“Let me get the condom.”
What?!
He sits on the edge of the bed, retrieves a condom from the drawer, and rolls it on.
I shimmy out of my superhero briefs. “Hurry up.”
His body vibrates. “We have all night.”
No. We most certainly do not have all night. There’s pizza downstairs. I have my meds to take. Face to wash. Teeth to brush and floss. And if he can work on his efficiency, we might have it one more time, but there’s no way we’re dragging out this one time. All. Night. Long.
No fucking way.
So … I attack him. That’s really the best description. I push him back on the bed and kiss him hard while lining up his cock. Then I sink down as we seethe in unison.
“Find it, Eli.” I grin, holding up my wrist and setting my sexual activity function on my watch.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not a race.”
“I disagree.” I start moving at a brisk pace.
He grabs my hips to slow me down, but I keep pace, chasing that orgasm, angling forward to keep my clit rubbing against his pelvis. And as I approach the coveted finish line, he lifts me from him, as if he knows.
“What are you doing?” I protest.
He flips me onto my back—pinning my arms to the bed beside my head—and settles his hips between my legs, sliding back inside of me. “I’m finding it, Mayhem. Better keep up.” He smirks before kissing me and seriously pounding into me.
Game on!
Until … it’s not.
Eli manages to find the perfect angle that denies me the friction I need, and he has my hands pinned to the bed so I can’t help myself.
“You’re terrible at sex.” I scowl at him as sweat beads along his brow while moving above me, clearly burning more calories and approaching the damn finish line that I can no longer see.
“I’m really not.” He grins, releasing my arms.
My hands fly straight to his hair. Balling them into fists, I jerk it as hard as possible. “Fucker …”
He cuts me off with his lips covering mine and his tongue filling my mouth as he slides his hand between our pelvises and delivers a spectacular orgasm just seconds after he climaxes. Eli just has to win.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dorothy Defined
Elijah
Well, that was a first.
Even the times I had angry sex with Julie, it wasn’t all that angry. More like make-up sex with a bit of attitude.
Dorothy Mayhem sex involves a playing field—maybe a battlefield—a time clock, and placement medals.
Before I can hook an arm around her and pull her next to me, she’s out of bed and back into her superhero pajamas, minus the tiara that fell off while she rode me like a true immortal.
“Wow …” She bends down and cocks her head to look at the stack of books on the side table by the chair in the corner of my bedroom. “You have a lot of books on autism. Do you think Roman is on the spectrum?”
I sit up and reach for a tissue, my briefs, and jeans. “No.”
Dorothy eases into the chair and inspects the books one at a time. “Autism in Heels. Sounds like something for a woman.”
I wait on the edge of the bed, jeans pulled on, hands folded between my legs.
She glances over at me, eyebrows peaked in question. “Are you reading these because of me?”
I nod, wondering what’s going through her mind. Do I need to apologize? Fish for some pathetic excuse?
Dorothy tosses them onto the ottoman and rubs her lips together. “What do you want to know? You don’t need a book. All you have to do is ask me.”
Dropping my head, I massage the back of my neck. “I wasn’t looking for answers. I was looking for insight. I was looking for the questions I never would have thought to ask until after I screwed up. Until it was too late.”
She nods slowly, forehead wrinkled. “I bet it was frustrating reading these. Because for every three things that you could relate directly to me, there had to be at least one … maybe two that don’t quite fit. I know this because I’ve read all the books. I think even this one.” She picks one of the books up and glances at the back of it.
I look up at her and whisper, “Yes.”
“If I picked up a book about men, would all the stereotypes apply to you?”
I shake my head.
“If I figure you out, will that mean I know everything that makes Dr. Warren act the way he does?”
I shake my head.
“The spectrum is human. It’s not autism. Doesn’t matter what the so-called experts say. But I owned the label years ago anyway.” She giggles. “Imagine being my parents … sitting around a table with your ten-year-old kid (after years of being told girls don’t get autism), and the doctor finally says, ‘Yes. The diagnosis is Asperger’s.’ And your kid yells out, ‘Oh great … now I have ASS BURGERS.’”