The Best You’ve Ever Had

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Ben

“A little to the right. Wait, no to the left,” Mick instructs from his place on the couch. I’m adjusting the shimmering star atop the giant ten foot fir tree. My family are Christmas-holics, and terminal diagnosis or not, there’s no stopping their obsession. At this point, I’d go door-to-door caroling as freaking Santa Claus if I knew it would make everyone happy.

“Is it good?” I ask, from the top of the ladder.

“It’s perfect.” With a watery smile, my grandpa stares at the decked out tree. “You did good, grandson.”

Every year, everyone in my family comes together to decorate the tree. My grandparents and parents made it an annual event that takes place sometime after Thanksgiving. Even after I moved out, we made sure to make a day of it, with Christmas music blasting and spiced cider.

Fast forward to this year, and Mick can barely stand for more than a minute, which is why my parents and I took on the responsibility of hanging every ornament while he directed us from the couch on the exact placement. He seemed like he was having fun telling us what to do, messing with us by having us move it a dozen different times—just because he knows he can and we’ll do it.

A knock at the door sends a jolt through me, my head snapping in its direction. My body thrums with anticipation, aware that I’ll be in close proximity to Layla again soon.

After the situation in the car, egging her on, and on the edge of losing control, I feel conflicted. She’s my fake girlfriend, and the last thing I should want is to actually feel the inclination to kiss her. But I do. Of course, I do. Who wouldn’t want to kiss her? The beautiful, intimidating, mini-typhoon.

Layla and Gina walk in, total opposites of one another. Gina embodies a whimsical hippy, with a swaying bohemian skirt and dozens of beaded bracelets jingling on her wrists. Layla, on the other hand, is all confidence and business in a tight sweater dress. As she walks in, her eyes scan every detail in the room like the Terminator. She catches me looking and doesn’t break eye contact. Instead, she raises an eyebrow, signaling that she knows I’ve been caught staring at her curves in that distractingly tight dress. It feels like a cruel joke—after everything I wanted to do to her in my car earlier. It’s as if she’s teasing me, daring my willpower to snap.

I make my way over to her, suddenly aware that I should be greeting my fake girlfriend instead of completely ignoring each other like we typically always have as grumbly kids.

I smile and say hello to her mom, and then kiss Layla on the top of her head. I know she’s going to kill me later for that one. But under the guise of ‘faking it,’ there’s absolutely nothing she can do or say.

“Hi, Benny,” she replies, with a challenging blaze in her eyes.

“Hi, Lay.” I can’t stop grinning from ear-to-ear, knowing she absolutely loathes that nickname. Throughout school, I had heard her tell more than one person that Layla is already a short name and doesn’t need to be shortened further.

I pull her into my side, and though she’s small and tense, she lets me do it. I don’t miss the way she jabs me with her elbow when no one is looking though.

Our parents begin to talk and reminisce, drawing their attention away from us. My hand trails up the soft fabric of her dress, over her shoulder, and threads into her hair. I tilt her head up to meet my eyes.

“You look fucking gorgeous,” I mumble into her ear.

She wriggles under my touch, causing my mind to flick to much dirtier thoughts of how I could make her squirm more if my fingers were buried inside of her.

Through gritted teeth, she whispers back, “You can drop the act. No one is even paying attention right now.”

“It’s not an act.” My hand trails back down her arm until I reach the curve of her hip, tracing my thumb along its arc.

She’s silent, without a rebuttal for perhaps the first time in her life.

I don’t miss the slight shiver she can’t control before stepping out of my hold. Feigning an excuse to grab a glass of the fancy micro-winery Chardonnay she brought with her, she leaves the room. Her heels click like the ticks of a metronome, rhythmic and confident.

Half of me worries that I’ve gone too far. This is the woman that once tried to put me in a headlock when I accidentally ate the last brownie that she had called dibs on. We don’t do this. I shouldn’t be telling her she looks gorgeous, and I definitely shouldn’t be touching her when I don’t have to.

She walks back into the family room with two tall glasses of wine in her hands. Extending one of the crystal glasses to me, I take it, surprised she even brought me anything from the kitchen. I down the entire drink in three gulps, while she takes a small sip, watching me with the intensity of a researcher evaluating an experiment.

“That wasn’t for you. I was going to tell you to bring it to your mother.”

I freeze, feeling like a dick. Guess I called her random act of kindness too soon.

The side of her mouth quirks up. “Kidding. It was for you.”

“I think that’s the first joke I’ve ever heard you make.”

“Well, don’t get used to it. I just figured since you’re the one decorating the tree, you needed it more than me.” She makes this little grimace at the thought of hanging ornaments, and it’s strangely adorable.

I nudge her. “Not a fan of tree decorating, I’m assuming?”

“It’s all a bit pointless, isn’t it?” she says. “You dress up a tree, make it all pretty, but in the end, it all comes down, and you’re left with this big old mess.”

Something in her words feels heavy, but I decide not to press her on it. “Sounds like another one of those times you’re trying to get out of helping again,” I tease.

She rolls her eyes. “I haven’t decorated a tree in fifteen years. Don’t think I’m going to start now.” With a hand cupped round her wine glass, she looks over at a freaky looking vintage Santa on the side table next to her. “Is it just me or does this thing look like a night demon?”

“A what now?”

“You know, a night demon…from folklore or whatever. He gives off some serious going to kill me in my sleep vibes.”

“Um, you know, you give off some serious ‘going to kill me in my sleep’ vibes,” I quip. “No offense.”

She raises her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her laughter so her wine doesn’t shoot out. After she swallows, she responds, “Surprisingly, that might be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

We exchange smiles, like two people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Of course, we still have our usual banter, but now it feels different. We’re on the same team, bound by a common goal, yet still poking fun at each other and never keeping our mouths shut.

The wind howls outside, so fierce it shakes the windows and rattles the walls. Everyone in the room turns to look, watching thick snowflakes swirl and make quick work of blanketing everything in sight.

My stomach drops because I know that in weather like this, with nearly no visibility, driving home safely is out of the question. This means one thing: being stuck in the same house with my fake girlfriend for an indefinite amount of time.

The lights flicker as if sensing the danger of being around her for too long. Either we come out of this bloodied and beaten down from constant fighting, or my willpower snaps and I do something stupid like try to kiss her.

None of the possible outcomes look great.

While our moms turn on the news to check the weather report, Dad jumps into action to prepare for riding out the snowstorm. I help him gather supplies from the garage—candles, wood for the fireplace, flashlights, and water bottles. We had expected snow tonight, but not to this degree.

I return to my parents’ living room to find Mick fast asleep in his recliner, not giving a single shit about the impending storm. Layla, on the other hand, looks like she’s watching coverage of a major national disaster. She stands beside the couch, arms crossed and a grave expression on her face.

As I start assembling kindling and crumpled newspaper in the fireplace grate, I hear her whisper to her mom. “Maybe we should be heading out. It seems like this is only going to get worse.”

Gina giggles like her daughter has told her that pigs can fly. “Sweetie, there’s no driving in this weather. We’re officially about to be snowed in.”

“No,” Layla insists, a bit too harshly. “I can drive.”

Her mom offers a reassuring smile. “They’re already advising on the news not to drive. So many roads have been shut down by now. Brandy and Dante offered to let us stay here for the night though.”

“Or however long it takes for this to blow over,” Brandy adds. “Plus, it’ll be kind of fun, don’t you think? Like one big family sleepover. Oh, and don’t worry, you and Ben can share a guest room.”

At this point, I glance over my shoulder, needing to see Layla’s face after what my mom just said. She meets my gaze with that perfect stoic lawyer expression, but there’s a silent plea in her eyes, begging me to jump in and save the situation.

“It’s alright, Mom. We don’t mind sleeping in separate rooms,” I chime in.

Mom scoffs, “This isn’t the 1960s; we’re not old-fashioned around here. And, not to be blunt, but I’m sure you two aren’t saving yourselves for marriage. I believe that ship probably sailed a long time ago.”

Layla’s blue eyes widen with a ‘did she really just say that?’ look, while I choke on a cough.

There’s no way we’re getting around this without making it obvious we aren’t actually together. What couple would turn down the chance to be closer and insist on separate rooms?

From across the room, we lock eyes as the fireplace begins to crackle. A silent acknowledgment passes between us—there’s no way out of this except to face it head-on. We both recognize that we’re in too deep with this act, the inklings of drowning in our fake relationship starting to creep in.

All I have to do is keep my mind in check and my hands to myself. But when she turns back to the television, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and biting down on her bottom lip in worry—I realize that’s easier said than done. Because right now, I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and kiss away that worried look on her face.

Seeing as we’re now officially snowed in, our moms decide to hold a cookie decorating competition. Either they’re messing with Layla and me, or they’re genuinely oblivious to the intensity of our competitive natures. Ever since we were kids, we have fought tooth and nail in any contest. There has never been a casual competition between us. We will act like it’s worth a million dollars, even over something as simple as sugar cookies.

In honor of the storm and festivities, Dad breaks out the peppermint schnapps to spike our hot chocolate. Christmas music plays softly in the background, and from his seat, Mick watches with quiet delight at the hustle and bustle in the kitchen.

It’s decided that everyone will decorate four different shaped sugar cookies, with Mick serving as the final judge. From across the table, Layla and I don’t say a word. The competitiveness is written all over our faces—we’re ready for battle.

Just as I prepare my piping bag to decorate a gingerbread man, Layla nudges the table, causing the white frosting to smear off its intended mark.

“Oops,” she says, feigning innocence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I continue to pipe the sugary frosting, waiting for her to be completely focused. At first, she’s suspicious, knowing I plan to strike back after her shenanigans. But by the time she starts on her second cookie, she begins to relax, and I know it’s the perfect time to pull the trigger. Right as she’s adding the small detail of Rudolph’s nose, I stretch my long legs under the table and bump her.

Rudolph’s red nose smears across his face, making him look bloodied and absolutely horrifying. She shoots me a glare as I smirk. “Oops,” I say, mimicking her smart-ass tone.

Our mothers shake their heads and let out a collective sigh, entirely fed up with us.

“And here I thought dating would calm this ridiculous competitiveness between you two,” Mom comments, glancing between us.

Mick watches us with amusement as he sips on a cup of warm cider. “Eh, let ‘em go at it. A healthy dose of competition keeps a relationship interesting.”

From her seat, Layla looks up. “Sounds like you have first-hand experience. Were you and Vera competitive?”

As if he’s watching a flashback sequence of key moments with his late wife of nearly fifty years, he’s silent for a moment, a small smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “We couldn’t go a day without challenging each other to something, whether it was a game of cards or who could make the best apple pie. It kept things lively.”

Breaking her cookie decorating concentration, Gina chimes in. “I do vaguely remember there being a chili cook-off for one of your anniversaries. That explains a lot.”

“Now that I think about it, you and Vera were a lot like Ben and Layla,” Dante comments.

The comparison between us and my grandparents hits me with a fresh wave of guilt. A marriage of fifty years shouldn’t be compared to a relationship that is a flat-out lie.

But sometimes, in moments like this, I almost forget it’s all a sham. Layla’s leg brushes against mine beneath the table, as she makes herself right at home. And I love it. I love the hidden contact, the secret connection. Throughout all our competitiveness and arguing, there’s still a tiny, genuine moment of us that exists underneath it all.

When I look away from staring at her for entirely too long, I see that my grandfather has caught me. The look on his face says he knows the feeling well. And the wink of his eye tells me we’re in for a hell of a ride.

“Shhh, we have to be quiet,” Layla whispers, tiptoeing down the dimly lit hallway.

We’re guided only by the glow of nightlights lining the path to the guest room. I trip over the edge of a carpet runner, stumbling forward with a thud before catching myself with a light grip on the wall. Behind me, she doubles over in laughter, hand clasped over her mouth to stifle her giggles. Trying to hold back my own laughter, I put a finger to my lips, signaling her to be quiet so we don’t wake everyone else.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispers, wiping the happy tears from her eyes. “Blame the schnapps.”

“We just need to sleep it off,” I mumble, turning the gold knob of the door. This used to be my old room, but it has had a complete remodel since I moved out. The filthy teenage boy carpet was ripped out two days after I left for college, replaced with sleek dark hardwood and a woven rug. My navy blue walls were primed and painted a trendy gray-beige. The room is a bit on the small side and cramped, but at least they kept my massive king-size bed.

When she enters the room, she stops in her tracks with a slight sway as if a breeze is threatening to tip her over. “This has to be a joke. A cruel one, at that.”

I look around the room, trying to spot what she sees that could be so horrible. It looks comfortable. It’s undoubtedly clean, the fresh sheets even folded down with a hotel touch. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“The whole room…it’s basically one giant bed. There’s barely enough room for you to sleep on the floor.”

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

“Yes. You definitely are.”

I sling an arm around her shoulders as we both sway. “If you don't want to share a bed, you can sleep on the floor.”

She scoffs. “Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman and offer?”

“I get the feeling you wouldn’t want me to be a gentleman.” My voice drops, as the energy in the room shifts.

We lock eyes, silently assessing each other for a reaction, searching for any hint of weakness or a crack in our composure. Neither of us wants to show our hand, uncertain if the other is on the same page.

“That so?” she responds, her voice sounding breathless, as if we’re at a high altitude. Yet the only thing escalating is the feeling that we’re utterly out of our depth in this situation.

In a desperate attempt to lessen the tension I created, I sit on the edge of the bed and start taking off my jeans. From across the room, her eyes scan my body, head-to-toe, obvious and no attempt to hide checking me out—either because she’s bold ass Layla, or because of the inebriated state we’re both in thanks to the spiked cocoa.

“Wow. Someone must live in the gym,” she says, making it sound like a dig but with eyes still dancing all over my body.

“Feel free to take a picture if you like looking so much. You can add it to your spank bank.”

She rolls her eyes, before looking straight at me in silent challenge. In one smooth motion, she lifts her dress over her head, revealing a lacy black bra and matching cheeky panties underneath. Every inch of her is breathtaking—from the delicate lines of her collarbone to the tiny birthmark on her upper thigh, and the sprinkle of freckles adorning her shoulders.

With her hands on her hips, she stands there, full aware I’m devouring every inch of her with my eyes. Suddenly, I’m regretting pushing her buttons, because now I’m the one staring like I’ve never seen a half-naked woman. The person I’ve known and fought with my entire life now feels like a stranger—because there’s no way I’d want to fuck the woman who once told me I was a waste of space.

Mocking my last words, she mutters, “You can take a picture if you like looking so much.”

Pulling down the covers, I sigh and pretend like she’s on my last nerve when I’m actually only trying to cover up my massive erection. “Let’s just go to bed and sober up before we kill each other.” I climb in and under the duvet, as the foam of the old mattress sinks under the weight of my body.

She flips off the light switch on the wall before climbing into bed. The darkness envelops us, and my eyes strain to adjust to the sudden loss of light, desperate to make out anything in the pitch-blackness. I’d give about anything right now to have that light still on so I could look at the curves of her breasts spilling over her bra when she crawls across the mattress.

All I hear are the sounds of the blankets rustling, as she climbs in, scooting to the farthest possible edge away from me. The silence buzzes in my ears like an absent ringing. A minute of complete quiet passes, before I hear her whisper to herself, “Great, the room is spinning now.”

“Just lay still and close your eyes.”

“Like I’m totally not doing that while I’m trying to fall asleep.”

I can’t stop grinning into the pitch black at her little quips. No one has ever had the guts to dish it back to me like she always has. “Come here then.”

In one fell swoop, I reach across the bed and scoop her up by the waist, dragging her into the curve of my body. Acting as if I’m trying to kidnap her, she wrestles out of my embrace like a tiny, angry crocodile. “What the fuck? What was that?”

Immediately, I regret it. Not only because I’ve freaked her out, but because now I know what it feels like to touch the bare skin of her body and the way my body buzzed in response. “Shit, I’m sorry. I was trying to help.”

“By what? Spooning me?”

“By trying to ground you. Just forget about it. I promise I won’t do it again.”

For several minutes we lay there in silence. I can’t tell if she’s fallen asleep or is staring into the darkness like I am. But to my surprise, I hear her exhale—a breath of annoyance and resignation—as she scoots back into my chest. She grabs my arm and pulls it over her shoulders. I’m frozen in shock as she wiggles deeper into me, finding the right spot to settle.

I remind myself I will not think about her ass being pushed up against my crotch right now. I will definitely not think about that whatsoever. But to my detriment, the more I try to convince myself to not think about that, and the more she squirms against me to get comfortable, the more my dick swells in response.

“I’ll try and see if this helps, just don’t…” She pauses when she feels it. And all the blood leaves my body, well except for my dick, unfortunately.

She exhales, unimpressed, but not flinging her body away from me like I expect her to. “Well, there goes what I was about to say.”

“Sorry.” I should feel more embarrassed than I am. One half of me is mortified, while the other is happy she knows the effect she has on me. My thumb takes on a mind of its own as it strums the bare skin of her stomach. It’s a bad idea. Horrible, actually. But everything about her is captivating. Her skin is soft, and it takes every goddamn morsel of self-restraint to not let my fingers slide up her body, slip past the strap of her bra, and grab a handful of the world’s most perfect tits.

Fuck my life. I need to stop thinking about her like this. It’s not helping my boner, and it sure isn’t helping this situation. But in the silence, my thumb continues to brush back and forth. Taking in that single square inch of skin, because I’m a selfish bastard.

We lie there for so long that I think she’s fallen asleep. The steady rhythm of her breath rises and falls, quiet yet loud, in the silent room. I’m wide awake. Staring into space, tortured by breathing in her vanilla scent and knowing that there’s no chance in hell we will ever go further than this right here. And while the idea has always been off the table, suddenly it feels like I’ll be missing out. It’s like never getting to try cake—you know it tastes amazing, you know you’ll love it, but it’s just not in the cards for you. Plus, this particular cake would run you over with a car if she knew only half the dirty thoughts running rampant.

From under my arms, she suddenly flips around, facing toward me. Our knees are glued together below the comforter, our faces sharing a pillow only inches apart.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” she asks, catching me completely off guard.

“Eighteen. During my first semester of college, to a girl I was dating.” She hums in response, but doesn’t reply. So I ask, “What about you? When’d you lose yours?”

“I was nineteen. Lost it to my English professor after I finished his class that semester. Never saw him again.”

“ What ?” I ask. “A professor? Why him?”

“Because sex is meaningless. It didn’t really matter who I lost it to. I kind of just wanted to get it over with.”

“Never would’ve guessed. I figured you lost it to your boyfriend Mark in our senior year of high school.”

Through the faint light of the moon peeking through the slats, I can make out her tucking her hands under her cheek on the pillow. “He wanted to, but I always kind of hated him.”

“Huh. Well, I have to disagree. I don’t think sex is meaningless.”

“It’s pretty pointless overall. Honestly, I could live without it.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been fucked by the right person yet.”

“I’ve been fucked by plenty of guys. And none of them—” She abruptly stops her sentence, squirming to get comfortable in the blankets, but I know it’s a defense mechanism. She doesn’t like being open and vulnerable, and this entire conversation is teetering on that edge.

“None of them, what?” I ask.

“You’ll use it against me. As ammunition for more of our wars.”

I hold up a hand in surrender. “I promise. I won’t. Tell me.”

“Fine. None of them have ever been able to make me come. It’s probably a me thing though. I’m sure I’m too wound up or something.”

“It’s not a you thing. They should’ve made you coming their priority.”

She huffs a silent, disbelieving laugh. “You sure sound like you know what you’re doing, huh? It’s not that easy.”

“I’m not some porn star, but I know how to be a good sexual partner. I know how to put them first and learn what they like. And I know how you work, Lay. I could easily—” I stop myself. Unsure if she has a pocket knife tucked under her pillow if I said the rest of that sentence out loud.

“Easily what? Make me have an orgasm? Doubtful.” I can feel her eyes roll through the darkness.

“I definitely could.” The buzz of liquor is lessening our filters, dropping whatever normal ego would prevent us from ever saying this shit out loud.

The room falls silent once again, and I’m almost certain she’s reached her limit with me and with this conversation that’s gone further than we ever have before.

“Then make me,” she says quietly, but with the level of decisiveness that I’m accustomed to with her. “Make me come.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I pause, mentally listing every reason why this would be a horrible idea. But also drunk off the hope of seeing her come undone for me. “Is it?”

“Of course it’s a horrible idea. But what else are we going to do? Just try and make me come already.”

“You’re drunk though.”

“We are both drunk. And I’m fully aware of what I’m doing right now.”

She climbs on top of me, her curves enlightened in the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the blinds. Rocking against the erection bulging out of my briefs, she whispers, “Please.”

“Fuck. I can’t say no to that.”

I grab her by the waist, flipping her off of me, and back onto the mattress. She starts to protest, but I hold her tight against my body as she squirms. “If we’re going to do this, you let me be in control. Just do what I say, okay?”

“I don’t like not being in control.”

“I know. But you can trust me. If you don’t like anything then tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Got it?”

She nods, all traces of hesitancy erased by the black of night. “Got it.”

Taking her wrists in my hands, I pin them above her head on the mattress. I run my nose along the line of her jaw, tracing a path from her dainty neck to her ear. “I can’t fucking wait to taste you.”

From beneath me, I feel her body shiver at my words. It unleashes an unhinged side of myself. For her sake, I’m trying to pace myself as the objective at hand here is to make her come. If it was all about me, I probably would have came the second she rubbed herself along my dick.

My tongue traces a path of soft kisses, starting from the curve of her neck and lingering over the gentle slope of her collarbone, to the skin right above her breasts. All those previous bastards probably rushed their way through with her, too excited to pace themselves. But she likes a challenge. I know for a fact that she wants to feel teased and savored.

Goosebumps rise on her skin, when my mouth reaches the swells of her breasts, as if she’s coming alive for me, and only me. Tiny indicators that I’m headed in the right direction.

Pulling down the cup of her bra with one hand, I grab a rough handful, flicking her nipple between my finger and thumb. The motion makes her cry out like I’ve defibrillated her and brought her back to life. Cupping my hand over her mouth, I whisper in her ear, “I haven’t even put my mouth on your pussy yet and you’re already going wild. I need you to be quiet.”

I’m being too damn cocky, and she hates cocky. Maybe that’s what she needs in bed though. Someone that can take her powerhouse attitude and one up her where it counts.

With her hands still pinned above her head, I take one of her tight nipples in my mouth, swirling my tongue around it, as she arches into the mattress. Her small frame pushes into my much larger one, as I rock my erection against her pelvis.

Breathy sounds escape from her lips the more attention I pay to each. Her reaction makes me want to take my sweet time. I want her to know that good sex exists, and if that means teasing her all night and getting blue balls myself, then so be it.

Unable to help myself, I finally reach down, slipping my fingers past the lace waistband of her thong. I can feel her hold her breath as I finally touch her, dipping my fingers into her wetness. She’s fucking drenched already. Suddenly, I’m furious at her past partners for ignoring all the clues of what she likes and not getting her to the finish line.

On the other hand, I’m happy it’s me. Proud that I can be the one to do this to her.

Pushing into her with two fingers, she rocks against my hand, chasing that high that’s making her see heaven. Against the palm of my hand, I can feel the rumble of her whimpers, as I continue to work in and out of her. She’s gorgeous, and I could stare at her all night like this—unguarded and begging for more.

To avoid waking our parents sleeping down the hall, I go against my better judgment. I make the decision that I want to kiss her...for noise purposes. That’s what I tell myself as I lean over until our faces are parallel. When my mouth meets hers, she freezes, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected kiss.

When I buried my fingers deep inside of her, she didn’t blink an eye. But a kiss is different. A kiss is intimate. And most importantly, a kiss is dangerous. It comes with a certain level of inherent risk. And she is a goddamn Olympic risk analyst.

I pull back the moment she tenses, not wanting to push her into discomfort.

Grabbing me by the back of my neck, she pulls me back in, like gravity pulling a comet into orbit. Our mouths collide, as she whispers between kisses, “Stop thinking. Keep going.”

Her words unleash a frenzy, as I let it all go. Every disagreement, every argument, every time we’ve thrown middle fingers from across the room, is forgotten when my mouth lands on hers. That energy transforms into an overwhelming, primal need to lose myself in her. We kiss each other like we’re mad for the intense attraction between us. Then that simmering need turns into a boil, and suddenly kissing isn’t enough. The soft swirl of her tongue in my mouth isn’t enough. I want more, for her and I, and need it like I’ve been malnourished for years. As if her touch is my sustenance, bringing me back from a numb purgatory.

Breaking the kiss and pushing back, I slide down between her legs. She glances up, looking down at me from the pillow—waiting for me to dive in. If a kiss and two fingers isn’t enough to fuck up whatever semblance of civility we may have had, then my mouth on her pussy and every plan I have to make her come on my face, may be the final push. Because there’s no going back from making your frenemy orgasm.

With not even an ounce of hesitation, I swipe my tongue over her aroused clit once, slow and smooth. She tastes so fucking good that it’s difficult to pace myself on getting her off. I want to let all hell break loose and dash straight for the finish line. But this is about her, and proving that every other man she’s been with before are self-centered douches.

As I continue to lick her, I hear the soft crinkle of the comforter as her fingers curl into the fabric. Her body arches against the bed, pushing her pussy into my face as she eagerly asks for more.

It’s too much in the best way possible, that it has become necessary to relieve this dull ache building up at the base of my spine. “Goddamnit. You know how much you turn me on?” I reach into my briefs, and begin fisting my cock as I continue to get her off. “I can’t help but get off to eating you out.”

Glancing down at me from between her legs, with my dick in hand, her muscles clench around my fingers.

She lies her head back down, eyes downcast as she watches me. “Oh god. I think…”

I twist my fingers inside of her, causing her to pause with a sharp inhale. “What’s that? You think you’re going to come for me?”

When she nods, I murmur, “Then tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

She’s silent, except for the moans that are escaping her as I continue to touch her, curling my fingers just so, to reach the sensitive spot inside her pussy that I’m certain the past idiots had no clue about.

I curve my fingers up slightly more. “Answer me.”

As her small frame writhes against the mattress, she’s barely able to get the words out. “You’re the best. Fuck, you’re the best. And I’m co?—”

The sound that echoes in the room is one that I’ll never forget. It’s all I need to push myself over the cliff too, causing me to ejaculate all over the plane of her stomach. From what I can make out in the dim room, she’s completely still except for the rise and fall of her chest—panting as if she’s sprinted a record-setting marathon, and unbelievably gorgeous while marked with streaks of my come.

At this point, the shame should probably be setting in for both of us—it doesn’t. I feel different, like I’ve glimpsed heaven for the first time, only to come crashing back down to earth.

Pulling on my jeans, I head to the bathroom down the hall and fetch a warm washcloth. When I return, I don’t dare turn on the bedroom light, afraid the brightness might drag us back into reality. I want to stay in this fantasy a little longer. The one where I’ve made the gorgeous, fireball woman in my bed orgasm for the first time.

I’m floored that she doesn’t smack my hand away as I wipe the mess from the smooth skin of her stomach. She lets me clean her up as she lies there, looking at me differently. The same fire is in her eyes, but it has shifted from pure hatred to something more fervent.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Stop being awkward. I’m fucking fantastic.”

A laugh erupts from me, as I lie back down on the bed. “Good. Now I can go to bed feeling like a champion. What a historic day.”

“Stop being cocky.”

“How can I not be right now? You swore up and down that no one could make you do that, and I did. Sounds like a damn good reason to be cocky.”

Throwing an arm over her eyes, she groans. “Ugh, I’m already regretting this.”

My stomach drops with the worry that we’ve gone too far for her. Maybe alcohol and our typical one-upper challenges weren’t a good mix this particular time around. “Well, don’t. I swear I won’t mention it again.”

There’s no reply. Just the silence of the room and the sensation of her cold feet finding their way under my leg. To most, it would seem like she’s simply trying to warm herself up. Knowing her, it’s an olive branch—a silent assurance that she’s okay, and we’re okay.

That tiny signal of vulnerability is all it takes for me to pull her into my chest, and we both fall asleep in a half-drunken, blissful post-orgasm daze.