The swirling water dances over my skin, dances everywhere, and before I know it, my hand is between my legs. The chaos and emotion of my trip home weren’t exactly conducive to arousal, but clearly my body is needing to compensate for that down time. This tub could hold another five people, but I’d settle for just one more. I’m aroused enough, and I could probably make myself come, but I take away my hand after a few minutes. There is nothing particularly interesting about this for me right now.
It is not my touch that I want.
I know I shouldn’t fantasize about Chris, but I can’t help it. Giving in to my ache, my fingers move between my legs once again. My brain starts running a movie reel of what Chris and I could do together, how I would touch him, how he would sound and move. I brace my foot against the side of the tub as I shove a finger inside myself. Flashbacks of Chris doing this to me heighten the feeling, and I move faster. It’s easy to conjure up exactly what he did to me against the door to my room, exactly how he affected me. I remember his sound, his touch, and every graphic, perfect word that he said to me. I think about his touch between my legs, how he got me so totally wet, how I could feel his cock press against me when he held me tight …
I stop my hand. God, what is wrong with me? I’m momentarily surprised that I’m thinking in such raw, graphic terms, but have to admit that even though I’ve never said the word out loud, it suddenly seems exactly right. I remember the way Chris dirty talked his way through making me come so hard in my room and realize that side of him seems to have rubbed off on me. Maybe it’s no surprise I’m thinking with such X-rated abandon now.
Fuck. Fuck!
I take my hand away in irritation. I don’t want to come by myself. It’s not enough anymore. The fact is that I am a senior in college, and I want to have sex. To be more accurate, I want to get fucked until I can’t see straight. Classy, I think. But that’s what I want. Unfortunately for me, that is not going to happen right now.
I stand up and check the vanity basket again to see what other products I can smear on myself. The foot scrub could be appealing, except that I hate the smell of fake raspberries, so I investigate further. There is, of all things, a vibrator in a discreet sealed box nestled in with the bath salts. I don’t pick it up—I’m not after that kind of touch, either. The pack of condoms and lube in there seem to be laughing at me. I scowl at them, hurl both through the open shutters, and watch them land them on the bed. Then I grab a nice innocent jar of salt scrub. This is not going anywhere erotic.
Later, after I’ve dried my hair and thrown on comfy black leggings and a snug camisole tank top, I order a huge dinner. There is no point in getting dressed up, and I’m happy to be wearing clothes I can stretch in. My muscles still feel limber because I was able to get a temporary membership to a gym back home, so all of my hard work wasn’t undone over break. As I reach for my toes, I am happy to notice that my flexibility continues to get better every week. By the time my food arrives, I am limber for no good reason.
I dim the lights, take the first of my dishes, fettuccine Alfredo, to the big armchair and stare out at Madison while I pick at my food. Now that I have three extraordinarily fattening entrees in the room, I’m not hungry. What I am is worked up and cranky and sexually frustrated. I sigh at the picturesque view out the window. The downtown city lights shine brightly, particularly the capitol building, which is encased in a luminescent white glow.
After a few more bites, and a good gulp of the room-temperature gin and tonic that I mixed for myself, I roll the cart into the hallway, catching someone from room service as he leaves another room. I take a silver bucket from the table and head for the ice machine near the elevator. Might as well continue raiding the minibar.
Just as I turn the corner back to my room, I see him coming out of a room at the far end of the hall.
Chris is walking toward me, strolling casually down the hall with his hands in his jeans pockets. I’m unable to move until he finally looks up and sees me.
“Well, hey, you,” he says with a smile. He is tanned and excruciatingly gorgeous, and I nearly faint. “What are you doing here?”
My chest is probably visibly heaving. I drop the bucket and walk quickly toward him. He’s got to see how I am looking at him, how I am essentially in heat. Chris meets me halfway, and I grab a fistful of his T-shirt in my hand and pull him in tight. I lift my mouth up close to his. “I need you,” I say, each word deliberate and loaded. I’m not sure, but I may have actually growled.
I keep him close as I back up and lead him to my door.
“Blythe, what are you doing? I thought we agreed that we weren’t …” But his hands are on my waist, then under the top of my leggings, and he is following my steps without any protest.
I smile. “Shut up.” I reach behind me and wave my key card. The second I hear the door unlock, I slam down on the handle and take us into my room.
Now it’s his turn up against a wall.
His mouth tastes like orange soda, which I find spectacularly adorable, and I kiss him long and hard. And not because I like orange soda. My hands are practically clawing through his hair and over his chest.
I can tell that Chris is surprised by how aggressive I am, but I don’t really care. And he gets over it quickly, because as I continue to kiss him, his hands move over me. He’s digging his fingers under my ass and lifting me up and against him. Already we are moving together in a way that we haven’t before, even that night in my room. Despite our height difference, we fit perfectly, and feeling him press his hips into me makes my ache for him climb. Even through his jeans, I can feel how hard he is.
As I continue to kiss him, I find his waistband and yank his shirt out until I can touch his abs, and stroke his lower back and ass. Then I come back to the front of his jeans, stroking him with one hand and undoing his belt with the other. He gasps and leans his head against the wall. “Blythe,” he whispers into my mouth.
I breathe in my name from his lips. “Yeah?” I say back, unable to hold back a smile.
“I don’t know if this is smart,” he says, yet his hands are now over my breasts, getting my nipples hard.
“I think it’s brilliantly smart,” I manage.
“But we can’t … get involved. I told you, I’m not boyfriend material.“
“I know.” I rub my hand against the front of his jeans a little harder.
“We’re friends. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Me neither. We won’t.”
“You’re just saying that now, but later it could feel different.”
“I’m a big girl, and I know what I want.” And I do. I don’t know where my confidence with him has come from, but I’ve got it.
“You know how much I care about you, it’s just more than I—”
“Christopher.” I interrupt him and pull back until I am looking him directly in the eyes. While I appreciate his checking to make sure that I’m cognizant of what I’m doing, I also know that he is as ready for this as I am. “I don’t want you to be my boyfriend.” I unzip his pants. “I want you to fuck me.”
He is breathing hard, and it takes him a moment to speak. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me with heat in his eyes now. “I can do that.”
“Good.”
He moves fluidly to help me get him out of his unzipped jeans, and I place my hand over the front of his blue boxer briefs. He groans and touches his hands lightly to the side of my head as I kneel in front of him and graze my lips against the fabric. I slide a hand between his legs and move it far back until I have his ass in my hand. I pull him against my mouth. I always thought maybe I’d feel tentative during my first blow job because it would be new to me, but instead, I want him and everything about him immediately. I know that he can feel the heat from my breath. With the other hand, I pull down the front of his boxers and immediately touch my tongue to him. My need for him is powerful, urgent, and I feel delirious that I am finally getting to touch Chris in the way that I want. I lick his entire length.