Page 20 of 10 Things I Skate About You

I shake my head, gripping his biceps. I am so slick with arousal, but his calloused fingers are just…extra…something. Dammit.

“You are right on the edge, aren’t you?”

I’m trembling. Dear God, I’m shuddering all over. He rubs my clit in tight, gentle circles, so slowly it’s insulting. But it feels amazing. I whimper, and he makes a V, slowly stroking alongside my clit, up and down, up and down. Gently caressing. My entire body starts quaking.

“You really like that, huh?”

I make a muffled squeaking sound, dig my fingernails into his arms. He’s flexing, and my body wants to know how hard he can slam against it, but not now, dammit, not here.

“I’m gonna slip two fingers in your hot, wet pussy now,” he tells me.

“I don’t need a play-by-play,” I mumble into his hand.

He removes his hand from my mouth, and at the same time as he slides two fingers inside me he slaps my ass. Kind of like a friendly butt slap, but it sends an insane shockwave up my spine, and holy shit. I like it. I hate how much I liked it. I spasm around his fingers, and he starts moving them hard and fast.

“I don’t need one either, Red, ’cause I know exactly how much you like this.” He pumps his fingers in and out and in and out, and oh my God, he’s actually fucking me with his fingers—is that why they call it that?!

It feels so good.

He covers my mouth with his mouth. Kisses me so deeply I can hardly breathe. It’s happening. I’m actually coming. He swallows my silent scream. He keeps the same staccato rhythm as I ride the wave of pleasure, and then—he curls his fingers inside me and presses his palm hard against my clit and I see stars. Iamstars. Everything is expanding. A whole new universe is exploding into existence behind my belly button. It’s endless and so much more than I’ve ever felt before.

He’s basically holding me up with one hand like a sex puppet while he waits for me to stop bucking against him.

“God, I wish I could see your face right now,” he whispers. “I bet you look so fucking hot.”

“Don’t turn the light on,” I manage to say. More of a plea than an order.

“I won’t, baby. I’m gonna pull out now, okay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

An alarming amount of fluid follows his fingers out of me. He helps to adjust my panties and pulls the bottom of my sweater down. I hear him sucking on something and moaning. Oh God. He’s sucking me off of his fingers.

“Baby, you taste so fucking good.”

“Shhh! Stop that!”

He laughs quietly. “I’m dying to get my head between your legs now.” There’s pain in his voice, and I know it’s not because of his bad knee.

But I don’t trust myself to spend one more minute alone with him. “How are we going to get back to the table? Where’s my phone?”

“You go first,” he says, pressing my leather pocket organizer into my hand. “I’m gonna need a minute to calm down.”

“Right. Sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing for his erection, but it does feel like it’s bad manners to just leave him like this.

We’ve been gone from the table too long. Although I don’t really care all that much, which is weird.

Dim light from the hallway sneaks through the crack as he opens the door. He peers around and then stations himself behind the door. “Coast is clear, darlin’. See you in a few.”

“Thank you,” I say. Force of habit. Just to be polite.

He closes the door as soon as I’m out, but I can hear him snickering.

The door to the ladies’ room is miraculously ajar, so I sprint into the bathroom. Lock the door and go straight to the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. This woman with the flushed cheeks and the fiery fuck-hair. Swollen, deep pink lips and glassy eyes. The expression on her face is totally unfamiliar to me. Is that satisfaction? Is that what it looks like? It’s a different kind of satisfaction from having come up with a new hilarious nickname for Adam Foley on the podcast.

But I mean, I did technically get myself most of the way to orgasm myself. Adam’s leg could have been anything. It could have been the arm of a sofa. My sofa doesn’t have big hands that grab my hips or massage my boobs, but I can find some guy and train him to do that. I just need to convince myself that’s what I want.

I try to make my hair look slightly less like it was styled by a hockey player’s fingers, apply lip gloss again, and do the walk of shame back to our table. Once again, I manage to avoid making eye contact with anyone. If I make a run for it or if we both leave before eating it will draw even more attention, so I’ll stay. I’ll eat my steak. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look Adam “Captain Magic Fingers” Foley in the eyes again.