The Ex Talk

“You have moves,” I say when he sets me down on the edge of the bed, giving me a moment to catch my breath and safely deposit my glasses on a nightstand.

“No moves,” he says, sounding earnest as he slides onto the bed next to me. “Just something I’ve been wanting to do for a whi

le.” His mouth, back on my neck. His hands, roaming the sides of my body, lingering at the dip in my waist.

“Me too.” I experience a flash of panic as his fingers graze my breasts. “I should warn you, I’m wearing a truly hideous sports bra.” It used to be charcoal, but now it’s an unfortunate watery gray, the elastic peeking through various holes in the seams. Really, I should win an award for packing the world’s least sexy clothing.

A laugh gets caught in his throat. “I can one hundred percent guarantee I won’t care.”

I can’t take my shirt and bra off fast enough.

“Don’t tell me you prefer the bra,” I say when he just stares at me.

“Gorgeous,” he says, but he’s looking at my face. He leans in to kiss me again, a thumb stroking the hardened peak of one nipple before he bends to take the other into his mouth.

Fuck he’s good at this. At this rate, I’m half-convinced I could come before my leggings are off. I go for the hem of his shirt, and he helps me yank it off. I barely have time to appreciate the ridges of his chest before I’m tugging at his waistband. I’m so greedy that even with his pants half-off, I reach inside, desperate to feel him.

He groans in my ear as I close my hand around him. He’s hot and smooth and rock-hard, pulsing in my fist. “Don’t—don’t go too fast,” he says, and I’m reminded of the fact that he’s only done this with one other person. That this is a big deal to him.

That it must mean I’m a big deal to him.

“I won’t.” I draw back. Not too fast. I can do that. I can savor this.

Because there’s a nagging thought at the back of my mind that I don’t know what this will mean when we’re back at the station.

We readjust so he can remove his pants, and then he holds himself over me as he fumbles with the waistband of my leggings. Another terrible clothing choice.

“They’re kind of tight, so—”

“Making me work for it,” he says, but he’s grinning “I don’t mind. I have a master’s degree, after all. I’m used to hard work.”

I nod toward the impressive tent in his boxer briefs. “I can tell.”

He slides my leggings off and kisses me from ankle to knee to thigh, stroking along the outside of my underwear, already wet with my need for him. This pair is granny panty–adjacent, and yet I’ve never felt sexier.

“This okay?” he asks, his breath ragged. A finger grazes the fabric, and my body focuses all its attention on that single piece of cotton. I hold tight to his shoulders, silently begging him to push aside my underwear, tear it off, anything to feel skin on skin.

“It must be pretty obvious that it is,” I manage, but because I appreciate he asked, I add: “Yes. Yes.”

Except he pulls back into a seated position on the bed next to me. I’m still panting, half-embarrassed by how feral those few strokes of his finger turned me.

“I just realized I don’t have a condom,” he says, and the reality is louder than a thunderclap. He runs a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. In this moment, even his sheepishness is hot. Inconvenient, but hot. “Shit. I’m sorry. Do you—?”

I cut him off with a shake of my head, forcing myself up so I can lean against the headboard. My dating app hiatus evolved into a birth control hiatus. “No. Didn’t really think this would happen, so . . .”

We’re both quiet for a few moments. Enough for the awkwardness to set in, enough for me to feel a little exposed.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I could go get some?” But the rain only seems to pelt the tiny house’s roof harder, reminding us of the storm and the fact that the nearest drugstore is at least twenty minutes away.

“I . . . kind of don’t want to stop.” I lean in, palming his erection. “There are other things we could do.”

He closes his eyes and lets out another groan. I could get addicted to that sound—Dominic struggling to stay in control. I grab at the elastic of his boxer briefs and help him out of them. A naked Dominic is almost too much: the cut of his stomach muscles, the V shape that drags my attention downward. He’s more beautiful than I thought he’d be, and I have thought about him like this a lot.

“You are . . .” I gesture to him, struggling to come up with an adequate compliment. “You are an extremely attractive man.”

That earns me another grin. I swing a leg over him and settle into his lap, feeling him through the fabric of my underwear.

“Christ. Shay,” he says. A warning and a plea. His hands are on my hips, guiding me as I roll forward. He feels so goddamn good like this that I have to wrap my arms around his neck to steady myself. My breasts press against his chest and I grind into him harder, faster, the friction bringing me closer and closer to release. “You are killing me. I have to touch you. Please.”