Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Two × Like I'm Fucking Barack Obama Back in 2016

Even the receptionist gives me a dirty look, like I'm a walking, breathing, piece of human shit. And although I appreciate her concern for my girlfriend, I do think that her reaction is a little undeserved.

"Why can't you just use my Uber account?" I press, throwing the strap of her backpack over my shoulder as we enter into the brisk, winter air. Unlike Toronto, Portland gets only a few centimeters of snow a year - most of which I think have already come and gone.

"Because I'm perfectly capable of taking the bus." She responds, scowling at me when I tug her hood over her head, causing her to go temporarily blind. She looks so fucking cute in her giant parka - like a waddling penguin that has made me wanna mate for life.

I give her a look, like I'm not sure how many more times I can handle having this conversation before needing to go buy a bottle of Tums. Because I don't want to have to worry about my girlfriend getting bothered by some creepy stalkers at the bus station? Because I don't see a reason for why she should be freezing her ass off, outside, when I've offered a number of suitable alternatives.

"What do you think about the birth control thing?" She asks as we make our way to my truck - our fingers entwined as our hands rest in my jacket pocket, trying to avoid the pouring rain.

Her way of awkwardly changing the subject is what I've come to know as her wanting to table the previous conversation; whether the topic will ever be broached again, is usually left up to me.

"I don't know." I answer, despite having my own preferences on the subject.

I don't do it because I've morphed into a passive-aggressive woman that expects her significant other to know exactly what's on her mind, but rather because I know that my opinion on the subject shouldn't really matter.

I mean, at the end of the day, guys are kind of like the sous-chefs. We're there; we know what we're doing; but we're not the ones having to bare the brunt of the consequences. We're not the ones dealing with hormone changes (not in our bodies, at least), or gaining weight because of a small little pill that we're forced to take.

It's Rosie's body; and ultimately, I don't feel like it would be appropriate for me to contribute anything other than unwavering support. The kind that I don't feel women get enough from their partners, or society as a whole.

"Would we still use condoms, if I was on birth control?" She wonders, acting as if this is an actual question rather than a test of my self control.

Bareback sex with Rosie; no condoms; never having to stop in the middle of us getting hot and heavy to go find a piece of aluminum foil - I get hard just thinking about it.

Us having sex without a condom, not the aluminum foil. I'm kinky (kind of?) but not that kinky.

"That would be up to you." I tell her, avoiding having to answer her question like a fuckboy that's just been asked for a relationship status update. "We can keep using condoms." I add, opening the passenger side door and gesturing for her to get in. Sometimes I wish I had bought one of those trucks with a massive suspension - just so that I'd have an excuse to put my hands around her waist.

Her eyes flicker inside, then towards me, before ultimately climbing inside. She's mentioned before that while my opening the car door for her is sweet, it's completely unnecessary. But I think that small gestures like that, are what make people - and what keep people, happy and in-love.

Think about it, everyone acts on their best behavior when they're trying to get a girl - but as soon as they're dating her, it's like they've fallen off the face of the earth. Like all the small sweet things that they did when they were in the "talking" stage, should somehow last him long enough to cover a lifetime together. Which I personally think is a load of shit.

"What would you prefer?" She presses, studying me when I slide into the driver's seat. My jacket's a little wet - mostly because I'm underdressed for the weather: wearing the male equivalent of a pair of tights, some gym shorts, and a Portland Pirates hoodie, underneath. But it's not like I'm going to some fashion show - and I have to go back to the rink anyway, so I might as well just stay in my workout gear.

To be clear, though, it's clean. I'm not some sweat-soaked man causing people to wish they could sacrifice their sense of smell to stop inhaling my scent. I don't know why, but women's body odor seems to be objectively better than men.

Maybe that's just because I grew up in locker rooms and the women I've been around always tend to smell like lilacs and other fruity scented shit.

"Uh." I rub the back of my neck, trying to blueprint a strategy that'll allow me to leave this situation in one piece. 

It's like I'm fucking Barack Obama back in 2016, being asked what I think about my successor, or whatever year it was when he left the White House. Don't judge me, okay - I'm not American, how the fuck am I supposed to know this shit. "I'm happy to keep using condoms." I finally tell her, deciding to go with a little bit less conventional political strategy.

As I turn the key in the ignition, she's silent - which I take as confirmation that I should retire from my political career and never speak of it again. But just as I'm about to sign on the dotted line, she opens her mouth. "Does it really feel that different?" She asks, looking over at me with curious, wandering eyes.

I would say childlike, but considering the fact that we're talking about my dick being inside of her, that would feel a little fucked-up.

"Um." I let out a laugh, not really sure how to respond. I don't wanna influence her decision - or be the reason that she makes a specific one; but I also don't wanna lie to her. And the truth ladies and gentleman, is that, yes, going bareback does feel a lot fucking better.

Especially when you have feelings for the person and have spent nearly every single one of your solo sessions, thinking about them. Which definitely isn't what I do - unless that's normal, in which case I beat off to thinking about Rosie and I making passionate, passionate love.

"Yeah, it's a little different."