Chapter thirteen Kendra
Chapter thirteen
Kendra
Mmm. I snuggle deeper into my pillow and take stock of the yummy tingles still rippling between my thighs.
Goddamn! Last night was certainly worth all the fuss! Damon played my body like a fiddle, damn near having me speaking in tongues! And that was without him even putting it in? Without him even using his mouth?
I blush, remembering the swirls his tongue made all around my breasts like a needle on a record player.
OK. So without using his mouth on my pussy.
In the timeless words of Randy Watson from “Coming to America”, that boy good!
If he can make me blast off from essentially fingering me with his dick, I can’t wait to find out what that thing can really do.
Seems like my little problem was really Andre’s problem after all.
When Damon put the condom on, I half-expected him to “slip” and slide it in anyway.
That wouldn’t have been cool, of course, but it also wouldn’t have been a shock.
Women everywhere have been falling for “just the tip” for centuries.
As easy as it was for my mom to cut and run, I wouldn’t be surprised if “just the tip” was how I got here.
I didn’t get that vibe from Damon, though. Not once he explained the reason for the condom, or after the third delicious slide through my wetness with no incident. I wiggle my toes just thinking about it.
He seemed to genuinely want to make me feel better after my little freakout, demonstrating commendable self-control in the process. To make me feel…good. Empowered and in control.
Andre had never tried to give me back my agency. He’d just treated me like I was broken and then, when I couldn’t get there fast enough, assumed he was right. That there was nothing he could do, so why bother?
I roll my eyes at the copout, then get embarrassed all over again thinking of how I must have looked last night. God, I can’t believe that happened! After all those telehealth sessions, self-help books, and pep talks in the mirror, I still chickened out at the last second.
I sigh to myself. Months of innuendo. A dinner that felt like edging with garlic bread. A graze to my thigh. A laugh that shot straight to my pussy. A promise of dark and passionate things to come. And then I ruined it by having a panic attack. We barely even got to kiss.
At least now I know I can trust him whenever the time comes.
He’ll talk me through it, explore my body, and then make sure I get mine before he even thinks about getting his.
I knew I’d made the right choice for a booty call!
I have a sixth sense with these things; I just wish I hadn’t ignored it that first date with Andre.
Date!, I snort. More like a business dinner arranged by our agents.
I stretch languidly, about to sit up and take care of my morning needs, when my elbow bumps into a wall of muscle.
“Ouch,” a deep male voice grumbles from beneath the pillow beside me.
I freeze. What the hell?! What is Damon still doing here? Is falling asleep immediately after an orgasm no longer the universal sign to leave? I feel like I was pretty clear about what this was when I invited him over, so why did he stick around?
I poke his bicep to confirm it’s solid, that he’s really here and this isn’t some elaborate dream…or nightmare. Yep. Damon’s still here. He rolls towards me, probably wondering why I poked him, and the dopey smile on his face falls when he sees my expression.
“Is everything OK?” he questions, his tone guarded.
Shit. Am I a terrible person? I knew the sex would be good, but maybe I shouldn’t have tried a booty call with a man who’s been obsessed with me for months. He’s bound to get the wrong idea.
I try to muster up a smile, but it feels more like a grimace.
“Yeah. Yeah,” I stall, twisting a corner of the sheets between my fingers. “I just…I forgot you were here,” I admit.
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth. Devastation flickers in his eyes before he can hide it.
“Oh,” he mumbles. “Right. I hate it when that happens.”
And now I feel like I just kicked a puppy. Last night was fun. Ten out of ten orgasm. But I’m not trying to get caught up. Hell, I just got out of the messiness with Andre!
The silence that stretches between us is thick with awkwardness and maybe even regret. Not regret over hooking up with him, but over not having this conversation last night…when we both had on clothes. I pull the sheet around my body and stand, unable to keep ignoring my nagging bladder.
“I just need to…” I gesture towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”
He nods, his mouth a grim line. I am a terrible person. I joked before that he was half in love with me; I’m starting to realize that may have been the truth.
My trusty public smile drops as soon as the elevators close on Damon’s disappointed face.
That was brutal! I offered him coffee, a smoothie, a ride from Niko to anywhere he wanted to go, but in the end, all he wanted was a shower before he practically fled from my apartment. I could not have felt worse.
On the couch, sipping the lukewarm cappuccino Damon rejected, I settle in to browse my socials.
The busy part of fashion season may be over—thank God!
—but I still have to stay aware of trends.
How else would I know whether large floral prints are making a comeback, or which new designer is moving toward size inclusivity?
I snort, thinking about Theodora Galette’s idea of “size inclusive”. I’m still pissed at Morty for sending me out on that call. Denise’s line can’t come soon enough.
Denise
Hey Denise! Are you down for a working session?
Or just brunch? I could tear up some mimosas.
Three dots appear on my phone immediately before I receive two emojis: an eggplant and a peace sign.
I giggle to myself. I’m happy for her. Not just about the dick, though anyone would be lucky to spend their Saturday mornings with a willing partner between their legs.
No, what really makes me smile is how casual she’s being with me.
Our first sessions were so stiff, I’d wondered whether it was going to work out.
Now she’s sending me eggplant emojis. and I have no doubt she’d leave me on read if I texted again.
Rather than twat swat someone I now consider a friend, I send another text.
Daniela
Hey babes! Are you down for brunch? My treat!
Her reply comes just as I finish rinsing my coffee cup.
Daniela
Daniela: Aww! I’m in Miami for some catalog work.
Daniela: Raincheck?
I thumbs up her message and plop back down onto the sofa, staring out at the patches of blue sky peeking from between the surrounding buildings. Since when am I the only one without plans?
Since Andre, an unhelpful voice whispers from inside my head.
I hate that it’s right. Being with Andre was like being on a cruise ship, with a strict itinerary and an outfit for each occasion.
Friday and Saturday nights especially were about being seen, whether we were eating at a restaurant that just won a James Beard award, or seeing a hot new artist and potential opening act for Andre.
Living such a cultivated, careful life was exhausting, but that was the deal when I married him.
Now I’m wishing I had a show to prep for, a party to crash.
Anything but getting shot down for brunch.
Are you seriously complaining about being lonely when you kicked Damon out so fast he left tire marks on the carpet? I shake my head. My conscience is being a catty bitch this morning.
Since I don’t get brunch or guilt-free dick, I head back to the kitchen for a smoothie. Maybe I’ll go for a walk after; people watch.
My Google alert for Andre mentions in the news makes me jump almost as much as the loud whir of the blender.
Andre Gibbs to Wed Background Bombshell
R perfection is mandatory.
Fuck ’em! They can have fun putting on a show. Meanwhile, I’ll be getting dicked down by a six foot six Adonis.
I wince, thinking back to the shattered look on Damon’s face.
I definitely owe him a conversation. And an apology.
This thing between us won’t work without ground rules, the first of which should be that we’re upfront about any feelings that occur.
This isn’t a love connection; it’s just two people who enjoy each other’s company… preferably naked.