The Sexpert

Pumping my cock with one hand and stroking her with the other as the rain pounds onto my terrace high above the street below, I feel like I feel when I’m climbing. And looking out at Pikes Peak, the twentieth tallest mountain peak in Colorado, it has the same quality I get when I’m reaching a summit.

And I realize… I’m just about to hit the summit. We both are.

“Mmm, mmmm, mmmmmmmmmmmm.” The sounds she’s making are getting longer, louder, and higher pitched each time a new “mmm” escapes from her. And each long, loud, high pitched “mmm” has me pumping on myself harder. And right at the moment she comes, a huge clap of thunder, a crash of lightning, and a scream from deep in her lungs all come along with her.

And so do I. My cock spits out hot, steamy come all over her back. It mixes with the rain and disperses down the small of her back and onto her ass, sliding down the side of her hips and along her legs. I don’t think she can tell because the rain is still pounding on her and she’s still writhing with the force of her own orgasm, and I make the choice not to say anything. I just rub my hands all over her body, massaging her and simultaneously wiping away the evidence of the fact that I couldn’t keep myself from spilling out all over her during a rainstorm.

In the middle of the day.

On my second day in town.

It is, as could have been predicted, awkward in my apartment.

We’re back in the bedroom. She’s standing in front of me, wrapped in a towel. I’m just wearing a pair of boxer shorts. We look at each other. I smile. And then she says…

“Clothes?”

“What’s that?”

“Clo-thes,” she says again, drawing out the word.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, realizing that this was the whole pretense under which we came up to my place. Because she couldn’t get into hers to change and I might have something she could wear. Yeah. That’s plausible. “Umm, well,” I say, rummaging through my closet. “See, these aren’t, like, my things. I mean, they are, but I didn’t buy them. There was just this stuff waiting for me when I got here and I tried on one of the shirts, and I think they must be European or something because what they’re calling ‘large’ is no large I’ve ever heard of, so…” I fan through the inventory of button-downs as I’m talking, offering one after the other to her, and she just shakes her head.

“What’s your deal?” she finally says.

“What?”

“Seriously, what’s your deal?”

“That’s now the second time you’ve asked me that.”

“Technically the fourth. I asked you twice yesterday. Or maybe fifth, I’m not sure, but you never answered anyway. So, for the fifth or sixth time… What’s your deal?”

I take a second to think, nod my head, take a breath, and sit on the edge of the bed. “Um, I mean, I’m from Kentucky. Grew up on a horse farm. My dad died when I was, like, four. My mom is kind of a crazy Southern Belle type. I got sent off to boarding school, discovered I loved art, went to Bennington for undergrad because, I dunno, because it’s expensive and my mom likes spending money. Met Pierce, became best friends because we both have daddy issues and Oedipal complexes? Probably? Uh, went to grad school at Berkeley. Planned to be an artist-slash-museum curator or something. Wound up in a bloodless relationship and got engaged. Got unengaged because it was bloodless. Stumbled onto what became Voice Lift and accidentally started a billion-dollar company. And then yesterday morning I moved here. Oh… And I climb. Rocks and stuff. I always thought it was probably because I was trying to run away from something, but my lead developer, Dev, thinks it’s because they’re sturdy. But he’s nineteen, so take that with a grain of salt.”

I sniff at the end of that because the A/C is making me a little stuffy.

“You have a lead developer whose name is Dev?”

I find it interesting that that’s what she chose to take from everything I just said.

“You and Pierce are super close, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. I know, he’s a dick. But he’s my brother. I love the guy. Love’s weird that way. It just kind of finds you. You can’t really pick and choose who you love, I don’t think.”

“Huh,” she says.

“And it’s fucked up that you work for him and that, hell, we had dinner together and he doesn’t really even know who you are, but…” I wish I hadn’t said that. Stupid. She gets very cold. “Sorry.”

She presses her lips together and shakes her head. Not like she’s shaking it at me, just like she’s thinking.

“What’s—?” I start to ask.

“I gotta go,” she says.