Charlotte #3
He licks his lower lip before answering, “I guess in my mind it means I’m quick on the trigger or something. Not the reputation you want to have.”
The jealous part of me opens a questioning eye. “Are you worried about your sexual status right now? Do you really think I’m the type of person who would talk about it even if you are?” I know it’s not fair, but I don’t like thinking about him needing that reputation when this ends.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, one that makes me want to curl my body around him and never let go, and the roar of my jealousy calms. “That’s not it at all. I guess I still have an immature mindset about it. One where if you’re not coming from being inside a woman, it’s not ‘good enough.’”
I stroke his chest. “Well, let me assure you: that was much more than good enough. At least for me. And if you want to come inside me, as long as you have a condom, I’m game for that, too.”
We lie there for a moment as I continue to pet him, our breaths aligning as our bodies come down from our orgasms. Callan starts stroking my hair again, a slow rhythm that threatens to put me to sleep.
“Can I ask you a question?” Callan murmurs, and it takes a moment for my sleepy brain to realize he’s talking to me.
“Sure.” I nuzzle into him.
“Why don’t you talk more during sex?” The words tumble out, like he’s been holding them in but the barrier’s finally broken.
I trail my fingers through the dark brown hair on his chest, thinking.
“Not that you have to,” Callan rushes to say. “It’s just, you talk all the time. When we’re at home, you’re always telling me about something. I guess I’m used to hearing your thoughts, and so, I don’t know, I thought you’d have more to say.”
I snort. “Maybe you’re a sex god and turned my brain into such mush that I can’t form complete sentences.”
Callan makes his pecs dance under me. “I do have sex god qualities.”
I lift up enough to kiss his cheek. “That you do.”
“But…” he prompts when I don’t continue. Because of course he does. This man seems to know me better than anyone I’ve ever been with before, and we aren’t even really together.
“I’ve gotten feedback that it’s distracting to hear every thought going through my head during sex.” I try my best to be nonchalant about it because, even if it hurt to hear at the time, I do appreciate open lines of communication with my sexual partners.
Callan’s hand stroking my hair pauses, and a strong breath leaves him. “I fucking hate your ex. If I ever see him…”
I start stroking his chest again. “I didn’t say it was him.”
“But it was, wasn’t it?” he grits out.
“Yeah. It was.” I whisper the confession.
“Well, he’s a fucking idiot. Your brain is amazing. I love getting to know every single thing going on inside it.”
“Saying everything going on in my brain is how I got us in this situation,” I remind him.
I feel him shrug. “I like our situation. And I like knowing what you’re thinking. Promise me that next time, you’ll talk to me. As much as you want.”
“Who says there will be a next time?” I ask it like I’m teasing, but we’re functioning in a real gray area here, and I’d love to know where he’s at. Because I definitely want a next time.
“I do,” he growls. “Or, at least, I really hope there is. I mean, hear me out, we’re doing this thing, right?
We can keep the relationship fake but still have real sex with each other.
I may have been on a bit of a self-imposed dry spell lately, but I think we can both agree that eight months is a long time to go without sex.
We have fun together, clearly. What if we put regular sex on the table? ”
I’m propped up on his chest now, my elbows digging into him as I rest my chin in my hands so I can look at his face.
It seems like a logical decision. I like sex.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he likes sex.
Sex is off the table with anyone but each other.
It’s almost like it’s a basic algebra problem.
+ y = regularly fucking Callan.
“Makes sense to me,” I agree. “But what do you consider regular sex? Are we talking once a month, once a week, once a day?”
The slow smile that encompasses his face makes me breathless; it’s so cute in its unbridled glee. “I mean, if once an hour is on the table…”
I lean down and blow a raspberry on his chest. “I don’t think that will help with my quest to win this company very much.”
“You’re already crushing it. I can see how hard you’re working, and based on the questions you were asking me the other day, you’ve basically gotten your head wrapped around the business side of things. Which is impressive, considering the season is just starting.”
I’m not so sure I’d agree with him. There is still so much I have to learn, and I feel like I’m being run over by a busload of information every day. But he doesn’t need to see the insecure side of me. That’s not what fake boyfriends are for.
Apparently, fake boyfriends are for real orgasms.
“Thank you for noticing my awesomeness.” I flip a strand of hair over my shoulder.
“You are awesome,” he agrees before kissing a spot below my collarbone. He glances at the clock before dropping his head back in a groan. “Fuck, as much as I want to be inside you, I have to get to sleep.”
“You’re totally the player who’s never broken curfew before, aren’t you?” I laugh.
“I’ve broken curfew before.” He rolls me off him and heads to the bathroom.
I wait until the toilet flushes before following him in. I pull my toothbrush out, and he silently offers me his toothpaste. It’s domestic. And kind of nice.
When I climb back into bed with him a few minutes later, face completely clean and bladder empty, I’m suddenly self-conscious.
I don’t know if I’m allowed to cuddle into him.
Should I build a pillow wall, even though he said it was unnecessary?
Even after all we did. Should I lie down in my place and say goodnight?
“Come here, Princess.” Callan pats his chest. “I was promised cuddling.”
I slide next to him, snuggling up to his side.
Callan fingers the fabric of my new, black-and-gold chemise. “I like this.”
My gaze fully focused on the spot at my hip where he’s playing with the fabric, I tell him, “It’s for good luck tomorrow.”
He chuckles. “It might be too distracting to be good luck for me.”
“Should I change?”
“Never. You’re perfect exactly the way you are.” He starts stroking my hair again, and I lift my leg to twine with his.
When his breath starts to even out, I ask him the question that’s been on my mind since the dinner with my family, “Can I meet your grandma?”