Page 7 of Unwrapped

I thrust harder, faster, giving her everything until my core is seizing up so tight I can barely breathe. I picture her pussy, her breasts, her mouth saying my name, and then I’m coming—my whole body seizing up, cock jerking in my fist. Hot, thick streams pulse over my hand and stomach, and I keep stroking through it, greedy for every last aftershock. When it ebbs, I’m left panting in the dark, sweat cooling on my skin, my heart hammering.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Well, that wasn’t fucking cool.

But Sophie is still asleep down the hall, and whatever just happened in my head stays in my head. Nobody knows. Nobody ever has to know.

I get up, wipe my hand on a tissue from the nightstand, and throw it in the trash. Then I get back under the covers and turn onto my side, facing the wall.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and make coffee and act like a normal person.

Three

DECEMBER 19

Sophie

Iwake up to total silence. No roommate getting dressed two feet away from me while I try to sleep, no voices in the hall, no one’s music playing. I’m cozy and warm, my duvet is heavy, and there is not a single exam, paper, or responsible adult decision waiting for me on the other side of consciousness.

It is glorious.

I stretch under the covers and lie there for a while, watching the snow fall past my window. Between yesterday’s drive and my mother’s phone call, I’ve earned a day of doing absolutely nothing. I could lie here until noon. In fact, I probably will.

Or so I think, because eventually my bladder wins. I stumble to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and pull on sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. Downstairs, the house smells like coffee. The tree lights are on, twinkling softly. It’s nice to be home.

There’s a stack of leftover cookies on the counter. I grab two and eat them standing at the sink, looking at the tree and the snow falling through the window beyond.

I can hear the faint sound of Vince’s voice through the closed door of his office, where he works from home most of the time. Then the office door opens and he comes out, wearing a button-down with the sleeves rolled up and jeans. He runs a hand through his hair and heads straight for the coffee maker.

“Morning,” he says.

“Is it? I haven’t checked.”

He pours coffee into a mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST LAWYER. “It’s ten forty-five.”

“Good enough.”

He leans against the counter, blows on his coffee, and takes a sip, and I have a sudden, vivid memory of noticing his shoulders last night. I didn't hallucinate that. They are actually enormous. They pull at his shirt like they can’t be contained. I watch him reach for the coffee pot, the muscles in his forearm shifting beneath his rolled-up sleeve, and wonder how I've managed to live with this man for two years without paying more attention.

I grab another cookie and turn away from the counter. Act normal, Sophie.

“Plans for today?” he asks.

“Being incredibly unproductive. Possibly taking a nap. You?”

“Work. The usual. Some calls this afternoon. Then I was going to pick up some groceries. We’re almost out of everything.”

“I can go,” I offer. “I’ve got nothing to do today. Might as well contribute.”

He glances toward the windows. “Not in this weather.”

“Oh, come on. I saw a snowplow go by earlier.”

He arches an eyebrow at me.

“And I can take your Range Rover. I’m sure it has snow tires.”

He frowns. “You need snow tires.”