As her inner muscles begin violently squeezing my dick, I can’t take it anymore and spill inside her. It’s officially been the longest orgasm I’ve ever had in my thirty-one years of life. And the most violent one. I just keep spilling and spilling and spilling inside of her until I’m fully spent.
Inside of her.
Inside of her.
Fuck!
I forgot about the most crucial part during sex.
“Kayla, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” I apologize as soon as I’m able to control my voice again.
“For what?” She looks petrified. She still has this post-orgasmic glow, but her eyes quickly sober up.
“I forgot a condom. Fuck, it’s the first time I ever forgot a condom. Whatever happens, I’ll help.” I state and realize that I’m not scared of what might happen.
“Whatever happens?” She repeats.
“Yes, if you, you know, get pregnant or something.”
Her eyes widen, and she laughs. "We're good; I'm on the pill."
"Why are you on the pill? Were you planning on doing it? With him?" A new wave of anger erases all the high I just reached.
"Oh my gosh, Justin, women can be on birth control without having a man in their lives. Shocker, I know." She grabs a comforter and pulls it over her. I stand up, so she doesn't have to move my body to get under the covers.
“So you weren’t planning on having sex with him?” Whatever she said hasn’t registered in my brain.
“Why are you so obsessed with him?” She throws at me accusingly.
“I’m not obsessed with him. I’m obsessed with you.” I say, surprising us both.
Her eyes widen, and she blinks slowly, watching me. Once she gets her wits together (I should do that too), she says: "I'm clean, by the way. In case you were wondering. It's not like I was whoring around, as you know.” She quirks her eyebrow, and I feel my cheeks pinken in shame of my assumptions.
"Me too. Never done it without a condom, and I get regular check-ups anyway. Haven't been with anyone since my last one." I'm not ashamed to share it because she needs to know I'm not putting her at risk here.
“Must have been yesterday.” She snorts.
"What?" I go to the bathroom for a quick clean-up, and she follows.
"Your last check-up." She clarifies.
“Actually, about eight months, I think.” To think of it, maybe even nine. I clean myself with wet wipes while watching her every move. How her hand disappears between her legs, cleaning the wetness I created. How it moves across her thighs—the same ones I held onto a few moments ago. And just like that, I'm getting hard again. She doesn't notice my intense stare as she finishes cleaning up and goes to the bedroom. This time around, I'm the one following her.
“W-what?” She stutters while climbing into the bed. “You haven’t been with anyone?”
“Yeah, been busy.”
“For eight months?” Her face looks like she just realized Santa Clause isn’t real.
“Yeah, for eight months.” This conversation is making me uncomfortable. As if I should be embarrassed for not fucking the whole city. I crawl to bed and say, “Scoot over.”
“What?” She looks gobsmacked.
“Scoot over so I can lay down.”
She silently moves to one side, looking at me cautiously, like I can pounce on her anytime now. And I can, seeing as my dick roars to life again the second I catch a glimpse of her tits. I climb under the covers, grab her, and pull her toward me. She's surprised, as am I because I'm not a cuddler. But with her, all bets are off, or so it seems.
Her head lands in the groove of my shoulder, her tight fist on my chest. I want her to throw her leg over me and relax, but she’s cautious, and I don't blame her. I wrap my arm around her and begin making small, calming circles on her back. Eventually, her little fist relaxes, and her palm lands on my pec.
