frowned, but Steven nodded slowly, like he was seeing her point.
“Easy on the poor lad, Charlotte,”Alexander McAnulty said. He was a portly gentleman, and one of the oldest workshop participants. Charlotte liked to think of him as her long-lost, really awesome Irish uncle. The kind who might've let you take a puff of his pipe when you were barely twelve, with a warning of don't tell yer mum. She'd gotten to know him during a previous workshop. “Wasn't there anything you liked about it?”
She softened a bit. It wasn't her intention to be mean. “I never said I didn't like it.”
“No, it's okay. I appreciate the honesty,” Steven said.
She would've gone on to mention what she did like, but Deb, the instructor, called for the small groups to break up and reform one large group.
At the end of the day's session, Charlotte met Deb at the front of the classroom.
“Ready to go?” Charlotte was looking forward to a cream soda float at the campus creamery.
“In a minute. I asked Steven to come along,” Deb said.
“Why?”
Deb laughed and shook her head. “What'd he do to rub you the wrong way?”
“Nothing. He's just very sure of himself.” She watched him pack up his messenger bag from across the room and tried not admire the taut line of his calves.
“Since when is that a fault?”
She shrugged. Aubrey bounced over to Steven, grinning like a fool. Charlotte couldn't deny she was cute. A thick mass of red curls, fair skin, a smattering of freckles. Her voice was a little nasally, though. He smiled and looked over Aubrey's head to where Charlotte and Deb stood. Aubrey's gaze followed. Charlotte couldn't hear Steven's reply, but the pretty pout said it all.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and approached the front of the room, acknowledging them with a nod. As they walked across campus, Deb and Steven chatted about his job search while Charlotte felt like the odd man out. She trudged alongside Steven, trying not to resent his presence. She had been looking forward to having one on one time with Deb this afternoon. Deb was like a mother to her, and they hadn't gotten to talk much in the past month or so.
She perked up a bit when she finally had her cream soda float in hand. Before she could hand the cashier her check card, Steven stepped in front of her and thrust a twenty at the cashier.
“I'll get it.”
“It's fine, I can get my own.”
“For all three.” He ignored her protest. The cashier hesitantly reached for the money.
“I said I can get it.” She gritted her teeth.
“I heard you.” He took his change and smiled his thanks to the girl behind the counter, who promptly blushed. Good lord. Was she the only one not all that impressed? She stalked out to the patio without another word.
She didn't like being indebted to anyone, even if it was for less than five bucks. Especially not some smug guy who thinks his recently earned college diploma makes him an authority on life. After a moment, he came out of the building and sat down next to her. Deb trailed a few feet behind, but before she reached the table, her cell phone rang. She stepped farther away and took the call.
“Pistachio is so pretentious,” Charotte said of Steven's double-dip waffle cone.
He laughed and shook his head. “Is that better or worse than being trite?”
She flushed against her better judgment and hoped any color on her cheeks would be mistaken for the effects of the sun. She gazed out across the green stretch of campus between them and the main academic buildings. The Common Grounds is what everyone called the open space. In the middle of summer now, there were more sunbathers than study groups clustered on the lawn. She studied each one that was close enough to see clearly, but no matter how hard she concentrated on tan
ned bodies and colorful blankets, she couldn't ignore the weight of his gaze.
“You're staring,” she said, without meeting his eyes.
“Why cream soda?”
“What?” She looked at him that time, and immediately regretted it. Didn't he ever blink?
“Root beer float, sure. Coke float, even. Why cream soda?”
The sun glinted in his eyes. At least she thought it was the sun. Eyes couldn't naturally possess that much sparkle, could they? She looked down into her cup, then silently cursed his ability to make her uncomfortable.
“It's what I always get.” The melting ice cream formed a frothy foam on top of the soda. She scooped some up with her spoon and brought it to her lips. It began to fizz and melt away the moment it hit her tongue. She loved the mellow caramel flavor of cream soda as opposed to the almost spicy bite of root beer. Vanilla and caramel. Few things worked so well together. “Why mess with perfection?”
“I agree.” He reached toward her and wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb. His eyes bore into hers like he was looking for something.
At the brush of his fingertips across her cheek, her spine shifted into a sensuous curve and the hair on her scalp prickled. A flutter of eyelashes obscured her vision for a moment. She couldn't keep looking at him if he was going to keep looking at her like that. She averted her eyes, feeling like a part of her was showing that she'd much rather keep under wraps.
“Sorry.” His voice tickled the base of her spine even as his hand dropped back to the table.
Deb finally joined them at the table, oblivious to the tension of a moment ago.
“Sorry about that, guys. Gary is taking the boys to the lake for a little while and couldn't find Gregory's swim trunks. I swear, if the man bothered to move something, life would be a little easier.”
“The lake sounds really good right now,” Charlotte said. Her cheeks burned. From the sun, of course.
“Maybe you can come with us some time next week,” Deb said. “The boys have been asking about you.”
“I miss their little faces.” After seeing them and helping care for them every day for more than two years, she was having cuteness withdrawal since moving out of Deb's house earlier in the summer. She glanced at her watch and sighed.
“What? Oh, you don't have to leave right now, do you?” Deb asked.
“I have to get ready for work.”
“Where's work?” Steven asked. She pretended not to hear.
“I left my uniform in the dryer last night, so I’m going to need to starch it to death.”
“That's too bad. I wanted to ask you guys how you liked working in small groups today.”
“I got some great feedback,” Steven said, grinning.
Deb looked at him, then Charlotte.
“Apparently I’m trite.” He still smiled when he said it, but she blushed anyway. God damn, she wished he'd stop making her do that.
“Not you, the poem. Although you're getting there.”
“Charlotte doesn't hold back when it comes to criticism,” Deb said, smiling.
“Oh come on, you say that like I get some pleasure from it.”
“I said no such thing. But maybe it says something that that's what you heard.” Deb winked and nudged Steven with her elbow.
Maybe she was right. Charlotte shrugged it off and stood up.
“Call me tomorrow,” Deb said. “There's something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
Charlotte stiffened. The air grew thick, as though the humidity had doubled. She already knew what the something else was, and she didn't want to discuss it any more.
“I told my Aunt no. I’m not changing my mind.”
“Honey, I just want you to understand—”
“No.” She angled her body more toward Deb, in an attempt to remove Steven from her peripheral vision. “I have nothing to say to him and want nothing to do with him. He has no legal standing over me anymore. I made sure of that.”
“I know. I get that.” Deb stood and embraced her briefly. “Sorry I brought it up here. Just call me, okay?”
“Okay.” She smoothed her shorts over her hips, more to iron out her irritation than to rid herself of wrinkles. “Give the boys hugs and kisses for me.”
“Of course.”
“See ya, Charlotte.” Steven's voice made her pause mid-turn as she was leaving. She looked back over her shoulder. His smile worked some of the tension out of her shoulders and she smiled back. He'd at least earned that much.
Chapter Two
Two weeks after their first meeting, Steven once more found himself walking next to Charlotte toward the campus creamery. Deb didn't have to ask him twice to come along. He and Charlotte had ended up in the same small group during workshop once again. He was halfway sorry she didn't have anything nearly as biting to say about his writing this time. Despite his best efforts, he had mostly positive things to say about hers. He'd urged her to submit the story to some literary journals for publication, but she laughed him off. Charlotte was still a mystery to him.
She was the quiet girl who never said much, but always looked like she had a lot to say; the girl who carried herself with a quiet assertiveness that a man couldn’t help but find attractive, even if she’d barely spoken to him. He was a little old for these kinds of crushes-from-afar, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d caught himself more than once daydreaming about her slender fingers and where he’d like to feel them, or her pouty lips and what he hoped they might say to him. God, he was pathetic.
Charlotte ordered a cream soda float again. Steven opted for butter pecan. He wondered if that was more or less pretentious than pistachio. Reaching for his wallet, he let the cashier know he'd pick up the bill for all three again.
“Please don't,” Charlotte protested. “I can get my own.”
“I’m sure you can. But I’d like to get it.” Was she really going to put him through this again?
“Once was more than enough.” Her eyes were stern and dark.
“I insist. I want it to be my treat.”
“I’m perfectly capable of paying for myself,” she said.
“I never said—”
“No, you never said anything about that, I know.”
So what was the issue?
“But by insisting like you are, you’re basically implying that my four-dollar ice cream might put me into crippling debt if you don’t step in and do something.”
His face burned. “Hey, come on. It’s not like that.”
“It’s insulting, the way you’re throwing your money around. And it’s not even that much money.” She set her jaw and he knew she wouldn’t back down this time.
He watched her walk outside without so much as a look back at him. He was stunned. And embarrassed.
“Don’t take it too personally,” Deb said from behind him. “She doesn’t like me paying for things, either. And she used to live with me.”
Charlotte lived with Deb? He would've asked more about it, but he was still dumbfounded over her reaction.
“It’s only ice cream,” he said.
“Maybe for you.”
“Not for her?” Really, it was only ice cream. He wasn’t trying to buy her soul.
“You’ll have to ask her that yourself.”
He handed his check card to the cashier again. He’d at least pick up Deb’s tab. The clerk waved him off.
“You’re taken care of.”
“What?”
“The young lady paid for your group.”
His embarrassment turned to sheer delight. He looked outside, where Charlotte had already settled at a table, engrossed in her ice cream. When he and Deb joined her, she smiled at him, looking rather proud of herself. He’d have to remember not to underestimate this one.
The three of them sat for a little while and talked about everything and nothing. It was nice to hang out with these two women. It felt... grown-up. He owed a lot to Deb for the way she'd helped guide him in his coursework, and now in
his job search. He started out as an English major, with a concentration in creative writing, and didn't add on the Education until his sophomore year, which extended his studies from four to five years. Deb was there to answer all of his questions, help get him into mandatory classes even after they'd filled up, and now she'd offered to pay him out of her own pocket to be her assistant for the fall semester, or at least until he secured a full-time teaching position.
She also got bonus points for bringing Charlotte into his life. He couldn't imagine how he'd never met her on campus before now, in a creative writing class or something. Maybe she wasn't an English major. If she wasn't, she needed to be. Plenty of people had told him that he would never make a living writing encouraged him to study something more lucrative, but he never caved to that pressure. Maybe Charlotte had. He'd make it his mission to convince her she had talent worth pursuing as a career instead of chasing money as a nursing major or whatever she was. At the very least, that would be his excuse for trying to chat her up every chance he got.
Charlotte stood and started saying goodbye. She had to leave for work again. He still hadn't figured out where she worked and wondered if it was just an excuse to leave. She kissed Deb's cheek. What would it take for her to interact with him that way?
“See you later,” she said in his direction.
That was good enough for now.
“I think she thinks I’m obnoxious,” he said to Deb when Charlotte was out of earshot.
“She thinks most guys are.”
He watched her leave and decided he liked her. A lot.
He’d only met studious, serious women in his other writing classes and workshops. Nothing wrong with them, except they sometimes took themselves too seriously. The sorority girls and Elementary Ed girls had the spunk and verve he liked. Like Aubrey. But there were too few women who embodied exactly the right balance of determination and playfulness he was looking for. Charlotte Greenbrier—the pretty girl with the chip on her shoulder—just might be different.
