Page 22 of The Girlfriend Zone

He’s a little rough. A little demanding. A little angry. And I’ve never been more turned on than I am when this thoughtful, kind man goes wild on me.

It’s exactly the kind of sex I think I’ve always wanted but have never known to ask for. Till I met a stranger who seemed…enchanted by me.

Oh, god. My heart beats so fast. My pulse surges. The awareness that this is happening pulls me under—there’s some kind of fierce chemistry between the two of us.

It’s not just the rough sex. It’s the real connection. The way he’s treated me all day. Most of all, it’s the knowledge that I’m as into him as he’s into me.

My mind spins and I grab his ass, pulling him deeper till I’m falling apart again too. Several mind-bending seconds later, he groans, then jerks. “Fuuuuuck,” he grunts, his whole body slamming hard into me oncemore, pushing me up the chaise longue farther as the aftershocks radiate through me.

He drops his face into the crook of my neck, collapsing onto me. Sighing long and hard, moaning, lost in the moment.

Which is, admittedly, a nice compliment.

Except, I’ve no choice but to shift around to accommodate his face in my neck, and with my right ear nearly pressed against the cushion, the top of my hearing aid is knocked loose.

Oh, shit.

The custom mold is still inside my ear—that’s not likely to come loose on its own ever—but the behind-the-ear part? That little silver bitch has jumped off my ear and burrowed into my hair. That usually only happens when something gets caught in my hair, like the string from a face mask at the doctor’s office, or corded headphones.

And now, a hot, strapping man fucking me hard into the cushions has done the job.

Subtly, or as subtly as I can, I sneak a hand into my hair, hunting for it in my strands. But Miles rises up, looking down at me curiously.

Awkward.

Never have I ever searched for a hearing aid post-sex. Because never have I ever had one dislodge during sex.

“Is everything okay?” he asks with genuine concern.

“Yes, fine.”

“Do you need?—”

“Nope,” I say brightly, cutting that idea off at the knees. I don’t need help freeing my hearing aid from my own hair, but I also don’t want anyone else touching it. They’re expensive and necessary. They’re for my hands only.

In a few seconds, I free the piece from my hair without having to pull the whole thing out of my ear, thank god. But still, I scoot up on the chaise and turn away from him, quickly tucking the small silver piece back where it belongs.

It’s not that I can’t hear without it. I can manage. But it’s that—none of this is sexy. And it’s kind of embarrassing. Like some asshole once said to me after a couple dates last year when he learned I wore them. Nick’s words?“Well, that’s embarrassing. Especially at your age.”

Yup. I’m twenty-three and wear something most people associate with the elderly and have since I was sixteen.

Fun times.

Best to move on. “I should get dressed,” I say evenly since I don’t want him to think this bothers me. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Or to tell me I’m beautiful right now, because if he does that, it will feel like he meansyou’re beautiful even with your hearing aids.

I don’t want that kind of response, and I don’t need that kind of reassurance. But before I can slide out from under him, Miles wraps a hand gently around my arm, and says, “I’m sorry. Did I knock it out?”

I pause, absorbing the words. The question. The intent. He’s not trying to make me feel like I’moh so inspiringfor being able to have sex with hearing aids in. He’s just acknowledging that they’re part of it and that he’s, well, cool with it.

And that’s a much better response. “Yes, but it’s fine now,” I say. “They survived the great fucking.”

He laughs, then turns sober quickly. “Do you need anything?”

For you to stop being so fantastic because I’m going to start expecting a unicorn to arrive on my doorstep tomorrow.

And since I’m too much of a realist to believe in good fortune that I don’t make happen with hard work, I say, “I’m good.”

I should get dressed. Say goodnight. Head home to my roommates. Go out on a high note, so to speak.

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