No more, my brain shrieks.
“Don’t ever stop!” my mouth rebels, paired with a long, desperate moan. “Oh god. Drake. Just like that! It feels so good!” as I rally all of my strength to resist the urge to grind harder against his lips.
When Drake lets go of his suction I feel him smile against my pussy. Hands on my ass, he lifts me up again, as if I’m the exact weight of a leaf of paper, and I swivel so we’re face to face. Without any disagreement from me, he lowers me down, all the way over his length. My walls tighten around his width. My eyes roll back.
In one slow, smooth thrust, he’s filled me all the way to the hilt. I gasp. I look down into his soulful eyes. I’m on top, but he’s still controlling this, moving the entire span of his sex in and out in a perfect crescendo. I meet his rhythm, thrust for thrust, bucking and bearing down over him to my satisfaction. And, judging by the look on his face, he’s loving every beat of this too.
“Is this the fucking part?” I ask playfully, when he pauses to catch a breath and stare at me. “Or the making-love part?”
“I have a lot more of both I’m prepared to lavish on you.”
A moment later he flips us over so he’s on top, devouring my chest and throat in chaste kisses that turn carnal.
“I’m clean,” I tell him, as if it’s as good a time as any to start this particular conversation.
“I know,” he says, unfazed. “I am too.”
“I’m on the Pill.”
“Very good,” he keens, and the next thing I know he’s inside me again, submerging in and then out until I’m climbing, and climbing, and falling apart, and stitching together, and climbing and climbing again. Ascending. Until I see stars. “Yes, sweetheart. Come for me, baby.”
His voice, his touch, it’s everything. He is everything to me. That revelation almost concerns me but the euphoric high takes over, and spills out into my mind. Pervasive, boundless energy, besting me. I yelp in pleasure. All ten of my toes curl up tight.
I shouldn’t be doing this with my best friend.
No, I tell myself. For once that insufferable inner voice is going to see reason. Time to remedy that broken old belief system. Once and…forever.
If I’m not doing this with my best friend, who with?
I smile at Drake, watching his face convey his pleasure, and his torment. His eyes shut as his body quakes, hard, meeting his own crest of sensation which seizes him for long, long moments. And then, at the height of his heartbeat’s ascent, he falls down on me in a heap of glorious, humble, satisfied man. I acquiesce. It feels so good to hold him here, to bear the weight of him against my legs, my chest, my cheek—as the sedative high drains from my limbs and rolls through his body in waves. He starts to recover, his breaths even out.
I nudge him gently. Indolently he rolls us both onto our sides so we’re lying face to face. In his bed. I’m naked, and soaking wet in my best friend’s bed!
His arm molds to the dip of my waist. His chin comes to rest on my cheekbone. Our inhalations don’t sync, but move together in rhapsody. My cadence, and his. Separate, together.
Drake seems to know the very moment I open my eyes, so he opens his, pockets my gaze, and smiles.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hey, you.” He kisses my nose. “Thank you.”
Sometime later we cocoon ourselves in blankets and go out onto the patio, talking, cuddling, kissing some more. It’s our first real date, and our hundredth, all at once.
And when the sun’s pale light brings the world back into existence, I know the new day also brings the start of our very own happily ever after.
But first—breakfast.
Epilogue
Drake
Six months ago my streak of ‘bad luck’ came to a nice, grinding halt. First I won back my belt from Pais. Then I asked Harlow to be my wife.
Alright, maybe I didn’t technically ask—more like put the ring on her finger and told her to set a date. She didn’t technically say yes either. She smiled, first at the sparkly diamond, then at me. We kissed. We made love. The next day she put the finishing touch on wedding invitations she’d apparently started working on a month before.
When you know, you know.
Here’s something else I know. Tonight, I’m gonna defeat my opponent—a kickboxer with a hardy chin—and effectively defend my belt for the first time. Axel “The Axe” Jones got off a few good strikes early in the match. If we stopped now, the judges might even give it to him for perceived aggression and Octagon control. But we’re only three rounds in. Unless the ref has reason to stop the fight, there’re two rounds left to go.
And now I have my girl in my corner. I try not to look but I know she’s there. She’s always been there. One of life’s constants. How many of those have I ever had?
Outside of family—nil.
The Axe has got the most irritating long legs on the planet. He’s like a damn nightcrawler. Relentless, and fast. If he’s telegraphing any movement, I haven’t been fast enough to notice. Barely fast enough to block. He changes it up so I have trouble predicting his attacks. He’s good, impressive.
I’m better though. Most fights are three rounds, but championships go for two additional 5-minute rounds. A minute into the fourth round, it’s clear which one of us is the veteran. Axe might’ve trained for a 25-minute bout but he’s never been in the real Octagon that long. He’s never felt the way the adrenaline ebbs and flows, tricking you with energy only to steal it back later, in spades.
A heart can only pound so hard before it quits.
The guy’s got heart—I can see him battling his fatigue. Before we touch gloves at the start of the fifth round, we smile at each other in mutual respect. This is it. I’ve got a cut over my eyebrow and more bruises than Harlow will want to count tomorrow. I only have so much time left to wear him out. I’ve gotta end this, decisively.
Axe seems to come to the same conclusion; only one of us is breathing with his mouth wide open. I’m deep in my head, exploring ways I might attempt to knock him out or get him onto the mat, when suddenly Axe switches levels and takes me down. He’s not a grappler though, and I’m back on my feet before he can blink. Now that he’s got a takedown on the scorecard, I don’t figure he’ll try that again. He does realize he’s still winning?
Apparently not. The second time he comes for me, I’m ready. I catch his neck in the crook of my arm and heave upward, cutting off his air supply. Axe struggles ineffectually. With two minutes left on the clock, he tries to squirrel out of my guillotine choke, only making matters worse. I squeeze tighter. I wait for the tap…
I can’t see his face. With my own adrenaline pumping hard I can’t feel his strength drain from his limbs until the ref tears me away from him, and Axe falls like a ragdoll against the man’s arms. Out.
The crowd erupts.
I wait until Axe comes to and slowly opens his eyes, so I know he’s a’right. Just very, very disoriented. Then I burst into a victory lap around the Octagon as hundreds of fans chant my name, and it’s almost too pulse-pounding, too surreal.
My heart feels suspended in my chest as I scale the cage in one leap and hurdle over the Octagon. Everyone’s on their feet, making noise. I find my girl in my corner and kiss her, desperately. I can’t be convinced any of this is happening until her soft lips are smashed to mine. Harlow’s hands go to my face, unconcerned by how sweaty I am. My heart is beating so fast. For once tonight my feet feel rooted down. At the same time, I bet I could fly if I wanted to.