Page 35 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
I wouldn't have had to say a word.
He would have taken it from there.
He would have massaged and squeezed and maybe even scratched and spanked a little.
His hands would have disappeared under my camisole and found my breasts, and he would have flipped me onto my back so he could uncover them and kiss them all over.
And I would have just stretched out and offered myself up to him.
He would have made me come with his mouth and his tongue and his hands and maybe his fingernails and teeth even. He'd be gentle. He'd know exactly what to do to make me feel good.
And it would. It would have felt so good.
I would have whispered to himfuck me, Eddie, just do it.Do it fast before anyone comes in. And he would do it fast and hard, and we would have covered each other's mouths and screamed into each other's hands while staring into each other's eyes and it would have been so, so hot.
“Oh, God!” I whisper into the pillow as a wave of orgasm hits me.
I remember to snort, and then as I feel that tumbling, falling again in my abdomen and a violent shudder, my muffled cry is surely too quiet for Eddie to hear, but oh God, I can’t contain it.
And I can’t snort.
It’s physically impossible to snort in the middle of an orgasm, it turns out.
It’s mentally impossible to think about anyone other than Eddie while I’m touching myself now, it seems.
But I can still tell myself that it’s just a physical thing. It’s just hormones. It’s just my confused body reacting to things that don’t mean anything other than—we’re two friends who haven’t had sex with anyone in a while and we just happen to be in close proximity to each other right now. For a short period of time.
I shudder and jolt again, and then I pull my hand away. Both hands clutch the pillow as I breath into it, trying to catch my breath, trying to slow my heart rate, trying to forget that Eddie is just a few feet below me. Reminding myself that when he said he’d never seen true beauty until this night, they weren’thiswords. They weren’thisfeelings. It was just a performance. Something I’d asked for. Something he used to do for auditions.
He loves me as a friend.
I love him as a friend.
Sometimes friends have orgasms while they’re touching themselves and thinking about their friends.
It’s just the wine.
It’s just the built-up tension.
It’s just the rocking of the train.
It’s just friendship.
And that’s more than enough.
It has to be.
Because I don’t think I could handle any more from Eddie Cannavale—body, mind, or soul.
That’s why I have guidelines in place.
That’s why I have New Year’s resolutions to focus on.
That’s why he’s traveling with me to New York, to spend Valentine’s Day with a woman who isn’t me.
And it’s fine.
Because it has to be.
