“Say my name again,” he says, slamming into me.
“Finn.”
“Louder.”
“Finn.”
“Scream my name.”
“Finn,” I yell. Hopefully, no wild animals are now curious what’s going on in their territory. My orgasm fades, because now I feel silly. And I am not bendy. I drop a leg from his shoulder.
“God, you’re so hot.” In our scissor position, he scoots me along the grass with powerful pumps. I’m feeling like a lawnmower, but the climax will be worth it. “Your pussy is so fucking tight. So tight.”
Although I appreciate the compliment, it’s sort of distracting.
I give it back a little, to see how he likes it, “You’re so big.”
His hips buck faster. “You want my big dick?”
“Yes. So big.” With each bounce, I continue, “So, so, so big.”
My repetitive dialogue doesn’t slow his pace. He loves it.
“You’re so dirty. Tell me what you want me to do.”
He adds a finger to the mix, pressing my clit, and my orgasm reappears.
“Yes, do that. Please, please, don’t stop.”
“You like it when I fuck your tight pussy?”
“Mm-hmm.” Why is this a problem for me? Am I defective? I don’t understand why I’m not preening with pride that he finds the lack of looseness sexy. Maybe it’s the uncomfortable position with my leg askew and the course friction of the ground against my back. Well, if I don’t say something, this was all for nothing and I could potentially have to fake my orgasm. I really don’t want to do that. What lioness fakes it?
“I need on top.”
“Ah, fuck yeah.” We roll back over. “Ride my big cock.”
That was easy. Ask and receive.
“Come for me, my little slut.”
Ugh. I’m trying my best here. The odds should be in my favor. He’s sexy and ripped and has a ginormous dick. So why am I struggling? This is taking way too long, but it seems rude to tell him I’m not feeling his dirty talk in the throes of passion. I’ll just keep trying. I kiss him, long and slow, to avoid further talking. He leads me back to that rapturous place I was in before the jumble of Kama Sutra positions happened. Bubbles dance along my skin, ready to burst. Astride him, I plant my feet and use his solid chest for leverage to find reprieve.
Briefly, anyway.
I’m still sore from the workout yesterday, and my legs are numb from the numerous pretzel shapes.
This must be my punishment for trying to distract from the Austin question with sex. I need to regroup, so I stop moving and attempt to clear my head. I’m hyper-aware of everything now and attaining climax seems impossible. I’ve been here before and don’t want a repeat of all the things I’ve done wrong. Once you fake it, it becomes a cycle.
Finn bends up yet again, wrapping his arms around me. “Who do you belong to, Chloe?”
I can’t answer. A shooting star streaks across the sky, and I wish...well, I can’t say what I wish for in this moment. I close my eyes, and do something horrible, something shameful.
An owl hoots in the distance, repeating Finn’s question, mocking me for imagining dark eyes and a dimple. Music notes lead me back to orgasm heaven, but I can’t let myself unlock the gate. It’s so wrong.
I open my eyes. Finn watches me, waiting for my answer.
If I say it, maybe it will make it true, “You.”
I silently apologize and fake it.
Ten
Raspberry is not my color. Turns out, all that scooting around on the lawn in the dead of night connected me with the wild in ways I couldn’t have imagined—a spider bit me on the ass.
“You’re so swollen, you remind me of a balloon,” Austin says, peering over at my bloated face. “Bet that clown guy at the craft fair could shape you into a little animal.”
“Please, don’t make me laugh. If I split open, you’ll never get history facts again.” I claw at my neck and arms.
“Sorry,” he says, but the humor in his eyes tells a different story.
“Thank you for taking me to the emergency room.” Charlotte and Mr. Charlotte-to-be have an early meeting with their wedding planner later this morning and June can’t see to drive at night, so Austin was my savior. “I hated to ask, but my body itches so badly, I didn’t know if I could stay on the road.”
“Don’t be silly, Chloe. I didn’t mind.”
Why do these things happen to me? The spider bite is karma for the fauxgasm. When Finn drove me back to my place, I was so lost in guilty thoughts, I didn’t pay attention to the faint itching of my body. Nor the soreness on my bottom. I wrote it off to an aftereffect from the spanking. It was my first time, so how was I to know the throbbing sensation stemmed from a spider?
After I showered, it was clear the red hue of my skin wasn’t from the scorching water. Swollen and itching so badly I wanted to skin myself alive, I called Finn.
“Take some Benadryl, babydoll. You’ll be fine,” he said before he let me go so he could sleep.
Part of having a person is them being there for you in emergencies, isn’t it? That article Charlotte wrote about superheroes was full of lies. SuperFinn did not rush to save me in my distress. Not to mention, I didn’t even have Benadryl and therefore could have died. That’s dramatic, but sue me. Not having to fend for yourself is an expected perk of a relationship I didn’t receive. Well, at least I have friends to lean on at two a.m. when rogue spiders come calling.
Pink tinges the brightening sky as Austin pulls into the driveway and parks. “Do you need me to stay with you?”
“No, no.” I grab my handbag. “The doctor said the shot will make the allergic reaction pass soon. Go home and get some sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”
He bites his lip. “Is Finn coming over to stay with you?”
“No. He has a training session this morning, and after that, basketball with some friends.” I see the judgement written all over his face. “It’s okay, really. Thanks again.” I open the door. “You’re a lifesaver. Literally.”
He pulls the key from the ignition. “I can’t let you stay by yourself.”
“I’ll be okay.“
Chivalry isn’t dead. He ignores me and exits. Life would be so much easier if he’d drive away. How can I stop comparing the two men when Austin insists on staying and my boyfriend is nowhere to be found?
I’m too tired to convince him I’ll be fine, so he follows me inside and I stretch out on the couch.
“You should go home,” I tell him. “You must be exhausted too.”
“Nope. Not leaving. I’ll just take a nap.”
I let my eyes drift close as he settles into the club chair angled across from me. Not exactly the nap date I wanted, but I’ll take it.
I’m a fraud. A phony who skipped SuperFit to eat ice cream with Charlotte and Austin. It feels lovely to not suffer through leg lifts and grumble in my head the entire time, though. What a relief to take a day off from fitness. What a relief to just spend time with my people. Is it normal to have these thoughts only a month in? I’m sure it’s not.
“You know, it just feels like I’m consumed by squatting and running nowhere on a treadmill,” I say as we wait our turn at Every Day Is Sundae. “I don’t get it. Am I supposed to get it? Is there something wrong with me?”
This is a question I truly need answered. It’s been a week since the tiny house incident, and during that week, there’s been no more sex.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Austin says.
“I think the amount of people here confirms ice cream trumps exercise,” Charlotte adds. “There’s a delicate balance between healthy and fanatical.”
The guilt weighing on my shoulders lightens. It’s like a twisted form of aromatherapy, letting my troubles out, surrounded by the sweet scent of freshly baked waffle cones.
The line shuffles forward and so do we until it’s reward time.
“What can I get for you?” t
he lanky cashier asks me.
Finn’s lecture about making good choices blares in my mind.
“I’ll just need a moment to decide.”
While Austin and Charlotte order, the containers of frozen flavors behind the glass case tempt me to get a scoop of each. It’s been weeks since I’ve indulged in decadent treats.
On the plus side, when I arrived, I could have sworn I saw Austin’s eyes linger on my newly toned body. And Charlotte straight up smacked my ass and declared it hard enough to bounce a quarter, which caused Austin to involuntarily look a second time and make noncommittal noises.
On the negative side, if I still care that Austin’s looking, and tallying the number of glances, then he definitely isn’t out of my system.
Even though I desperately want the real thing, I say, “I’ll have a scoop of fat-free vanilla.”
“No, she won’t,” Austin says. He turns to me and lowers his voice, “You like chocolate peanut butter. Full fat. Full flavor. Fat-free is not you.”
He’s right. I faked an orgasm. Must I fake ice cream too?
“Give me two scoops of chocolate peanut butter, please.”
“That’s my girl,” Austin says. “Today we’re rebelling.”
Yes. I’m not his girl, but I am a rebel. With our cups in hand, we head to the sprawling topping bar.
“Pain is weakness leaving the body!” Finn likes to yell at me in the gym. Clearly I haven’t suffered enough, because I am weak enough to load a pound’s worth of chocolate chips, peanut butter cups, and Oreos onto my double-scoop. No one judges me for my abundance of toppings, and it’s nice.
With my weighted cup, I follow Austin and Charlotte to a vacant table.
“It feels so good to just relax today,” Charlotte groans as she stretches across a whole side of the booth, forcing me to slide my supple rear just inches from Austin’s. “My future in-laws are a lot. I thought wedding planning was exhausting on its own. And then slightly more so with my mother involved. But they are so picky you’d think it was their wedding. Or at least their money.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “What are they giving you problems about?”
“Ugh, the venue for one.” She points her spoon at me. “But this idea is the worst… They want a ring warming ceremony.”
I laugh. “What’s that?”
“His parents want our bands passed among the guests to lay their hands on. Margaret said it sends love and good energy to them.” She shakes her head. “No. Just no. What if someone secretly sends bad vibes?”
“I think you’re safe, even if they do,” Austin says with a half-smile.
“Oh”—she turns to face us—“and this… Instead of bouquets, his mom said she could make wreaths. Wreaths.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
“No, it’s not interesting. All I can picture is tossing my wreath instead of a bunch of flowers like I’m lasso-ing single bridesmaids. It’s weird. I want the dream wedding with bushels of flowers. I want the whole fantasy. Ya know?”
Yeah, I do. Since Charlotte started planning her wedding, fantasies of my own have materialized. Her pending nuptials have unleashed a potential bridezilla within me. It’s like women’s menstrual cycles syncing. I’ve become matrimony synced.
“Isn’t the dream ending up with the person you love?” Austin says, giving Charlotte a pointed look.
“No.” She laughs. “Well, hypothetically, what would you guys want?”
Austin shifts on the red pleather and his forearm brushes mine. The innocent act causes the fine hairs on my arm to salute. Why must my body betray me in such cliché ways? I’m trying here.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever get married,” he says.
“Really?” I can’t help but ask.
His dark eyes stay on his strawberry ice cream. “It’s not something I’m planning.”
“What about you, Chloe?” Charlotte asks.
It’s my turn to shift in my seat. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it,” I fib.
“Spill,” Austin directs with a raised brow.
I dig tunnels in my ice cream with my spoon. “I guess for myself, I envision an intimate ceremony. The napkins will be printed with fun history facts of us. There’ll be an artist live painting the ceremony so we can hang it in our home.
“Aw,” Charlotte coos.
“Granny Mae will do the dessert bar, and the menu will be a replica of food from our first date.” I look up. “Oh God, Finn and I had wings. I can’t have messy wings in a white satin gown. I’ll be starving at my own wedding.”
Charlotte’s spoon halts mid-air on the way to her mouth. “You’d marry Finn?”
“Well, no. I mean…” Warmth floods my face. “We’re just dating.” Awkward silence. “So, uh, how’s the move going?”
“I’m almost all the way out,” Charlotte says.
“What about you, Austin?” What I really need to know is, have you found a roommate yet and please say Finn or a total hot babe hasn’t signed up, but that’s not really something one blurts out.
“I’m still looking for someone else to rent the place,” Austin adds.
Charlotte makes it so much worse with, “Isn’t Lucy thinking of moving in?”
Somehow, I manage not to spin my head to Austin and continue with my mountain of ice cream as if his answer is meaningless to me. However, he doesn’t respond. I move my gaze from whipped cream to him.
“Did you complete your menu yet?” he asks Charlotte. “You know I judge every wedding by the food.”
She doesn’t seem to notice he didn’t answer her question and launches into a discussion about food options with Austin. But I notice. I notice everything. If he isn’t answering, he must be thinking about it. If Lucy is moving in, that means things are serious. But I guess that’s the goal of relationships? It shouldn’t be shocking they’ve moved to that stage, but it is.
A shadow darkens the table, and I look up to see a stern-faced Finn.
“Oh, hi,” I say, much too bubbly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Thought you were trying out a new clay today.”
“I did.” Not really. “And rewarded myself.”
His horrified eyes flit from the most likely fat-free sugar-free frozen yogurt in his hand to the mounds precariously balanced atop my full-fat, all-the-sugar ice cream.
“This”—he shows his sparse little cup with a frown—“is my reward for hitting a new personal record today. My reward for a solid workout. Which you were supposed to be joining me on.”
“Oh, was that today?” I say, as weakly as my willpower. “I decided to get dessert at the last minute.” Which is true, but if I’d been honest about my aversion to excessive fitness, maybe I wouldn’t be in this awkward position?
“No dessert for deserters,” Finn teases. At least, I think he’s teasing. “Oh, hey, Austin,” he says as if he just noticed who was at the table with me. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you want to shoot some hoops with me and a few friends?”
“I’ll let you know.”
They chitchat idly for a few minutes about basketball, and then I walk outside with Finn.
“Sorry about missing the gym.” I should confess why I didn’t show. “I just—”
He cuts me off, “You can make it up to me by coming to dinner with me.”
A bit relieved I don’t have to have this conversation in the parking lot, I agree, “Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up at six.” He kisses my forehead. “We’ll talk later.”
Yes, we’ll have a serious talk. At dinner, I’ll tell him all the things I want to say and everything will work out.
Eleven
Internet experts recommend waiting, at minimum, three months to introduce family. Of all the rules, I’d say this is most critical to heed.
I knew I should have made Finn turn the car around when he released the news that dinner would be at his parents’ home. How do you fail to mention something that impor
tant? After being blindsided, I was too nervous to discuss the excess exercise. While he blasted Beethoven, I spent the twenty-minute drive researching appropriate time frames and one month-ish is not within the recommendation.
Breaking this commandment has resulted in dire consequences, preventing me from being accepted into the family fold. Seems like Finn’s parents are a fifty-fifty split on me, and I’m at a loss on what to do to salvage this connection. It’s important to love your boyfriend’s family. And they should love you. Or at least tolerate you.
At this moment, I can only hope the spider indeed bestowed superpowers on me and I’ll shoot webs from my hands and swing out of here.
“Why don’t you lift Chloe over your head,” his dad, Phineas, says. “Show us how strong you are.”
Finn chuckles beside me on the linen-clad sofa, and I swear he’s contemplating it. “She’s wearing a dress, Dad.”
“That she is,” Phineas murmurs.
As his cornflower blue eyes do a lazy track over me, I…I am appalled.
Since we arrived for dinner, Phineas has not stopped flirting with me. It’s overt and unsettling. A lingering hand on my shoulder after pulling out my chair at dinner. Placing my napkin in my lap. Making a “That’s what she said,” comment when I remarked, “I’ve never seen one that big” regarding their chandelier.
None of my ex-boyfriend’s fathers made me feel uncomfortable, and I’m doing my best to pretend it isn’t happening. I’d rather endure the daggers being thrown my way from Finn’s new-ish stepmother.
“So, you’re an artist?” Jacqueline, hurling another subliminal knife at me with her narrowed hazel eyes, asks.
I fend off her dagger with a timid smile, hoping I’ll wear down her hostility with my sunny demeanor. “Yes. A potter, specifically.”
“I have no idea what that is,” she says from a throne-like chair in their museum of a living room.
Finn failed to mention his family’s obvious wealth. My mouth literally dropped open when he pulled into the circular drive of the Tudor-style mansion. The opulent house is filled with pricey artwork and plush furnishings. Which begs the question—why is he trying to move in with Austin?
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