by Sara Ney
And him.
Lost in the sensation of my own sexuality, finally getting what I want. Giving him what he wants.
And what he wants now is me on my back.
Flipping me onto my back in one instant motion, Elliot drives into me methodically, sedately, spreading me wider, hands holding my thighs apart.
Silent fucking perfection.
Slow, unhurried thrusting.
I’ve never heard myself whimper before, but I do, in time with Elliot’s grunts. Our sounds primal.
When I raise my arms to push against the headboard for support—to prevent my head banging into it—he rises to his haunches, dragging me farther onto his pelvis, driving into me on his knees, brows creased. Concentrating on every deep, deliberate thrust.
His body tenses at the same time I throw my head back, mouth falling open, the waves of my orgasm pulsating around his cock. We come together, his face buried in my neck, teeth biting gently into his shoulder. Cock throbbing, spilling himself inside me.
I can feel it, warm and wet and breathtaking.
Intoxicating.
Elliot
Holy shit.
I’m naked.
It’s morning. I’m in bed with Anabelle, and I’m naked.
Worse yet, I glance across the mattress at my slumbering, sleeping roommate whom I fucked in the middle of the night. Sweep an embarrassed hand down my face, groan.
Pass a hungry gaze over her body, because Anabelle is still naked, too.
Bare-assed naked.
Beautiful.
I allow myself the luxury of checking her out; her tits are incredible, rosy-tipped nipples playing peekaboo with the edge of my navy sheets. Dark brown hair fanned out on the pillow in messy tangles. She stirs, arching those beautiful breasts in my direction.
I glance down the length of my body at the exposed, half-hard woody begging for permission to stiffen against my inner thigh. I must have gotten overheated and kicked the covers off at some point while we were sleeping—after we finally dozed off—and I feel an embarrassed blush spreading throughout my body at the memories assailing me from last night.
Leaning, I reach for the quilt, concealing my junk, unsure of how Anabelle will react when she wakes up and sees me lying here buck-naked.
For now, I’m content to watch her, shoulders and clavicle and plumped cleavage. Pale, creamy perfection. I don’t know how long I lie here, quietly fighting the temptation to reach over and touch her, but eventually she stirs, lashes fluttering against her pink cheekbones.
Blue eyes focus in my direction, drowsy, gleaming.
Peach mouth bows into a secretive smile.
Anabelle strokes a hand in circles against the mattress, drawing back the covers to beckon me into the center.
It’s an alluring sight.
In the light of morning, I can see everything I didn’t in the dark, in the glow of the television. The exact color of Anabelle’s nipples. The groomed patch of hair between her legs. The skin tone of her breasts, stomach, and legs.
Quietly, we lie still, regarding each other before I scoot over, grasping her slim waist. Immediately, my fingers itch to wander, and she’s satisfied to let them, lounging on the pillow, languidly watching me explore her body.
Reclining on the pillow while I hover, she props her hands behind her head. Eyes slide shut when I cup her breasts in my palms, stroking her nipples with my thumbs, getting them hard, getting us both turned on in the process, my semi-hard morning wood now a rock-solid boner.
When her hips begin a steady roll, I know last night wasn’t a fluke.
I get excited, even her unsteady breathing is turning me on.
My mouth waters, wanting to go down on her.
“What?” she whispers, meeting my eyes, the word barely audible, licking her lips.
Instead of greeting her with words, I kiss her collarbone. Then the valley between her beautiful breasts. Pull a nipple into my mouth before dragging my nose down her stomach, tongue wetting her skin on the way down.
Instinctively, Anabelle spreads her thighs.
Eager.
My broad shoulders nestle between her legs, settling in. I spread her with my fingers, torso and tongue disappearing beneath the sheets.
She clutches the quilt, arching her back. Moans when I lap at her clit, splitting her apart.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she says as she pants, begging.
I don’t stop—of course I fucking don’t.
I suck and suck until she’s coming hard and I’m satisfied, drawing out her climax.
Climbing back up her limp, sated body.
“Anabelle?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you on birth control?”
Considering we had unprotected sex last night, it’s a little late to be asking, but it’s necessary. I don’t have a single condom in this house—stupid, I know, but it’s not like I was sleeping with anyone before last night.
“Of course I’m on birth control.” She exhales lazily. “You think I would have let you come inside me last night if I wasn’t?”
Come inside me last night.
Fucking A, that’s one sexy sentence—almost as sexy as the sounds she made last night when I was inside her. Silent, breathy moans. Tiny gasps.
My eyes drop down to her naked tits. “I don’t know. Would you?”
“No. The last thing I want is…” she pauses then wiggles her hips, causing the rushing blood in my brain to skyrocket to my dick.
It surges, giving me the green light to slide home.
Bracing my arms on either side of her head, I glide inside her slick pussy, still wet from my tongue, bearing down, all the way in.
Deep.
So deep, our pelvises connect.
When Anabelle’s mouth falls open, head listing to the side, I suck on her neck, the mattress below us dipping. Headboard hitting the wall, bedframe squeaking.
Low moans.
The slowest tortured thrusting.
The world’s most perfect morning fuck.
Her long, lean fingers fasten on my ass, urgently pulling me deeper. Emboldening me, urging me on.
It’s so goddamn intense, I swear my fucking eyes roll to the back of my head.
“Oh fuck,” I groan when my balls tighten. Body stiffening, one last grunt into her hair and I’m dumping my load inside her.
Heaven.
It’s fucking heaven.
Me: Dude. I have a major problem.
Oz: NOW what?
Me: What do you mean, NOW what?
Oz: **shrugs** Nothing, it’s just that you’ve been texting me a lot lately.
I have been texting him lately, but no more than usual.
Oz: I’m in the middle of something, so can you get to the point? No offense, but I don’t have tons of time.
Me: I had sex with my roommate.
Oz: How was it?
Fantastic, but obviously that’s not why I’m messaging him.
Me: No, you’re not listening dude. I had SEX with my roommate.
Oz: No, no man, I understood you perfectly the first time, and mad props, bro. It’s been forever since you’ve gotten laid—am I right, or am I right? HIGH FIVE.
Me: You are no help at all.
Oz: Moving along—was it a fuckfest, or just so you could get the lead out?
Me: Fuckfest.
Oz: See? Aren’t you glad you’re not living with a dude? How awkward would that have been this morning? Am I right or am I right?!
Me: Why do I bother talking to you?
Oz: Because I give good advice.
Me: No you don’t—but your girlfriend does.
Oz: Yeah, that too.
Oz: I have to give you mad props—you put your hot dog in Coach’s daughter’s bun.
I roll my eyes at his analogy.
Me: He’s not MY coach.
Oz: Hey, does that mean you won the bet Eric and Gunderson had going?
Me: Jesus Christ, you’re s
uch an asshole.
Oz: I believe the correct term is douchebag.
Me: Can we stick to the point?
Oz: If I knew what your point was, yeah.
Me: I’m freaking out—that’s what my point is.
Oz: So you screwed your roommate. How many times was it?
Me: What difference does that make?
Oz: Trust me, it matters. How many times did you fuck her?
Me: Twice.
Oz: So what’s the problem?
Me: I had sex with her TWICE.
Oz: When?
Me: Jesus, dude. Why do you want me to get specific?
Oz: Why can’t you just answer the fucking questions? If you had sex with her once it can be brushed off as a “mistake”, but twice? You’re either really fucking horny or you like her, and the fact that she let you dick her multiple times in a 24-hour period is either really good news or really bad news.
Me: Explain.
Oz: It depends on whether you like her or not.
Me: I do.
Oz: Then why are we even having this conversation?
Me: I don’t know if SHE likes me.
Oz: DUDE. SHE LET YOU FUCK HER TWICE.
Me: Good point.
Oz: Morning sex?
Me: Uh…
Oz: So I’ll take that as a yes. Nice work. Morning sex is the fucking best! I always come so hard when I’m half out of it. It’s like some serious out-of-body experience bullshit. If you’re lucky, you’ll wake up one night while she’s giving you a blow job—you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. For real.
Me: How is it that every time I text you for advice, you never have any?
Oz: This was sex-related. What kind of advice could you possibly need?
Me: I had sex with my roommate. WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW?
Oz: You do it again. Duh.
Anabelle
Elliot and I had sex.
Twice.
Three times if you count him going down on me, which I don’t because there was no penile penetration.
But still.
Elliot and I had sex!
I’ve been sleepwalking through my day, light as air, my thoughts on one thing: last night. Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm. Then again this morning.
His face between my legs.
His dick inside me.
My face flushes, and if I had a notebook handy, I’d be burying my face behind it, cheeks flaming hot. Obviously no one knows what’s going on inside my mind right now, but I feel like it’s stamped on my forehead, tattooed in neon ink: I HAD SEX WITH MY ROOMMATE LAST NIGHT!
Hang a big red sign around my neck while you’re at it.
I tug at the collar of my shirt, giving myself room to breathe. Is it hot in here? No? Just me?
“What’s wrong with you today? You high or something?”
Rex Gunderson pokes me with a pencil I doubt he’ll actually use this entire semester.
“No I’m not high. I just have some stuff on my mind.”
“Ahh.” He leans forward, balancing the desk chair on two legs. “Someone’s been running through your mind all day. Was it me?” He flashes a devilish grin. “Let me take you out again, put you out of your misery.”
If he knows about Eric Johnson showing up at my father’s house, he’s displaying no indication of it, but Rex knows I’m Coach Donnelly’s daughter, I’m sure of it.
This guy is playing the long game, and he’s playing it well. I’ll give him credit for that.
“Thanks for the offer, Gunderson, but I don’t think so.”
“Shit. My friends call me Gunderson—are you friend-zoning me, Anabelle?”
“I wouldn’t call it that, no.” More like keeping him at a distance. Despite his odd charm and weirdly charismatic personality, I still don’t trust this guy.
A few weeks ago I might have, even knowing what I know about him—that he’s a douchey little asshole who makes harmful bets. I’ve concluded that Rex Gunderson is bored: bored with being the manager of the wrestling team, bored with Iowa, and bored with school.
He’s creating drama. Generating fun.
The problem is people are getting hurt along the way. Not physically, obviously—no one has gotten sick or died—but what would have happened if Eric Johnson had shown up at my house and my parents weren’t there?
What if he was so determined to win that bet he had forced himself inside? Or forced himself on me? I don’t know anything about him, but he’s aggressive, and the big bedroom in their house seems to be worth a world of trouble to obtain.
My mind wanders, drifting to Elliot as Gunderson babbles on and on about himself. Did he have sex with me because we were both half-asleep? Because he wanted to get laid? Does he care about me, or was it purely physical?
Feelings or physical.
Feelings… Physical…
Shit, I’m so confused.
We haven’t spoken to each other in the past twenty-four hours, despite all the screwing, shyly going about our business this morning, both of us late for class after one last orgasmic quickie before the hustle.
I’m a mess today. Yoga pants, baggy sweatshirt, hair tossed up in a ponytail—I had zero time to get ready before sprinting out the door.
“So no second date?”
“Sorry, what?”
“I was asking if you wanted a second date.”
“No second date. Sorry.”
“Why?”
Because you bet your friend he couldn’t sleep with me!
Because you have a history of hazing!
Because you are sketchy as fuck!
“How about I check with my dad first? If he gives his approval, I’ll go on a date with you.”
I swear I wish I had my phone handy so I could take a picture of the expression on his face. Brows shooting up into his hairline, eyes wide, head rearing back.
“Pfft. Your dad?” He furrows his brows, acting perplexed, nose scrunched up like a baffled rabbit. It would be kind of cute—if he weren’t such a putz.
I laugh, right in his face. “Oh come off it, Gunderson. Any day now you can quit acting like you don’t know I’m Coach Donnelly’s daughter.”
He tips his head to the side, staring like I’m the confused one here. “Anabelle, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m saying, if you’re serious about dating me, I should check with my dad, Coach Donnelly, AKA your boss.”
He clutches his chest. “You went out with me knowing I was a wrestler? We have rules about this!”
This elicits a big, fat eye roll. “Rex, you can’t run around calling yourself a wrestler. You’re the team manager, which is basically like being assistant to the regional manager.”
“That was the height of rudeness.”
I tsk. “How about I mention this to my dad? You wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”
Rex Gunderson glances at me condescendingly, pursing his lips. “Anabelle, how old are you?”
What does my age have to do with this conversation?
“Twenty-one. Why?”
Gunderson shrugs, displaying forced nonchalance. “Aren’t you a little old to be asking your dad’s permission?”
I shoot him a fake, megawatt smile. “Not when it comes to matters of the heart, Rex. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”
I’m the first one to arrive home tonight, the light above our little kitchen sink offering a dim, welcoming glow. I set my bag by the door, kicking off my shoes and unknotting my rubber band until my hair falls around my shoulders.
It was a long, stressful day.
One in which I did more thinking about Elliot than I did concentrating during my classes.
But I hide from him.
Slink off to my bedroom, closing the door, afraid to bump into him in our kitchen…or our bathroom, or the hallway, and oh my God I had sex with my roommate.
Sex with my roommate.
My Lord, are there any worse offenses? Yes, because I
’ve already committed several of them this semester: Cried in a public place (the library). Blacked out drunk after a party. Passed out in a stranger’s bed. Went out with the campus idiot.
Had sex with my roommate, the same guy who saved me from myself, like a true friend would.
I cringe.
My body goes still when I hear the stirring of life at the front of the house. The door being opened and closed. Footfalls in the entryway. I imagine Elliot taking off his jacket and tossing it on the couch. Maybe sauntering into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge, leaning against the counter, shoes off, in his socks.
Alerted to his company, I cock my head to listen, waiting. Praying he doesn’t try to come find—
A soft knock sounds at my bedroom door.
“Ana?” He knocks again. “You in here?”
“Yeah—yes.” Fuss with my hair before answering, straightening my sweatshirt. “The door is unlocked, come in. I’m decent.”
I groan at that last comment; what difference does it make if I’m decent? He’s already seen me naked. He’s seen my—
The metal doorknob turns, time lapsing in slow motion as Elliot eases the door open, his sweet, sexy face appearing in tiny fragments, small bits at a time.
When the door is open all the way, it hits me how happy I am to lay eyes on him after a long day—so happy I want to pounce on him, kiss his beautiful face all over just to watch the changes in him as he reacts to me.
Instead, I stay firmly planted in the center of my twin bed, textbook spread on the coverlet, highlighter poised in my hand, ready for business—or at least pretending to be.
Breathlessly, I wait.
Petrified of rejection.
What if he wants to pretend last night and this morning never happened? Or that it was a huge mistake? I’ll be humiliated. Living across the hall from the guy you just slept with is the most awkward form of the walk of shame. It would be like a marathon of shame.
“How’s it going in here?”
Instinctively, I sense him weighing his words, treading lightly. Unsure.
So, doing my best to appear nonchalant, I shrug casually. “Good. Just catching up on a paper I should have written but spaced out on. What about you?”