4
Myles
She fell asleep halfway through the movie. It was only when she fell asleep that her tension receded at all—until then, she’d been stiff as a board, every muscle tensed, as if just relaxing on the couch with me was some awful punishment. It seemed to make her uncomfortable—as uncomfortable as when I brought up the status of our relationship. Or asked about her past. Or acted like I felt anything for her beyond sexual attraction.
Granted, my sexual attraction to her was off the damned charts. Believe me when I say I’ve considered every position and angle I could have her on this jet, and that I’ve been sitting here, while she slept, imagining them all. As if I hadn’t fucked her stupid last night, and again this morning, and then less than an hour after fucking her this morning, she’d given me a handjob to end all handjobs which, until Lexie, I hadn’t thought was even a thing, apart from having been a typical teenage boy. Until Lexie, the last handjob I’d gotten was at sixteen with my first girlfriend, and that had been the first thing we’d done beyond kissing and over-the-clothes groping. Lexie made it…sensual. Erotic. Not just jerking me off, but…something else. Something way, way hotter.
The Lexie Special.
I considered her statement from earlier this morning that she didn’t do blowjobs. Meaning, that she didn’t swallow. I mean, sure, that’s her prerogative. Totally her choice, and no problem on my end with it. And I’m in no way slut shaming her, but it just seemed out of character. She was hypersexual. She wanted me as much as I wanted her—she instigated sex as much as I did if not more. She used her mouth on me, and to incredible effect. But it was always part of something else, and never to finish. I didn’t know what to make of it. I wouldn’t push it, because if that’s a line for her, I respect that utterly. But considering how much of a sexual creature she is, it just strikes me as…odd. There has to be a story behind it.
But good luck getting that story out of her, though. I knew that all too well.
She never talked about herself. I wasn’t even supposed to know about the affair and the abortion—I’d overheard the story as she delivered it as an outburst, spontaneously and angrily, to her sister Charlie. There’d been nothing else of her past related to me in the almost three months I’d known her. I’m not saying I’m gonna propose any time soon, but I’ve got real feelings for the girl, and fuck if I know what they are or how to deal with them, especially when she spooks if she gets so much as a whiff of anything smacking of feelings.
She had some shit buried deep. I wondered if her family even knew, because she is cagey as shit about it, whatever it is.
I mulled it over, wondering if I’d ever get anything real out of her. Was this “thing” we had doomed to be nothing but a run of mind-altering sex with a woman I was falling in love with real fucking fast? Was it fated to end before it became anything real because she was…shit, I didn’t even know what? Afraid? Afraid of commitment, of me, of my fame, of feelings? Had she been hurt by a guy? That seemed likely, given her history of hookups and casual sex and dearth of information about any past boyfriends.
I think I was the closest she’d ever gotten to a regular relationship. She had lived with me for two months; those months have been telling, and I know they were wearing on her. Making her antsy. Cagey. Anxious to move on before she can’t help but start having feelings for me.
Or maybe she already did have feelings but was trying to stifle them and ignore them.
Feelings. It was weird thatIwas the one angling to talk about shit, because I normally hated talking about shit. I liked to play music, perform, hang out with my band, and party. And have sex.
With Lexie.
Until I met her, my list of likes would have stopped at “and have sex.”
But now, I just can’t fathom wanting sex with anyone else. It wouldn’t be…enough. No one could scream the way she does. No one could clench her pussy around my cock the way she does—with vise-grip power, squeezing me so hard even if I wanted to hold out, I couldn’t. When she came, when she started squeezing those tight-as-fuck pussy muscles around me, I just fucking lost it. Gone.
That’s just sex, that’s not to mention the way she looks at me—her sense of humor, her sense of style. Her boldness, her vicious tongue. Her fierce independence. The way, every once in a while, I’d get a glimpse of something soft and sweet and tender inside her.
My thoughts were disrupted as she flipped to one side and rested against my chest, snorting delicately. She pillowed her cheek on her hands, sucked in a deep breath, and let it out with an adorable, piggish littlesnurk. She would deny snoring, but she does. I’ll never tell her, though.
I had to piss like crazy, but no way I was about to dislodge her—not when she’s finally snuggling.
Shit, man. Me, snuggling, and happy about it? I barely recognize myself, sometimes.
The intercom crackled as Captain Murphy came on: “We’ve been cleared to approach for landing, so please buckle up, Mr. North, Ms. Goode. We’ll be touching down in Seattle shortly. Thanks.”
“Lex,” I murmured. “Gotta wake up. Landing soon.”
“Mmm.”
I jostled her gently. “Lexie. Babe.”
“Mmm-mmm.”
“Lex, we’re landing soon. You have to buckle up.”
She shook her head, rubbed my chest. “Sleeping. You shushy.”
I laughed. “Come on, silly girl. Don’t make me tickle you.”
She tightened. “Don’t. Tickle me and I’ll punch you in the nads. I hate being tickled.”
“You gotta buckle up, hon. We’re landing.”
