We texted a few times over the weekend—Luke checked up on me to see how I was feeling and to thank me for Friday’s date which I appreciated. It was considerate, and too much of my final year with Bryce didn’t include much consideration.
Luke spent the weekend with his kids, but I thought about him a lot: when I visited the Fortress of the Bear on Saturday, I wondered if I might bump into him there, and as I ate a lonely Sunday evening dinner, texting back and forth with Leigh about her plans for the fundraiser, I hoped he’d get back in touch, to make another date with me.
I ended up hearing from him late on Sunday night. He asked if he could “stop by” my place during his lunchbreak on Monday, and butterflies teemed in my stomach when I wrote back, “yes,” and gave him my address.
Having my own rental apartment and keeping my own hours means I’m available anytime Luke wants to see me, and I can’t lie: the idea of spontaneous sex whenever one of us wants i
t is such a turn on, I spend Monday morning in a perpetual state of arousal.
By the time he knocks on my door at noon, I’m wet and ravenous.
He’s barely inside the door before our mouths collide. I’m yanking his pants down and he’s lifting my skirt up, growling with satisfaction when he finds me bare underneath. Sheathed inside me a second later, he fucks me hard against the door, my legs wrapped around his waist as he grunts with each deep thrust. My pussy gloves him like it’s been years since we mated. And about a minute later, we come together in loud moans of pleasure that will surely wake up my neighbors if they happen to be late sleepers. Biting on the soft lobe of his ear, I’m too lost in my own mindless bliss to care, and besides, it’s not like I live here.
“Amaaaaanda,” he sighs, his breath falling soft and hot against my throat. “That was…”
“…amaaaaazing.”
I slide down his body, breathless and sweaty, his cum slipping down my inner thighs as my feet hit the floor. Taking his hand, I lead him to my bathroom where we finish undressing and shower together.
Lying on my bed a little while later, we have sex a second time, but less hurried now. We take our time touching each other, exploring each other’s bodies with our fingers and tongues. I savor the joining of our bodies this time, staring up at him as he enters me slowly. When he’s fully embedded inside of me, his balls lie gorged and heavy against my skin. I lean my head into the pillow, my eyes rolling back, then focusing on him again. This oneness, this fullness, this intimacy…it’s almost too much to share with someone I barely know. And yet, it feels so physically perfect, I try to shove my emotions aside. Our deal doesn’t involve feelings. Our deal involves fucking. And no one’s body fucking mine has ever felt so fine.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, scanning my face, dropping a gentle kiss to my forehead.
The kiss is so soft—so like something a boyfriend or lover would offer—it makes my eyes burn. I don’t want tenderness. Tenderness has strings attached to it.
“That this is good,” I answer, closing my eyes and flexing my pussy muscles so they fist around his cock. “That I’ve missed it.”
He groans softly, withdrawing from me all the way before surging forward again.
“Me too,” he says, increasing the speed of his thrusts.
His hips gyrate to a faster rhythm now and the slapping of our bodies is a primitive turn-on. I reach for his cheeks, pulling his face to mine and locking my lips with his, our tongues mimicking our bodies as we fuck faster and faster, my body surging off the bed every time he slams into me.
His arms shake on either side of my head and finally he freezes for a second, groaning loudly before I feel the quick spasming of his cock. He comes in long, beautiful waves punctuated by his panted breath near my ear. His arms grow slack and the heaviness of his body gradually rests on mine. I stroke his back with my fingers, lightly, gently, reveling in his weight resting on me, covering me, our bodies still joined, though replete and exhausted.
After a minute or two, I hear him chuckle softly, flipping to his side next to me. He pulls me against him, my back to his front. His strong, tan arm under my milky breasts anchors me to him.
“Oh, man, that was good,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “How about a quick nap?”
“Sure,” I whisper, closing my eyes, but I don’t sleep even as the sound of his breathing falls into a regular cadence. I just…experience this: being held, feeling held.
Bryce wasn’t a cuddler.
Even when we were first dating, first sleeping together, first waking up together…Bryce liked his space. He didn’t like falling asleep with our legs entangled and his heart beating against my back. If I touched my feet to his, he’d pull them away, even in his sleep. We’d have sex, sure, but afterwards, he’d lie on his back with his head on his pillow and if I rested my head on his chest for a few minutes, he’d eventually tell me that my face was “heavy”, and he was getting sweaty. Real romantic. Even though I’d enjoyed snuggling with boyfriends in college, with Bryce, I got used to sleeping on my side of the bed and keeping my hands to myself after sex.
So this? Being held by a big, strong man after such an intimate act? It feels vaguely familiar and completely wonderful, like a song you really loved that you haven’t heard in years and years.
I want this, I think. When I find my “next someone,” I want him to be a cuddler.
That thought cheers me up a little and makes what Luke and I are doing a little less cheap and tawdry. He’s my rebound guy, right? I can use this time with him to figure out what I want next, and that will give our time together purpose and meaning outside of gratuitous sexual satisfaction. Meaning and purpose that I, apparently, need.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise to me that having a relationship based solely on sex would feel wrong, somehow. I’ve been a serial monogamist since high school. I wasn’t kidding about one-night-stands, or a casual, short-term, sex-only relationship being outside of my comfort zone.
But if my time with Luke can mean something? Can help me narrow down what I want in the future and impact my life in a positive way? Maybe I can better accept it for exactly what it is: a harmless and satisfying fling.
When I glance at the clock on my bedside table, I realize it’s 12:45pm and Luke probably needs to get back to work soon.
“Hey,” I say, shaking him gently. “Luke, wake up.”