I moan and grip her hips harder. I fucking love it. I love everything she does. She flicks her tongue against the shell of my ear, and I might as well just wave the white flag and admit defeat, because she’s found my weak spot, and she seems to know it. She kisses me there, and every sweep of her tongue makes me harder, makes me want to haul her up to her home, throw her on her bed, slide into her and show her that if she can drive me crazy with a kiss, I can make her scream in pleasure with my cock.
She raises her hips, slams back down onto me, and whispers, “When I felt you on my couch it drove me wild. Completely wild.”
Her hand snakes between us, and she grabs my cock.
I’m electrified. Every inch of me buzzes with thousands of watts of power because she touches me through my pants. Her eyes shine with pure, unbridled lust as if she’s realizing how much there is of me, and, I hope, how much she wants me. Fuck, I want her to have it all.
Right now.
“I want to know how you feel inside me,” she murmurs.
A thousand responses fill my head. It’ll feel better than anything you’ve ever had. Unzip my pants, wrap your hands around my cock, and let me take you for the ride of your life. You’ll see stars, mountains will move, and the earth will shake.
The simplest answer, though, is the one I’m dying to utter.
God, I want to fuck you so fucking badly right now.
But thankfully, those aren’t the words that escape my lips. Somehow, the rational portion of my brain knows better. The gentleman inside me fights his way out, manages to squirm his way up, and resume control from the manwhore.
Charlotte is buzzed, and I will not take advantage of Buzzed Honest Charlotte.
“You’re drunk, Snuffaluffagus. Let’s get you in your jammies and put you to bed,” I say as I grip her hips to lift her off me.
She’s faster. She moves quickly, parking herself in her seat with more agility that I expected. She sneers, “I’m not drunk,” and it comes out surprisingly crisp and clear.
I’m not going to argue this point right now. Drunk or not, that was a far too risky moment. The cab slows at the next light, and she yawns loudly, covering her mouth. Her head sinks on my shoulder. Soon, I’m unlocking her door, carrying her to her bed, and sliding off her shoes. She murmurs something as her eyes flutter closed.
“Water,” I say. “You need water.”
“Mmm. That sounds delish,” she says sleepily.
I head to the kitchen, fill a cold glass, and bring it to her. “Sit up,” I tell her, and she manages to scoot back in bed. I hand her the glass. She downs most of it. “Drink it all. I’ll leave another glass on your nightstand. Drink that one when you wake up in the middle of the night to pee.”
Nodding, she sets down the glass. She throws her arms around me, and tugs me into bed. She tries to pull me next to her.
“I have to go.”
“Stay with me. Please,” she says, patting the soft, comfy bed. “Just sleep next to me. That’s all I want.”
Sleep next to her? With this boner? With her wild hands crawling all over my body? No way. I’m not that strong. I’m not that good.
“I need to go. I’ve got to feed my cat.” It sounds like the lamest excuse in the world, but it’s actually true.
There’s a flash of hurt in her eyes. Maybe even disappointment. Then it passes, and she smiles faintly. “Good night, Captain Fiancé. Give the pussy a kiss for me.”
Oh, how I would absolutely love to.
Her head hits the pillow, and in seconds she’s snoring. It’s so fucking cute, the little sounds she makes. I scratch my head—how is it possible that her snores are adorable? But they are. I stand and look at her in the dark, the moonlight streaking across her covers, cutting a crisscross pattern through the blinds. Her blonde hair is spread over her white pillow, her blouse slinks down her shoulder, revealing a cherry red bra, and the skirt of her dress rides up her thighs. I could undress her like they do in the movies, or I could leave her in her clothes.
Undressing her feels like a violation. Instead, I do what I told her I would. I fill her glass of water and leave it on the nightstand. I open her medicine cabinet, grab two aspirin, just in case, and place them next to the glass. I hunt for some paper, and I find a Post-It notepad in her kitchen and a pen in the utensil drawer.
I write: Two aspirin in the morning, and call me when you get up. I need to take you out for the final hangover prevention step.
I leave, and I should earn a commendation for self-restraint. I’m going to contact the Guys’ Committee and let them know what I accomplished tonight in the resistance category. I’ll fully expect a gold medal in the morning and, frankly, an awards ceremony, considering the level of difficulty.
A cab blows past me on Lexington, but I don’t shoot my arm into the air to flag it down. Instead, I turn south and walk home, even though I’m many, many blocks away. I need the time and the space and the distance from those five minutes in the cab when I wanted to fuck my best friend’s brains out.
This city should take my mind off Charlotte, so I soak it in—the bodegas peddling fruit and flowers, the Chinese restaurants offering greasy noodles, the twenty-four-hour pharmacies selling anything and everything. I cut across town, surrounded by throngs of people, so many still out late at night.
But when I unlock my door at one a.m., I’m still turned on. The walk didn’t work. I’m horny as hell. I feel like I’ve taken Charlotte Viagra, and this hard-on is a cruel and unusual punishment for lusting so badly after my best friend.