by Robin Lovett
He whispers, “Is there something you want from me?”
Just his words make my stomach tighten. I have to close my eyes and concentrate to keep my knees straight. “Yes.”
He kisses me again. “Tell me.”
“I want one.”
“One what?”
“An orgasm.” My voice melts around the words and I hear sex in my voice, low and rasping.
He groans in his chest. “Come up. I’ll run you straight to my room. I won’t let them see you.”
I’m a little dizzy, with him, so I ignore my leftover protests. “Okay.”
He pulls open the door, lifts his bike overhead in one hand, and reaches for my hand with the other. Pulling me up the two flights of stairs, he squeezes my fingers as though he’s afraid to let go, afraid I might change my mind.
“If they say anything to you,” he says, “I’ll kick their asses.”
My awkwardness dissipates beneath his excitement.
He leaves his bike in the hall and charges us into the apartment, barely saying hi to his roommates in the kitchen. I duck my head and hustle after him.
He pulls me down the hall into his bedroom and shuts the door. He rummages around the room, dirty clothes and cycling magazines everywhere. He piles the clothes, shoves them into a little closet and forces the door closed.
The room is small with only a single bed, a narrow window, and a dresser with a laptop on it. He kicks magazines and bike gear—shoes, jackets, gloves—under his bed, tosses the covers onto it, and pats them down to look semi-orderly.
For a sixty-second clean-up job, it’s pretty good.
“I promise to do laundry and make my bed before you come over next time,” he says, digging into his dresser for clean clothes. “I’m going to shower lightning fast, make smoothies, and I’ll be back, okay?”
“Okay.”
He smacks a kiss on my cheek and points to a chair in the corner. “Sit,” he says, and closes the door behind him.
The whirlwind he leaves behind makes me giddy and nervous. Posters cover his walls, some of cyclists I don’t know, one with giant letters saying “Milano-San Remo”. I know where that is in Italy. San Remo is across the border. If he races there, maybe I could go. I haven’t been into Italy, and I really want to go. I haven’t been brave enough to travel Europe by myself yet. Getting from the States to Nice was hard enough. No matter how fluent I am, European transit systems scare me.
I take off my coat and sit in the worn upholstered chair in the corner. My view is full of his empty bed. Though it’s small, it looms in the room. My neck itches. I didn’t think this plan through. My body may be asking for it, but I’m not ready for the full deal. I’ve known him less than two weeks. I hope that’s not what he’s expecting.
Of course that’s what he’s expecting. I begged him for it in the alley.
Finally, the door clicks open, and he rushes inside. Holding glasses of smoothies, he shuts the door with his hip. He’s breathing fast and wet hair clings to his ears. His jeans and T-shirt hide none of the muscles that I swear are still steaming.
I’m in trouble. If he does want sex, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself this time.
Chapter Twenty
“Here.” He hands me a glass of smoothie and sits opposite me on the bed. “I didn’t put any protein powder in yours since you didn’t get a workout.”
“Oh, okay.” It tastes good, but I’m preoccupied with him. “Did you have a good ride?”
He chugs half the smoothie, then wipes his mouth. “Coach has me doing these insane intervals that kick my ass. My numbers are up, but he’s not happy with my output. I keep telling him that numbers don’t show my strengths. I’m faster than my stats let on, and he knows that, but he still—” He looks at me. “Boring cycling stuff.”
“I wondered about that.” I latch on to the excuse to talk about anything non-sexual. “That guy you beat in the race last week. He was bigger than you, wasn’t he?”
“The German, you mean? Grabe?” He nods, pride glowing from his face. “Tops me by five inches and forty pounds.”
“How did you win against him?” It seems counter to the laws of physics.
He clears his throat, trying and failing to hide a toothy grin. “Officially, aerodynamics, but that’s bullshit. I’m just faster.”
His cockiness should appall me. It doesn’t. It’s sexy as hell.
“You’re giving me that look,” he says.
“What look?”
He glugs the rest of his smoothie and puts the empty cup on the dresser. “The same one you get when you can’t wait to bite me.” He gets to his feet and moves toward me like a panther on the prowl.
I shrink into the chair and grip the armrest. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes.” He takes my smoothie glass. “You do.” He crouches in front of me and grips my side; my system is already feverish.
“Terrence, I don’t want sex.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I do, but…”
“Not yet.” His eyes are warm and bright. “There’s a ton of things between making out and going all the way. I majored in them in high school. Haven’t you tried them? Did some guy just run up and shove his dick in you or something?”
“No. I’ve tried those things and they’ve never worked.”
“You don’t even have to take your clothes off, if you don’t want to.” He sinks his fingers into my thigh.
“Through my clothes?” There’s no way that’s going to work. “I don’t think so.”
“I think so.”
“What if I can’t come?” My biggest fear: him working me until I’m sore, just like I tried last night, and nothing happening.
He shakes his head. “Don’t think about that. Think about how good it feels.” His nose nudges mine, and he flicks his tongue on my cheek.
A tremble runs through my bones. “Do you think, maybe, I could come just from you, you know—” I mime him grinding between my legs. If that’s what he means by “through clothes”, maybe he’s right.
“Definitely.”
I expect him to kiss me, but he waits, his breath tickling my scalp.
I grab him by the hair and kiss him. My tongue slides in his mouth, my knees fall open, and, with my heel, I knock him to his knees between mine.
I am raging inside, my gut is a tempest of want, and I don’t know how to calm it. I claw at his shoulders and arch toward him. His hands answer me, grabbing my back.
His strong fingers dig into my shirt, and his hot palms steam through the fabric, making it feel like the shirt isn’t there. They roam my torso, and when his palm grazes my nipple, I moan.
“Do you like that?” he growls, squeezing.
“Yes.” I’m wanton. I don’t want to be, but I am.
“I like it too.” He fills his hands with my breasts, making us both hiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.”
“Really?” I pull back from his lips and check his eyes for truth.
“Yeeeesss,” he drawls, kneading, massaging, pressing. “These babies are prime real estate.”
I giggle and flush. “How did you ever see them? I cover them on purpose.”
“Oh, no. You couldn’t hide these girls in a muumuu,” he says, and I laugh. “Just your coat hangs around them, and when you cross your arms—oh baby, I can’t think for staring.”
Then he pinches both my nipples at the same time, and I forget to laugh. Even through my bra and shirt, it feels bitingly good. I nibble and suck on his lips while he toys with them. I squirm, the sparks shooting from his fingers to my groin, intoxicating me.
“More,” I beg, grabbing at his arms, failing to draw him closer. I want to rub my whole body against him. My legs crawl up his hips. “Please.”
“More?” His hands leave my breasts and wander lo
wer. “What’s ‘more’ mean?” His lips curve against mine.
“More—more—” I’m writhing, wanting his hands everywhere and yet in one place. “Touch me.” He hovers over me, keeping his hips at a distance, withholding what he knows I want.
He chuckles, enjoying my discomfort. “But I am touching you.”
I whimper, wanting to rub against him where it feels so good. “Please. There—touch me—there.” I’m moving my own hips in physical communication.
“You mean here?” He drags his palm down my belly and settles it over my pubic bone, his fingers scratching over my leggings.
“Yes. There, but not with your—hand.” I want his lower body there, rubbing me.
He sucks air through his teeth, and his forehead sags onto my shoulder. “What’s wrong with my hand?” His voice is lower, edgier.
“I’ve tried with my hand. It doesn’t work.”
“It doesn’t work?” His voice wobbles with humor. With his thumb just below my pubic bone, he presses me, and it’s like he’s hit my power button.
“Oh.” My eyes shoot open. It feels so good. “How—how’d you do that?”
He croons in my ear. “Maybe I’ll show you.” He moves his hand in a tiny circular motion, and my jaw slackens. It feels just like when he does it with his hips. Except better.
“Oh—God. What are you d-doing?”
“Do you like it?” His mouth is at my ear.
“Y-yeah.”
He takes his hand away, and I catch my breath. “Don’t stop.”
“I want you to try.” He pulls my hand from his shoulder and puts my fingers on the same spot as his.
I stiffen. “Terrence…”
“I’ll help you.”
With his hand guiding mine, he mimics the movements he was doing, watching for my reaction.
“It’s not the same,” I complain, and try to take my hand away.
He keeps his hold on my hand. “Just try it. You want to be able to do this on your own, right?”
Is he making fun of me, or is he a mind reader—because that’s exactly what I want. I don’t want to be dependent. I want it for myself.
His eyes are serious. He knows. He moves my hand on that perfect spot, and I remember my thought the night he walked me to the tram stop: he knows what I want better than I do.
It’s true.
He’s not just going to give me an orgasm, he’s going to teach me to do it myself.
I relax my wrist and let him lead my hand. It’s different from what I’ve tried. More coaxing, less determined. More massaging, less digging. It takes me a minute, but the sensations that he started come back. It feels good again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, and lets go of my hand for me to do it on my own.
My hand falters, and I have to think hard to keep my hand going the way he showed me.
“No thinking.” He kisses my furrowed brow. “Only feel.”
I gulp and close my eyes, shifting my fingers for what feels good. I seek out his lips, and he kisses me. He sucks on my mouth, and my fingers mirror the soothing feel of his kisses. His tongue is in my mouth, licking me, and my hand moves in time with his tongue.
I make sounds.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m touching myself while a guy is kissing me. It’s weird and strange, and—I like it. I feel so in control, like I can give myself exactly what I want. But he’s still here to turn me on and make me want it.
It’s building and I feel my body growing tighter. It’s like I’m almost there, like I can see the goal and I can’t wait. I have to get there. I have to!
But it doesn’t come. I keep moving my hand the same way and it doesn’t get any closer.
“Keep going, Lia,” Terrence says, his breathing heavy. “Don’t stop.”
“But it’s—it’s—not working.” My hand jerks side to side. I lost my rhythm. I don’t know what to do.
He grabs my hand again and presses it harder, moves it faster. “Give it more. Go with it. Feel it.”
“Oh my God!” I moan. The way he does it, it’s like my insides are screaming to get out. But he takes his hand away and I’m bereft. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. There’s no grades in this class.” He nips at my ear and growls, “Be bad.”
Be bad. The idea pricks at me two ways. It sends off alarm bells, but it also makes me braver, less cautious, a notch closer to the goal.
I move my hand harder, faster.
“That’s it, Lia. Be bad,” Terrence chants in my ear.
I groan in my throat, and my breathing speeds in time with my hand movements. I’m shameless, and I like it, I want it. Terrence wants it.
“Faster, Lia,” he breathes. “Harder.”
“Harder,” I repeat. My whole body is thundering, broiling hotter and higher. If I keep this up, I’ll explode, I’ll boil over, I’ll—
“Ah—Ah!” I cry, and can’t stop. The world stops, and I am lightning. A ping-pong of ecstasy ricochets up my spine through my skull. My skin disappears and I am limitless, consumed. Nothing exists. I am an animal of feeling.
I’m aware of my heaving lungs, and my hand still swirling in tandem to my pumping hips.
Pumping. My hips are moving. Like I’ve been having actual sex, intercourse. I wonder if Terrence noticed.
I open my eyes, and he’s staring at me with magnified awe. His mouth open, his breathing matches mine, rapid and heavy.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
A smile starts on his lips as embarrassment storms my face in a wash of hot blood.
I cannot believe I just did that. With him watching. I can never look at him again.
“Lia.” He kisses me, his mouth frantic, greedy. “I swear—that is—the fucking—hottest thing—I have ever seen.” His lips peck over my cheeks so that I have to giggle at him.
He hauls me out of the chair into his lap on the floor, his arms wrapping me, his face in my hair. “Holy shit.” He looks into my eyes. “First orgasm ever?”
“Yes.” I laugh. His excitement is equal to if not greater than mine. I cannot fathom why this fascinates him, but I feel proud rather than embarrassed. Maybe this was a really amazing thing to share with him.
“Was it good?” His eyes are wide and begging for details.
“Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes!”
“You want to do it again?”
“Terrence, stop it!” I smack at his chest, and we’re both laughing like crazy kids on a play date, an adult play date. He hugs me again, and I hug him back. I love being held by him. I want to stay here.
Then my hip grazes the stiff ridge behind his fly. “You’re hard.”
He snorts. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
I glance down at his lap and say, “Do you want to—”
“Nah.” He caresses my back. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“Oh. You don’t want me to—”
He pinches my cheek. “Maybe another time. I think you’ve had a big enough ‘first’ for one day.”
“Yeah.” I bury my face in his chest.
Someone knocks on the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ralph’s voice sounds from the hall. “Braker, I got to talk to you.”
Terrence swears, nudges me into “the chair”, and goes to open the door.
I fuss with my hair, my shirt, praying Ralph can’t guess what we’ve been doing. Though by the low tone of his voice, he has other worries.
His usual humor gone, he says, “My knee. It’s not good.”
“Did you do the exercises the trainer said?”
“Can’t. Hurts like a motherfucker.”
Terrence groans, grinds his teeth, and glances at me.
He’s busy with his team. I’m in t
he way. “I can go.”
He closes the door on Ralph. “Sorry. Got a problem to take care of. Come over tomorrow?” His expectant grin is as scintillating as the kisses he gives on the way out the door.
I skip home, like there’s a new superpower in my possession.
I replay what happened the whole walk. The reminiscent glow on my face is obvious to everyone, I’m sure. When it starts to rain, I smile at the little drops.
I had an orgasm!
And better than that, I know how to do it myself, which means I can do it again.
If that’s what it’s like doing it to myself, during sex it must be—God, so much better than the last time with my ex in college. I can better fathom the fascination with panty-dropping.
The intimacy of it terrifies yet thrills me. Sharing that with Terrence, orgasming with him watching me, was more bonding than any sex I’ve had. I want it again for myself, but more, I want to try it with him. I wonder what he looks like when he comes.
Grading papers is futile. I stare at the same pages filled with the same bad English grammar for an hour. I’m wasting my assistantship, obsessed with orgasms. This should be a part of every Fulbrighter’s educational experience. Way better than teaching.
My phone dings and I dive for it. There’s only one person who has the number.
How’s it goin hot stuff? his text reads.
I bite my fingernails. I was worried about the dent in my credit card balance, but this is worth it. I type with my thumbs on my antiquated flip-phone.
I’m trying to grade papers.
Trying?
I can’t. I’m too distracted.
Oh no! Has hell frozen over?
Shut up! It’s your fault.
It is? How…come?
I gasp and giggle. I don’t know what to say.
Another text from him pops up: Are you practicing your new skill?
My pulse thuds like he’s in the room with me. How many times is a person allowed to orgasm in a day?
My phone dings again.
Think of me while you do it.
Breath clogs in my throat. I wonder what he looks like without the clothes. Terrence naked must be like an anatomy textbook for every defined muscle in the male body.