Almost Enough Sneak Peek
. . .
Whitley
“Icall it the hurricane.”
I’m not sure what I expected when he whispered that into my ear at the bar.
Maybe a man who actually knows what to do with his hands, or at the very least, who’s mastered basic rhythm.
But I’d been drinking a gin and tonic, he had dimples, and I hadn’t had sex in four months and seventeen days, not that I’m counting.
But my vibrator has been making suspicious clicking sounds lately, so… desperate times.
“The hurricane,” he says again, stripping off his shirt with a flourish that screams practice. I’ll give him this—he’s got nice shoulders. Vain, but nice.
I sit on the edge of his bed, already wondering if I should’ve just gone home and ordered pizza. Hindsight, as always, is a petty little bitch.
Then it begins.
The hurricane.
It starts with him spinning in a circle. I blink, wondering if this is some kind of performance art I’m not cultured enough to appreciate.
“That’s just the warm up,” he says, catching my expression.
He lunges toward the bed with the grace of someone who’s slipped on a banana peel, landing half on me, half on his duvet. His elbow connects with my ribcage.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. And not in a sexy way.
When he kisses me, it’s less of a kiss and more of a face washing. His tongue swirls around my mouth like he’s trying to clean my teeth. I pull back, gasping for air.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Just…need to breathe,” I manage.
He nods enthusiastically. “Right, right.”
I stare at him for a second, trying to decide if I’ve made a critical life error or just a regrettable detour. I kind of just need him to stop talking, stop flailing, and just do the thing.
I don’t need fireworks. I don’t even need sparks. I need friction. Pressure. A solid five minutes of adult-grade distraction.
What follows is a series of moves that seem choreographed by someone who learned about sex exclusively through poorly translated instruction manuals.
Just shut up and fuck me. Is that too much to ask?
I sigh and slide my hands up his chest. Not because I’m overwhelmed by lust, but because if I start undressing him, maybe he’ll get the hint. It works. His eyes go wide, and for one blessed second, there is silence.
Then he moans. Loudly. As if I’ve just performed a miracle. All I’ve done is unbutton his jeans.
He kicks off his pants as I peel off my top, toss my bra somewhere near his dresser, and tell myself this will be fine…ish. I don’t need perfection, I need release. A full body reset. Something to quiet the chaos in my brain and the ache that’s been living in between my thighs.
His hands fumble with my pants, but eventually, we’re both naked. He grins at me again, and I resist the urge to throw the pillow at his head.
This is happening. I’m committed.
I lie back and try to relax, mentally coaching myself like I do when I’m about to get a questionable wax job. He climbs on top of me with the determination of a man who thinks he’s about to change my life.
In a way, I guess he is. Just…not the way he thinks.
He fumbles in his nightstand drawer, producing a condom packet that he tears open with his teeth like he’s seen in movies. Except he doesn’t quite get it right, and foil get thrown across my chest.
“Hurricane’s coming,” he whispers dramatically.
I close my eyes. Maybe if I don’t look, it won’t be so bad.
When he finally positions himself between my legs, he thrusts forward with such misguided enthusiasm that he misses entirely.
“Hang on,” he mutters, reaching down to guide himself.
What follows is a rhythm so disjointed it could only be called experimental jazz. Fast-slow-fast. Stop. Fast-medium. Stop. His hips jerk in what I can only assume is an attempt at passion but feels more like he’s having some kind of medical episode.
“You like that?” he grunts.
“Mmhmm,” I lie, staring at a water stain on his ceiling that’s shaped vaguely like the state of Tennessee.
He slaps my thigh, but not in a hot, dominant way. More like he’s trying to pat out a small fire.
I try to guide him gently, with the patience of someone coaching a freshman through their first oral presentation. But then, he shushes me.
Shushes. Me. Mid-sex.
“This is my signature move,” he pants, sweat already forming along his hairline. “Just let it happen.”
Oh, something’s happening, all right.
His hand fumbles down between us, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my lower stomach. He starts rubbing small circles about three inches north of where any action is actually happening.
“Yeah, right there,” he whispers to himself. “That’s the spot.”
It is decidedly not the spot.
I open my mouth to redirect him when his face contorts. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth drops open, and he lets out a noise that sounds like a duck being slowly deflated.
“Oh! Oh my god! You’re so—I’m—” he cries out, his hips jerking erratically.
And just like that, it’s over. He collapses on top of me, his full weight pressing me into the mattress while his fingers continue their useless expedition across my belly button.
“Did you…” he pants against my neck, “did you feel that?”
What I feel is the overwhelming desire to fake my own death and move to another country.
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.
“Told you,” he says smugly. “Hurricane.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” I say, bright and cheerful. “Was that the Category 5 part?”
He rolls onto his side and gives me a grin that has no business being that smug. “Most girls can’t even handle it.”
“Wow.” I hope my tone conveys the proper level of sarcasm, but Hurricane Boy seems entirely too pleased with himself to notice.
“I know, right?” He stretches like a cat who’s just knocked your favorite mug off the counter and considers it an accomplishment.
I sit up, gathering the sheet around me with as much dignity as possible. My underwear has somehow migrated to his lampshade. Fantastic.
“So,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow, “round two?”
I nearly choke. “I think I’ve weathered enough natural disasters for one night.”
His face falls slightly, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah, most women need recovery time. The hurricane isn’t for the faint of heart.”
I slide off the bed, collecting my scattered clothing. “Or for people who actually want to orgasm,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I pull my shirt over my head. “Just thinking about the…intensity.”
He nods sagely. “It’s a gift.”
“It’s something,” I agree, stepping into my jeans.
This is exactly why I stopped the casual sex a while ago.
It’s not the fumbling or the disappointment or even the minor trauma of being shushed mid-thrust. It’s the crushing awareness immediately after that I am out here giving people access to my body like it’s a scratch-and-win ticket and hoping for at least a consolation prize.
I used to be good at this. At dating. At fun.
At pretending I didn’t care when a connection fizzled out or never existed to begin with.
But lately, everything feels like it costs too much.
My time. My energy. My sanity. Somewhere between my last actual relationship and Mr. Hurricane here, I stopped being the girl who could laugh off bad sex and started being the woman who just wants more.
More of what, I’m not even sure. Respect? Chemistry? Orgasms?
All of the above.
I grab my boots, jam my feet into them without bothering to untie the laces, and sling my bag over my shoulder. He’s already reaching for his phone, probably queuing up some post-coital playlist that includes trap remixes of nature sounds.
I’m halfway out the door when it hits me… This isn’t rock bottom. But it’s low enough that I can see it from here.
Tomorrow, I’m doing things differently.
No more men who name their moves.
No more men who shush me.
No more wasting my time on anything that doesn’t leave me better than it found me.
Because if this is any indication of where I’m at in life, I have some serious recalibrating to do.
I’m almost to my car when I realize I’ve left my phone inside. The universe’s way of ensuring I never escape my own mistakes. Inside, he’s sprawled across the bed, still naked, scrolling through his phone like nothing catastrophic has happened between these four walls.
“My phone,” I say, scanning the chaos for the telltale cracked lavender case. There it is, wedged under his discarded jeans.
He looks up, sheepish. “We could, uh…hang out next weekend?”
I retrieve my phone and stick on the world’s tightest smile. “I’m sure you’re booked up with disaster relief efforts.”
He laughs, not quite getting it. I give him two thumbs up, say “Good talk,” exiting so fast I almost leave a Whitley shaped hole in his door.
Outside, the air smells like wet pavement and regret. I sit in my car, keys clutched in hand, windshield freckled with dead bugs. My gas gauge hovers near empty. A fitting metaphor for my dating life.
My phone buzzes. A notification from my mother, who has apparently discovered emojis and now texts exclusively in hieroglyphics. Five red exclamation points, a heart, and a crying-laughing face. The message: “dinner this weekend? hope you’re not dead. call me.”
I ignore it, for now. There are indeed limits to my emotional stamina.
I take the scenic route home, up the winding streets that snake around the edge of Lily Ridge.
This time of night, the whole town is sleeping.
Only the gas station and the taco place spill a little neon into the dark.
I roll down my window and let the breeze mess up my hair, as if wind alone can dissolve a night like this.
At the next red light, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror.
Mascara smudged in a way that says “long night” instead of “sexy night.” Copper hair tangled from the humidity and the hurricane.
I stick my tongue out at myself. “You’re a disaster,” I say, then immediately correct, “But at least you’re not boring. ”
Pre-Order Almost Enough Here!