Page 32 of Fauxmance in the City

I can’t control what’s coming. My orgasm is hurtling forward at lightning speed, and my free hand fists the comforter under me, trying to gain purchase but losing the battle.

“Fuck, I’m close, baby,” Sam grunts, watching my hand intensely. He falls forward, his left arm catching himself on my knee. He slides his hand up my thigh, massaging it mindlessly as his other hand pumps his length, swirling over his swollen tip.

My fingers circle rapidly over my clit, pressing down hard, little sparks building up to the final explosion.

“Oh God,” Sam groans, his short fingernails cutting into my knee, but I hardly feel it as I hurtle over the edge with him. “I’m coming, baby. I’m coming.”

Sam grabs his boxers from the bed and holds them in front of his hips, the creamy liquid darkening the fabric. Watching him writhe in pleasure skyrockets my orgasm to the pinnacle, splaying through my hips, and I scream out, convulsing against my hand. Sam hovers over me and releases a shaky breath, then falls to his knees.

When the last tremors leave me, I twist sideways and pull my hand out of my underwear, wiping my fingers on my top. I curl up, immobile, my chest constricting.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gasping in a new way, regret bucketing over me. My mind scrambles, trying to find something to latch onto to stop me from tumbling into the well of blackness I’m falling into, but I’ve gone too far with Sam. It feels too close to a relationship. Too many lines crossed.

“Catie.” Through the tunnel, I hear Sam’s voice. “Baby, count your breaths.”

I hook onto those words and count.

One, two, three, four. Breathe. One, two three, four. Release. One, two, three, four. Breathe.

Slowly, the room comes back. I feel the soft bedding under me, and Sam’s hand on my back.

I take several more steadying breaths until I’m fully back in my body. Sam’s hand feels like a ton of bricks. I smack it away and flip around, my eyes narrowing, anger filling my veins, covering the panic.

“Don’t touch me,” I say, shaking. “Don’t ever touch me again. Do you hear me?”

Sam snaps his head up, the hurt clear on his face.

“Don’t do that,” he says, still breathless.

“What?” I ask all innocent, but my heart drops, hating myself.

“Push me away because you’re scared.” He reaches for me, but I dig my toes into the mattress and shove backward.

“No!” I swallow over the fist of emotions in my throat. I’m minimizing what we did. I know this, but I can’t stop it. “You only want one thing, and I’m not giving it to you. Now fuck off."

Sam punches the mattress. “I’m not a toy, Catie. I have fucking feelings. I care about you.”

“Just like you care about all your other women? You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You’re a man whore.” It’s a low blow, but I throw it at him like a grenade.

“Fuck you, Catie.” Sam kicks his suitcase open and yanks on a pair of boxers.

I pull the pin on my next one and continue my tirade. “I don’t want your dirty hands or contaminated dick near me.”

Sam rushes at me, his toes hitting mine, and I catch myself on the bedpost. “Despite what you think, I don’t sleep around. I haven’t been with a woman since Francine.”

“Bullshit.” I laugh cruelly.

He breathes deeply, and I can almost hear him counting in his head, calming his anger. I almost smile because I taught him that trick.

“You’re always doing the walk of shame, changing out of the previous night’s shirt into your one of your spares at the office.” I jam my nail into his bare chest accusingly. “You did it twice last week.”

“It’s not because of one-night stands.” Sam sighs like he’s releasing a secret he’s been holding back. “I let you think that, but it’s the mornings after I visit my parents and spend the night at their apartment.”

I shake my head, this new information not melding with the Sam I know.

“I’ve only slept with three people since I’ve known,” he says. “Three people in four years.”

I keep shaking my head, not believing him, the wires in my brain malfunctioning.

---