Page 31 of Man Candy (After We Fall 1)
My orgasm subsided just in time to feel the powerful, surging pulse of his, and even though I generally try not to look at a guy’s O face since most are scary and beastlike, I’m happy to report that Quinn’s O face is just as fucking hot as the rest of him. So hot that it rekindled the fire inside me, and I felt a second orgasm building.
“Oh God—Quinn.” I chased it, riding it out on his throbbing cock as he held still, paralyzed by the intensity of his own climax.
When we were finally zapped of energy, I tried to get off him.
“Just a second.” His hands squeezed the tops of my thighs. “Don’t move yet.”
I squirmed a little. “But I—”
“I’m not going to hug you or kiss you or talk about my feelings. I just want to enjoy my dick in you for ten more seconds, OK?” He pinched my ass. “Jeez.”
“OK. I’ll give you ten more seconds. But only because I came twice, and it’s been a very long time since that’s happened.”
He looked happy. “Oh yeah? I like that. But you’re probably going to tell me you did all the work.”
“Not at all. I give credit where credit is due, and your dick deserves at least half the credit for those two orgasms.”
“Half?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe three quarters. Now can I get off?”
Big sigh. “Yes.”
We cleaned up in separate bathrooms again, and I fought the sudden urge to come up with an excuse to leave. It was like an automatic trigger with me after an orgasm, some kind of fight-or-flight response—I always wanted to be alone.
Cut it out. Quinn gets you and gets what this is, or at least he appears to. If at any point tonight, you feel he’s losing sight of the big picture, you can make an excuse and leave.
But he didn’t, so I stayed.
I drank wine and watched Quinn make pizza, helped make a salad (even though he teased me by quizzing me on vegetables as if I didn’t recognize them), and enjoyed the feeling of being warm and cozy inside his flat while the blizzard outside buried us in snow, the temperature dropping below zero.
We ate at the table—I impressed Quinn by gobbling two bowls of salad and scarfing three big slices of pizza—and talked about lots of different things, including places we’d been in the world and places we still wanted to visit. Quinn preferred Florence and I liked Rome; he liked cabins in the woods and I preferred a resort on the beach; but we both agreed Paris was a magical place and Marrakech was on our list of dream vacations.
“I wish my mom had gotten to travel more,” Quinn said, leaning back in his chair. “There are so many places I’d have loved to take her just for the food.”
“Did she ever go back to Poland?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t think she ever wanted to. Her parents didn’t have great memories of it. But I’d like to go someday.”
“Can you make any of the Polish food she used to make? Like those meatballs? Or the pierogies and sausage?”
He smiled. “I haven’t yet, but you just let me know when you’re in the mood for sausage and I will accommodate you.”
“Very funny.” After stacking our bowls and plates, I got up from the table, carried the dishes over to the sink, and began rinsing them.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll do them.” Quinn came in behind me with the leftover salad.
“I don’t mind helping you. But after that, I should get going. I have to get up early for work, and the drive is going to be a bitch tomorrow with all this snow.”
“Do you have to go to work? The roa
ds will still be pretty bad.” He covered the salad serving bowl with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge, while I loaded the plates and bowls into the dishwasher.
“Yeah, I do. I took today off to catch up on some things and got nothing done.”
He poked me in the butt. “The allure of my closet was too strong.”
“Oh, shut up.” But I giggled as I rinsed our forks. “I still can’t believe you caught me in there.”
