Page 57 of Floored (Frenched 3)
His hushed, intense voice pushed me over and I came hard, collapsing onto his chest. But I had no chance to breathe before he flipped me onto my back and thrust into me so hard my teeth knocked together. He had my wrists above my head again, and I brought my knees up, squeezing his driving hips between my thighs. I watched him above me, his eyes catching the firelight again, burning bright with urgency. “Fuck yes,” he growled, his movement slowing, the muscles in his arms bulging.
As he stiffened, his body going still, I closed my eyes and tilted my hips to take him as deep as possible, my awareness centered entirely on the contact between our bodies, at the way he fit so perfectly inside me, at the way I could feel the rolling pulse of something happening inside him.
When his body went slack on mine, I opened my eyes to find him looking down at me in sort of a hazy confusion. “Erin Upton. What the hell?”
I knew exactly what he meant.
#
We ate our dinner and drank some wine and watched TV and even cuddled a little on the couch, and I imagined both of us wanted to go at it again, but we managed to say good night, put the fire out, and keep our hands to ourselves.
How many times was wise on a non-date anyway? Once seemed allowable, like maybe you gave in to the urge for fun, or it overtook you in a mom
ent of weakness, or you just had to scratch that itch so it would go away. Twice was pushing it. Twice was suspicious. Because two times implied that you didn’t have control over your desire. That once wasn’t enough to sate you. That, in fact, all it did was add fuel to the fire of your need, and you were having a hard time thinking about anything or anyone else. Two times could not be passed off as just friends. Two was specific—I don’t just want to have sex. I want to have sex with you.
And of course, he didn’t stay the night. I didn’t even ask him to.
Tuesday night after I got home from work, I called him.
“Miss me?” he said when he picked up.
“Sorry, wrong number.” I ended the call and sat there smiling for a moment before calling back. It rang so long I thought he might let it go to voicemail just to punish me, but he answered eventually.
“Very funny.”
“Sorry, couldn’t help it. How are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Good. Working this Thursday night?”
“No, I’m on days this week. Why?”
“My turn to take you somewhere.”
He groaned. “The ballet thing?”
“Hush. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
“No, don’t come here. I mean, I’m all the way out in Novi. Where’s the show?”
I smiled at the way he called it a show. He probably pictured the Rockettes. “Downtown. But I don’t mind coming to get you. I want to see where you live.”
“No, I’ll just meet you. Don’t come here.”
The smile faded. I got that he was trying to spare me the drive, but he was acting a little weird, defensive almost, about my going to his house. Was he still that nervous about the attachment thing? “OK,” I said easily. “No worries. I’ll meet you at the Fox at seven-thirty. Does that work?”
“Perfect. Thanks.” His relief was evident in his voice.
“You’re welcome. See you then.”
#
I subbed out my last few Thursday evening classes to get ready for the ballet. For this non-date, I wore a pretty black lace cocktail dress with three quarter sleeves, a deep V neckline, and a pale pink satin ribbon belt. It was probably a little dressier than I had to be, but since I wore sweats to work and didn’t go to fancy places too often, my chances for dressing up were limited. And I liked how I felt in a dress and heels, my hair up, perfume on my neck—it wasn’t all for Charlie.
Confession: it was mostly for Charlie.
I had no idea if he would wear something nice or show up in his usual jeans and sweaters, and another good thing about not being his girlfriend or even his date was that I didn’t even have to care. We could both wear what we wanted to and be happy about it.
