Page 59 of The Art of Being Merry
If I tell her that, she’d probably laugh it off, possibly even stop this. I keep my compliments to myself. There will be a more opportune time to share.
Clementine climbs onto the bed, pushing to her knees, leveling our faces. “I’m pretending this isn’t weird.”
“Why is this weird for you?” I want her at ease. She’ll get more out of it if she’s comfortable and not stuck in her head about the oddity of it.
“How is it not weird for you?” she tosses back. The moment realization settles in, her expression falters. “Oh.”
“What’s the ‘oh’ for?” I eliminate the small space between us, laying my hands on her waist.
“You probably have women throwing themselves at you, begging for orgasms on the regular.”
“Hardly.” My answer expels without me even processing it.
Have I had my share of women? Yes. I’m a single guy with needs.
Do I have a constant parade of women throwing themselves at me? Sometimes. In the past few years, I’ve been more picky, more selective of who I sleep with. If there’s no connection, no initial spark, I don’t give in to my desires or theirs simply for a romp in the sack. I have higher standards.
“But you’ve done this before?”
“Had sex?” I squeal, the question so shocking, my tone is pitchy.
Clementine rolls her eyes, and she tries to wiggle out of my grip, but I hold tighter. “A casual hookup. To provide orgasms.”
“Yes. Haven’t you?”
“How do you think Atlas got here?” Her eyes widen, and she clamps her hand across her mouth. “Maybe forget I said that.” The outcome is more revealing than the timeframe. “I’m on birth control, but we still need condoms.”
I remove the box from my pocket. “Got us protected.” It’s such a terrible pun, but she doesn’t call me out on it, which I’m thankful for. “It’s only weird if you make it weird, Clementine.”
Her head tilts to the right. “Why do you always use my full name?”
“I didn’t realize I did.”
She nods, her tongue peeking from her mouth and licking her bottom lip. “I like it from you.”
I knead her skin with my fingers. “Do you?”
“Yeah. It rolls off your tongue nicely, and it’s easy on the ears." If not for her stoic expression, I’d think she was bullshitting me. But since she’s not, I guess I’ll be more conscious of it.
I snake both hands under her oversized sweatshirt to meet her bare skin. Clementine sucks in a breath at the action. “May I?” I whisper, fingering the hem, asking for permission.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Yep.” Her permission granted, I raise the shirt over her head, leaving her upper half in a sports bra. “Ah, of course I’m wearing the crappiest of bras.” She tries to cover her breasts, but I gently cuff her wrists, moving her arms away.
“It’s coming off anyway. Who cares?”
Her brows crease. “Tell me you’re always this relaxed about things.”
I shrug a shoulder, removing her bra. “When the details don’t matter, I’m not overly concerned. It’s when they do that I am.” My fingers slide under the bra, grazing the sides of her boobs. “I’d rather focus on what’s underneath.” Her vision latches onto mine. This time, she raises her arms for me, and I discard the bra.
When I get my first look at her ample breasts, the pink aroundthe nipples, my tongue won’t stay in my mouth. Thankfully, it behaves enough not to reach out and lick or suck without consent.
She lets me stare for a length of time, not rushing me or trying to move things along, getting a rise from my admiration of her body, confirmed when she speaks, “It feels good to have someone notice them for a change.”
I meet her eyes, a story there, one I won’t get now.
Or possibly ever.
This morning, coming over here and demanding she let me give her an orgasm sounded like an awesome plan.
