33. The Morning After
THIRTY-THREE
the morning after
Dahlia
The next morning I wake to Wes’ rough beard rubbing against me as he kisses along my collarbones and shoulders. He’s looking at me with such tenderness it makes my heart want to leap out of my chest. I press my lips to his, hoping he can feel how much he means to me.
His hard cock is pressing into my thigh and I’m glad he’s as turned on as me, because I want him desperately right now.
I reach down and rub him over his briefs, earning a throaty groan from him.
He pulls my panties to the side, finding me already wet and wanting.
Our languid kisses turn to a slow morning intimacy, one that has me lining him up with me again.
His soft chants of my name soundtrack my orgasm and I wanna wake up like this every morning.
Our little getaway comes to an end and we hit the road home. Wes holds my hand as he drives and the little gesture gives me butterflies.
“I realize we didn’t necessarily talk through kinks last night, but I would love to know what you like in the bedroom,” he says and I flush with pink. “Hey, no blushing baby. I want to hear all the dirty thoughts in your mind.”
He calls me out and after pinching him I tell him, “Clearly, I love praise. Honestly, everything we did last night was super hot. I think I would enjoy rougher sex, but I haven’t ever been with someone I trust enough to explore that. You make me feel safe.”
“Mmm, I think I’d like that a lot, Princess. What else?”
“Having your hand on my throat was really hot, I could do with more pressure there. I really liked when you called me a naughty girl. Maybe more?” I ask nervously.
He adjusts himself with his driving hand, knee on the wheel, still keeping contact with my hands.
“Degradation? Yeah, I’m very into that. I didn’t want to bust out the gate calling you a pretty whore, you know?
Felt like maybe I needed a bit of a preamble first.” He laughs.
Wes brings our entwined hands to his mouth and brushes a kiss over my knuckles.
I decide to tease him a bit. “Pretty whore, huh? Am I your pretty whore, Wes?”
“If you want to make it home un-fucked, we need to change the subject or I’m liable to pull over and show you my backseat.”
As much as I would love to see the roof of Wes’ truck from laid out on the second row, we do need to get home.
We ride home constantly touching each other, teasing, and talking about everything under the sun.
It’s always so easy with Wes. Maybe I can allow myself this kind of life, this kind of love.
My building comes into view and I’m more bummed than I’d like to admit to return. Especially considering my apartment has been my safe space as long as I’ve lived here.
Sure enough, Wes feels the same. He pulls to the curb outside my building and looks at me with a longing gaze—the one that has me wishing we didn’t live counties apart. I guess it’s another bridge we’ll need to cross eventually.
Wes offers to walk me up, but I opt to smother him in kisses while he palms my breasts.
The last time he walked me up, he had to break Olympic track records to move to avoid a parking ticket.
He still gets out to help me get my backpack on and like we’re two magnets, we’re drawn back together as we kiss against his truck.
We’re only interrupted when there’s a loud banging from above and a girlish scream, belonging to none other than Daphne. She throws the window open and yells down to us, but I can’t quite interpret her words. Whatever she’s saying, she seems thrilled.
“I guess the cat’s out of the bag now, huh,” he tells me.
“I forgot we have our locations shared. She must’ve seen I was back here. Bestie life for you.”
Any fears of my clinginess are dust in the wind as I quickly realize between my schedule and his, we’re not really running on the same timeline. “When can I see you again?”
“I’m glad you asked, because I’ve been ready to make plans again since we left the hotel. I am, as the kids say, down bad.”
“Okay, well let’s say our goodbyes before I drop to my knees here and scar my neighbors for life and we can text about it later?” I suggest because I think our proximity to each other is scrambling our horny brains and someone needs to be the voice of reason.
“Deal. Goodbye, beautiful. Text when you make it upstairs.”
“I will. You text when you get home.” I point a finger at his chest before yanking him down for one more kiss. “Drive safe.”
I head upstairs where my nosy best friend is peeking out our door with a shit-eating grin on her face.
“The prodigal daughter hath returned. My, do I spy a post-fuck glow? Bitch, you better spill before I have to leave. I traded shifts with fuck-ass Marcus so I’m working the rage room tonight.” She pulls me inside and we sit on the couch and I tell her all about my friend sexcapades.
Daphne leaves for Purple Rage around five thirty and I lounge around the apartment until I decide to check my school email.
Mistake number one was checking my email in the first place. Mistake number two was opening an email filled with super critical feedback from my thesis course professor.
While I’ve only submitted brief work, his words strike true, hitting me in the core of my inferiority complex.
His suggestions range from critiques of my sentence structure, to the plausibility of my research, and several question marks directed at the grant proposal.
His final note suggests I may want to reconsider the proposal as it seems to be a bit of a reach for the case I’m trying to make.
My anxiety and anger quickly fall into a tango of emotions, leaving me ready to punch a wall and then roll myself into a ball and cry.
The panic rising in my chest leaves me feeling worn and deflated, so I drag myself to the shower and sit on the floor as the hot water rains down on me.
The rational part of me knows this is part of the drafting process and though Dr. Kane’s delivery leaves much to be desired, I’ll take the guidance to polish my work.
The rational part of me also knows this has no bearing on my value as a person, yet the insanely loud self-hating voice barks at me. My professor’s notes confirm my worst fears: I am unworthy and soon everyone will know.
Anxiety works like that, at least mine does. My fears are loud and constant. Again, all signs would point to me needing to go to therapy, but doing so fuels the inadequacy I carry around like a backpack. I’m studying to work in mental health, surely I should have my own shit figured out.
Before I know it, the water runs cold down my back and I need to get out. It’s nearing midnight and I realize in my spiral, I never checked my phone again after Wes texted he made it home. I find another text from him and I start to cry again, for different reasons this time.
Lover Boy
I know I’m not going to get it perfect every time, Dahlia, but if you’ll let me, I want this with you.
I don’t know where your heads at, and by no means do I expect you to have anything to say to this.
I wanted you to know I’m in this with you.
Your adorable face is on my mind, and your beautiful soul is in my heart. Sleep well, Princess.
Dahlia
I want this too. With you. Always with you. Sweet dreams, Wes.