Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Forty-One × Plunking His Dick Into Me

I'm not sure if it's a rendition of post-nut clarity, or the fact that he took a solid fifteen minutes to come back, but I find myself feeling less warmed up and more ice-cold than when he was in here last. I guess it's the fact that I'm wondering if he took the condom from a pack that he had used with someone else; if this guest bathroom was where he took me to because he knows he could get away with it, just as he had with someone else.

I know his family says he's never brought a girl home before, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's never brought her home, if you know what I mean (i.e. bumped uglies with her while his parents were asleep). Maybe he even used to be more daring and hooked up with her in his very bedroom; the same one we'll be sleeping in, later tonight.

Why do I care? I knew he had a past before me; I knew he wasn't some celibate, pope-in-training, that had never been inside a vagina before. I know that my nether regions are nothing but a return down memory lane for him. One that he's already done, many, many times.

I wonder how long it is before he gets bored.

"Woah. What's wrong?" He wonders, apparently being able to tell my shift in mood faster than a rogue FBI agent turning to violence, or should I say, creative interrogation techniques. "What happened?" He questions, sounding genuinely concerned, despite his dick probably about to fall off from a lack of air circulation. Or cummage.

"Nothing." I laugh a little, sounding probably more like a Disney Villain upset they had to return early from holiday rather than a girlfriend that's about to have sex. Invite her boyfriend into her parking space? Rev up her engine? I don't know. Don't judge me. Need I remind you, I still haven't gotten any sleep? "Just take off your pants." I tell him, wanting to put on my big girl pants (metaphorically) and wishing I could not let my emotions get the best of me

I don't even know if I would characterize them as emotions; more like the anxieties and worries that plague my life, that are more effective of a birth control than a commercial about dying children in Africa. The one that plays on repeat on the Weather Channel.

"Nah, I don't think so." He responds, seeming like he's trying to cautiously tread water on whatever issue I'm about to broach. Or maybe he thinks that - much like a frat guy that's just received fellatio, I'm done for the night and you can take care of yourself. Or just pretend that you came from giving me oral, whichever you prefer. "What's wrong, baby?" He asks, striding over to me and gently running his hand over my arm.

He doesn't do it in a it's four in the morning and I just want to stick my dick in you and then go to sleep, he does it in a way that shows me he actually cares. Like the last thing he would want to do is have sex with me when I'm upset about something. Didn't stop him from boinking me when I was still steaming from how they killed of Alex Karev in Grey's Anatomy, but I digress.

"It's fine." I'm just being sensitive, overdramatic, creating problems where they're are none. Like the main character of a romance novel, creating reasons and lists of why we can't finally have our cake and eat it too - this time, the sex kind. I'm just letting my anxiety get the best of me and need to focus - like my therapist likes to preach, on the present moment.

Usually she tells me to apply it to a monotonous task like driving or washing the dishes, but I feel sex is equally applicable. Thrust, thrust, thanks. "Rosie." He - being Erik, not my therapist who despite her masculine way of dressing, is most certainly a woman. I think. "What's wrong?" He asks, tucking a piece of rogue hair behind my ear and looking at me. He stares at me like I'm a reptile on exhibit at the state fair and he's a kid that's about to eat me for a dare.

I don't think I would fit in his mouth.

"Have you used them with someone else?" It sounds even stupider coming out of my mouth, but I feel almost a sense of relief after divulging it. Like I've just thrown up and my headache is about to go away - or render me motionless. "Those." I clarify, when he gives me a confused look like I'm speaking something other than English and he's a French foreigner.

He's still confused, wearing a Barret in my wacked out and wild imagination. He also is holding a baguette and comparing it to his ding-a-long. On that note, am I really mature enough to be having sex when I'm calling my boyfriend's package a ding-a-long? I think not. But don't answer.

"Condoms?" He asks, apparently - much like Dora the explorer on Prime Time, needing me to lead him directly to the question and answer, and information for how it was found. Quite frankly, I'm surprised Dora's able to get anywhere without tripping over herself when she has to constantly ask the audience for help. Then again, maybe we're more alike than I thought. Except her head is unusually large and mine is quite small.

Then again, I've never measured it. "Yeah." I answer, already feeling stupid for breaking my own rule. Don't ask a question, unless you're prepared for the answer. I think someone said that, once. Someone, somewhere, that I don't know the name of, or exactly how they paraphrased it. It basically boils down to not asking something unless you're prepared to not like the answer.

Like if you ask your boyfriend - who was not a virgin when he met you, nor with child (a dad, not pregnant); if he's used condoms before, don't be shocked when he tells you, yes, he has. Don't ask the same boyfriend if he's used a condom from the same package that he bought at Costco in family-size, as a previous girl, unless you're prepared for him to wonder what else he's supposed to do with the leftovers.

Burn them, I say. Burry them, throw them out, auction them. But do not use them with me. Maybe I'm weird, but I want no correlation between his past conquests and myself. I wouldn't ask him to use a dildo on me that was molded by the dick of Vin Diesel, after all.

Actually, Vin Diesel seems like he would be packing; so maybe someone smaller would suffice. Someone with a package between 5 to 6 inches that would come up as on the smaller size on the catalogue of a sex store. While we're on the topic, who are these people buying 13 inch dildos and where are they putting them?

Like, do vaginas come in different sizes and I just got the smallest one?

"You know what, don't answer that." I decide, wanting to save myself the thinking about a blonde haired, big boobed, barbie doll, while he's plunking his dick into me. But before I can stop him, he answers and opens his mouth.