“All right, baby, out with you,” I said gently. She swims to the surface of conscious thought, her eyes flicking open languorously. There is desire and need in them, and I want to pleasure her. Give me a sign, baby. But she stays silent, and finally I lift her out of the tub and wrap a towel around her and push her right out the door.
Closing the door, I strip out of my jeans and underwear and take hold of my throbbing cock. It really only wants Regan, I can tell, but my palm is the only relief it’s going to get right now. I step into the cold shower and with one hand leaning against the tile, I take my cock in the other.
It doesn’t take long. The cold water doesn’t wash away the image of her body in front of me, the look of pleasure written large across her face as she tipped it backward into the stream of water. In my fantasy she drops lower and unzips my jeans and parts the sodden fabric of the denim. Her delicate hands reach in and pull out my cock. She makes a sound of pleasure—like a hum of want—and then tells me, “You’re so big.” Her eyes are large saucers of green, and her pink plush lips open and cover me.
She never stops looking at me, never stops telegraphing how much she loves this. I can hear the sounds of her moans around my cock, muffled by the thick flesh in her mouth but still audible. My balls draw up and a familiar tension sits low on my spine. Not the first time, I think. I pull away abruptly and lift her into my arms. Pressing her against the tile, I shove into her wet heat, and she screams in my ear that she loves it so much. I imagine that her cunt is tight and wet and hot. Her walls grip me as I slide out, as if she can’t bear to lose even one inch.
Each thrust inside her body is like being hugged by a warm fist. It’s been so goddamn long, and I let out a low moan of relief. My head drops back, too heavy for my neck to support. All my energy is focused on the blood coursing through my cock as I imagine pounding into Regan over and over.
A porn reel wouldn’t sound hotter than Regan’s pants and cries. “You feel so good. You’re so big. I want you so much. Come all over me.” And so I do. I jet into her with long streams of ropey cum that seem to be endless. Only it’s my hand, and the cold water seeps into my nerves, and I finish cleaning off. As good as that felt, I know that it would be five thousand times better inside of her. But I also know that my hand is as close as I’m ever going to get to being inside Regan.
Regan
IT ISN’T FAIR.
I don’t mind that Daniel shoved me out of the bathroom. I kind of expected it, actually. I was selfish enough to ask him to help me shower, knowing it’d drive him crazy and not caring that it did. Maybe in the back of my mind, it was a test to see how far I could push him. How insane with lust I could make him before he broke his word and started grabbing me. Then, maybe, I’d understand him. My brain would go Yep, he’s like every other man, and I could tuck him away into the same mental category that all men fell into now: users.
But Daniel never breaks his word. He never touches me sexually, and by the time he boots me out of the shower, I’m confused and a little sad to leave him behind in there.
I liked being touched by him. I liked that he touched me and I didn’t have to worry. That no one was going to be forcing me to do anything, and that there was only caressing and tenderness. And god, I’ve missed tenderness so much.
I peel the towels off of my body, give my hair a quick rub to soak some of the water off, and then crawl back into bed and pull the sheets tight around my body. I should put clothes on, but I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable.
It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.
I should be thinking of my boyfriend.
The thought occurs to me, and I flush with guilt, huddling a little lower under the sheets. I haven’t thought of Mike much at all, lately. Does he miss me? Mourn me like I’m dead? Shouldn’t I be dying to get back to him instead of having all these mixed-up feelings about Daniel? Mike’s a good-looking guy. We’ve been together since high school. Hell, I picked the college I went to because Mike wanted to go there.
But Mike never gives you orgasms, my traitorous brain whispers. He never kisses you like Daniel did.
Has to be Stockholm, I tell myself. I hear the water going in the other room and figure Daniel must be showering himself at this point. He won’t be out for a few minutes. I can call Mike and . . . let him know I’m alive. That’s what a good girlfriend would do.
I pick up Daniel’s phone and dial the number to Mike’s apartment. He won’t answer his cell unless he knows who the caller is, so I’ll try there first. After four rings, it goes to voicemail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Mike and Becca. Leave a message after the beep!”
I hang up, horrified but not entirely surprised. Mike and my best friend Becca? Mike and my oldest girlfriend? The one that was always telling me how lucky I am to have a guy as great as Mike?
How easy must it have been for them to get together if they’re both mourning me? All it’d take would be a bottle of wine, some mutual sad commiseration, and then naturally, of course, they fucking move in together.