The Absolutely True Story of Us (9 page)

"Who are these for?"

"Nobody."

Smack.

"Who are these for?"

"It doesn't matter."

Smack.

"Who are these for?"
 

"Me."

Smack.

"Who are these for?"

"Fuck you."

Smack.

"Maybe, if you're lucky. Who are these for?"

She falls silent. I pick up my pace. One, two, three, four, five, in quick succession, each one harder than the last.
 

She whimpers.

"Who are these for?" I lay my palm flat on her ass, grabbing a handful of quickly reddening flesh. "You better get it right."

"You," she whispers, at last.

I didn't know that was the answer I was looking for. But it tells me what I need to know. She's surrendering to me, at least for tonight. At least for now.

I grab a fistful of her hair and pull her upright. My body's pressed tight against hers, cock aching to be let free, but I don't. Not yet.

***

Lissy

"Tell me now if you don't want this." His voice rasps in my ear, and it's a useless thing to say because he knows I can't. I'm incapable. I moan softly as his fingers finally slip underneath the waistband of my panties, sliding down and dipping in just enough to feel how hot and wet I am.

I'm beyond turned on, and he knows it. I both hear and feel the sharp intake of breath as he explores my swollen lips, fingers finally stroking along either side of the hard bud at the apex. I cry out softly, knees buckling.

I wonder if he's thinking about the fact that I was never like this before. Not for him. He's never felt me this needy, never experienced my body turned up to such a fever pitch.
 

"You want to come?" he asks, softly, almost sing-songy like this is some kind of fucking game. It's not about what I want anymore. I'm aching, deep in my pelvis - is
this
what it feels like when girls get blue balls?

"Fuck you," I grit out, and he chuckles.
 

His fingers press harder against my most sensitive spot, and I gasp, pressing my ass against him, feeling his cock twitch heavily in response. He ruts against me for a moment, seeming to lose himself, before he remembers that he's supposed to be teasing me.

"All right, then," he pants, and I begin to realize he's almost in the same state I am. Fuck if that doesn't take me a notch higher, my blood pulsing in my veins, head swimming. "Come for me."

He rubs slowly but firmly, in little circles. Normally I need more. More speed, more rhythm, just more. But this isn't normal. I clench deep inside, and he starts moving against me, really thrusting in earnest this time, as the sparks go off behind my closed eyelids and I shout wordlessly, supported only by his arm around my waist, holding me up.

I come for so long I forget my own name.
 

His hips stutter against me and I start to regain my awareness of reality. I know what those sharp breaths in my ear mean.

"Dean," I whisper, intending to tell him to wait just a second, because he just gave me the best orgasm of my life and he deserves better than dry-humping. I want him inside me.

But he just groans incoherently, and I know I'm too late. Even through the leather I can feel him pulsing and swelling as he spills his come, and yeah, it's a little bit intoxicating that I turned him on as much as he turned me on. So much he couldn't wait, couldn't even undress enough to jerk off onto me. All he could do was rut against me like we're wild animals, desperation taking over and ruining all semblance of good sense.

It's more than a little intoxicating.

"I was going to tell you to fuck me," I gasp, still out of breath somehow.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I'll get back to you about that in about twenty minutes." He seems to contemplate this for a moment. "...ten?"

Giggling softly, I try to take a step forward on shaky legs.
 

"Don't." His lips are pressed against the back of my neck. "Where are you going?"

"To bed," I purr. "Unless you were just bluffing."

He lifts his fingers to my lips and I part for him, licking them eagerly, tasting myself. "You want me that bad, huh?" he murmurs. "Can't get enough."

I nod, mouth still full of his fingers.
 

"Can't hear you," he growls, pulling them away abruptly.

"Yes, Sir," I tell him, breathlessly, accidentally slipping into the same exact phrasing I'm supposed to use with M. Not that it's uncommon. But still, it feels strange.
 

When we stumble through the doorway and fall into my bed, I can't stop giggling. I don't know why. There's nothing particularly funny about this, and it's especially not going to be funny in the morning when I really have a chance to reflect on what I've done.

"What?" Dean is grinning as he grabs my wrists, pinning me down on the mattress.
 

"That was the best sex we've ever had, and we didn't even have sex." I lick my lips, trying to remember how he tastes.
 

"Not yet," he murmurs, leaning in and planting a series of feather-light kisses on my face and neck. "Just wait until you find out what else I've learned how to do."

Lissy

My family, of course, wants to go "clothes shopping in the city." After living here for as long as I have, I'm no longer enamored of the many boutiques and stores that send tourists into a frenzy. And not just because it's so hard to find anything that fits me there.

Thankfully, my family's respective budgets keep us from spending too long in the places where the clerks seem like they're staring through your soul if you're over a size two. We're at a place that's more my speed now, and I might actually pick up a few things. I could probably use some pajamas that don't have holes in them.

It's February, which naturally means that the swimsuits are out. I find myself looking for a little too long at the bikinis.

I mean, maybe M's right. Maybe it really can be as simple as making a decision, squeezing myself into a swimsuit, and daring the world to judge me.

Dean and I haven't discussed what happened last night. He was already awake when I got up, so I'm not even sure if he spent the night in my bed.
 

Whatever. It's not worth thinking about. It's not like it...
meant
something, or anything like that.

My hand drifts across a rack and stops on something strappy with a pretty nice green pattern.

"Really?" Dean grins at me. "I thought for sure that was just the champagne talking when you started asking me about bikinis again."

"Yeah, well." I pick up the bottoms and stretch them out to full size, cringing a little. Is that really what I look like? "I've been thinking about it."

"Thinking," he repeats. He's skeptical and I don't know why, but it bugs me.

"I talked to a friend," I admit, finally, to get him off my back. He doesn't need to know who the "friend" is. "I realized maybe I've been unfair to myself."

And unfair to you.

I didn't want to think about it at the time, but all that stuff about turning off the lights during sex and shooting down ideas of sexy outfits - yeah, that was me. I didn't realize how I was probably chipping away at Dean's ego in little bits and pieces, every time I unknowingly demonstrated that I didn't really care how sexy he thought I was. My own insecurities mattered more.

Nothing excuses what he did, but if I could go back and do it over? I'd be different. I would, in the immortal words of M, wear a damn bikini.

It's too late now, of course. Sure, we had sex last night - a few times - but I'm not getting entangled with him again. Now that I know what kind of person he is, I'd be insane to let him get under my skin. But there's no harm in a little no-strings-attached fun.
 

I can picture Jack giving me a very disapproving look. I brush it away.

In the end, I find myself in a fitting room with a couple "fatkinis" slung over my arm. That's what they call them on the fashion blogs, I think. The high-waisted numbers that still show a lot more skin than I'm comfortable with. I have a feeling this is going to end badly, but I try one on anyway.

"Nope!" I say, out loud.

"Everything okay in there?" my mom calls out.

"Yep," I shout back, turning away from the mirror. "Never been better."

***

Because my life has spun completely out of control, I text M from the fitting room of the next store my sisters drag me into.

Just for the record, I tried a bikini. It was a disaster. 0/10, would not recommend.

M: Let me be the judge of that.

I didn't take a picture. Trust me. I looked like Shamu.

M: That's not very attractive, you know.

I'm aware.

M: No. I mean the way you talk about yourself. If you act like you're sexy, everyone will believe it.

I don't think it really works that way. I live in New York City. There are actual beautiful people here.

M: I've been to New York, you know. I'm not a farmer.

I guess I've never thought about where you live before.

M: Don't get derailed, Lana.

So are you near here?
 

M: I come there for business often enough. It's not too far.

I don't know why that makes my heart leap in my chest. We're never going to meet. Ever.
 

Huh.

M: Huh. Why the sudden interest?

I've just always been curious.

M: Really.

Really.

M: I don't believe you.

Believe it. I'm not angling for anything.

M: Do you know this hotel?

The next message is a link to one of the nicer places downtown. I think I've probably gone past it a few times, although I've never stayed there. Never had any reason to.

More or less.

M: If you ever decide you want to see me, go there. Book a room. I know you can afford it. Text me your room number and I'll be there.

I actually snort out loud. How ridiculous of a proposition is that? Does he think he's the mysterious billionaire from one of these books? Nobody acts like that in real life.

Haha, okay.

M: Did I say something funny?

You really expect me to do that?

M: Sweetheart, I know you will.

You're insane.

M: And you're being awfully disrespectful.

What are you going to do, come over here and punish me?

M: Won't be long until you're begging me for it. But no. I know you're not ready to meet me.
 

It's not a question of being ready, I'm not interested.

M: Don't want to make this too real, hm?

That's not why.

M: Afraid someone will find out?

No. I just don't want to. This is fun, but I have no interest in escalating.

M: I beg to differ. Everything that's happened between us is pure escalation. It's only a matter of time.

Well, you keep that hope alive.

M: Have you ever been spanked?

My face starts burning. There's no way I'm ready to admit that happened between me and Dean, even without the shameful backstory and the tiny fact that we happen to be broken up.

Not the way you're talking about.

M: You write about it an awful lot for someone who's never experienced it.

"A lot?" Two books. I write to the market.

M: Right. So you only write about spanking because of Fifty Shades.

Yep.

M: I don't like it when you lie to me.

Why do you care if I'm curious? You can't do it. You'll never get to even touch my ass, let alone smack it.

M: When I've got my cock buried inside you someday, I'm going to remind you that you said that.

I close the app quickly, my heart pounding.

***

"Um, Lissy?"

I walk towards my bedroom doorway where Dean is standing, staring up.

"Yes?" I say, slowly.

"There seems to be a tiny problem with your..." He steps back. "...ceiling. Situation."

By "problem," he means a giant, sagging leak, nearly the size of my bed.

Because, of
course
.

We just managed to extricate ourselves from the all-day grasp of my parents, and now my goddamn ceiling is caving in. I don't even have the energy to be upset about it.

I pull out my phone and call emergency maintenance, where the receptionist is the only person in the world who sounds calmer about a massive ceiling leak than I do.

"Must be all the snow," I comment, in hopes of some human interaction with her, but all I get the sound of tap-tapping on the keyboard.

Finally, I hang up in disgust.

"They'll have somebody over to staple up some plastic," I mutter, tossing my phone on the sofa. "I could've done that myself. They won't be able to do the proper repairs until tomorrow."

"Guess you'll be joining me in the living room," he says. "You can have the sofa."

"Well, we can get hotel rooms," I muse, remarkably calm considering there's probably about to be fucking hole in my
fucking ceiling
.
 

"Uh, you're kidding, right?" Dean's looking at me like I just suggested building a homestead on Pluto for the night.

"Why would I be kidding? I know it's a bad storm, but there has to be..." I glance at the window, like that's going to tell me anything.

"It's also
Fashion Week
," Dean cuts in.
 

"Fuck." I stare at him. "Seriously? How do you know this stuff?"

"Well, I try to make it a habit to have some situational awareness," he deadpans. "Besides, we do some of their marketing at my firm. The dates are permanently burned into my retinas."

So that's how we end up splitting a bottle of wine on the living room floor, with cheese and crackers and laughing about how insanely overbearing my family has become. I love them, I love them to death, but if I make it to the end of next week without killing anyone, it'll be a miracle.