Page 30 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I reach climax as he finds his own ragged, gasping, madly thrusting release.
We move together, cry out together. My name, his name, nothing else. Just gusting whimpers, ragged groans, guttural roars, hoarse cries.
When it’s over, he goes limp on top of me. I welcome his weight, the crushing warmth of him, his lean bulk on me, his scent and his skin and his everything all over and inside me. I know my fingers are stroking his back, his spine, his shoulders, and I try to stop them, but I can’t.
There’s a long moment of silence, except for our breathing.
I feel a pressure inside—a hot, ballooning, suffocating thing in my chest and gut and throat, an upwelling of…god, I don’t know what.
But it’s sharp and huge and focused utterly on the man on me and in me and all around me.
And it makes my eyes sting.
I push at him. “I need—I can’t breathe. I need to get up.”
He rolls off immediately. “God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to crush you.”
I’m off the bed in an instant. “No, that was fine. More than fine.” I find my robe, shrug into it, and tie it. “And that’s why I can’t breathe.”
I head to my balcony, rip the door open so hard it slams open and halfway closes again, and lean against the railing, gasping, blinking.
I feel him behind me; I don’t have to look to know he’s still naked.
“Audra…”
I shake my head. “Franco, don’t.”
“That was—”
“I said don’t, Franco!” I snap. “Just fucking don’t.”
“I don’t want to acknowledge it any more than you do, goddammit, and probably a whole hell of a lot less.”
“What? Are we gonna trade life stories, now, Franco? Are you gonna tell me why you’re a player? Why you have your four-fuck rule? Why you’re a forty-five-year-old bachelor?” I feel the defensive spikes shooting out and into my words, but I can’t stop them; he’s penetrated too far past all my walls and boundaries, and I have to stop him from getting any closer. “You really want to hear why I have my three strikes rule? Why I keep things kinky and casual? You really want to know why I never kiss?” Shit, I didn’t mean for that last one to come out.
He doesn’t answer any of that.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t think so.”
“Audra—”
“Thanks for dinner,” I say. “And the orgasms. They were, honestly…unforgettable. So, thank you.”
“We’re ending it here, huh?” He sounds carefully neutral, but I don’t turn to gauge his expression. I don’t dare.
“It’s best, don’t you think?”
I can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck, or scraping his hands through his long loose hair, but again, I don’t dare look.
“Yeah,” he agrees, eventually. “It probably is.”
“Then I think you should go.” I sigh. “That sounded rude, and I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be rude. I just—”
“No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. This whole thing is going way past what either of us are comfortable with, and we should just…call it.”
“Yeah. We should.”
He turns away—I hear his steps on the balcony, and then hear him rustling around, putting on his clothes. I still don’t look.
I hear him again, at the open doorway to the balcony. I feel him, more than hear him, if you want to be accurate.
“You don’t kiss because you saw Pretty Woman,” he says.
I laugh, a genuine bark of amused surprise. “Yeah, actually, you happen to be one hundred percent correct. But Vivian was onto something.”
Silence.
“So…bye, I guess?”
I turn, finally. He’s dressed, put together, and as breathtakingly beautiful as ever. More so, maybe. “Bye.”
“You know we’re gonna see each other at some point, right?” He scuffs his boot against the track of the sliding glass door.
I nod. “Yeah. And we’ll be friends. Just not…this.”
He chuckles ruefully. “You really think that’ll work?”
I sigh. “No, probably not. But it has to, so it will.”
“You gonna ignore me?”
I nod again. “I’ll probably be an icy bitch to you, so be warned, and try not to take it too personally.”
“Right. Duly noted.”
I try to smile, but I can’t quite do it. This is the weirdest, most awkward, most uncomfortable parting I’ve ever experienced. I just want it to be over.
“I’ll see you later, Franco.” I breathe this, stifling the bizarre flood of icky feelings inside.
“Yeah.” He digs his key ring out of his pocket, looks at it, and puts it back. “See ya.”
He waves, once, supremely awkwardly, and strides out of my room. Out of my apartment. I hear the door slam. A few minutes later I hear a car door close, an engine start, tires crunch, and then the sounds fade and I’m alone with my thoughts and feelings.
Shit, shit, shit.
I go into my living room to where my purse is still sitting on the floor by the front door. I sit down right there, dig my phone out of the purse, and call Imogen.
