“Shit! This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“What?”

“Us together. Alone. You know my wife’s always been jealous of you.” You open your mouth to protest, but I cut you off.  “Yeah, I know, I know. It’s not like anything is really going on between us, but she’s just kinda… insecure I guess.”

“What for?” you ask, straightening your back. “We’re just colleagues.”

“I know. I never thought we were more than that, but… I mean, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but she put on some weight the last couple of years, and I guess she’s been feeling self-conscious about it, so she doesn’t like to… well, you know.”

You look puzzled for a second before catching on. “Ah!... Oh, I’m sorry.”

 “Anyway, she worries that if I’m not getting it at home, I’m going to get it somewhere else. Not that I’d ever cheat on her, but she still worries.”

“Sure, I get it,” you say. 

 “And you’re like my closest friend at work, and I guess that makes her suspicious of us, even though we both know that nothing is happening between us.”

“I know,” you respond a little irritably. “You don’t have to keep telling me nothing is going on.”

“Sorry,” I apologize. “She actually made me promise before I left for the conference that I wouldn’t spend any time alone with you. Now, look at us!”

We laugh together. It wasn’t intentional. We started out as a group of maybe twelve. But as the night wore on, people kept slipping away. Naturally, we ended up chatting, and didn’t notice the dwindling of our group.

“I should finish my drink and get going,” I say.

You smile and laugh at me.

“Come on,” you say. “Don’t be so uptight. Like you say, nothing is going on between us, so why not just enjoy yourself? There’s nothing wrong with that is there?”

“No…”

“Alright, so let’s get another round.”

“Sure,” I answer uncertainly. But I love the way your smile lights your face. How can I say no? It’s only a drink, after all.

I watch you walk to the bar in your burgundy blouse, black skirt, and heels. Your outfit is a perfect balance of professionalism and sexiness for our academic conference presentation this afternoon, though maybe a little formal for the t-shirt and jeans crowd in this bar. I watch you bend across the bar to shout your order at the bartender. For a second, I admire the way the fabric of your skirt stretches tight across your buttocks.

I feel a buzzing at my hip. Like you, I’m still dressed formally from the conference: A button-down shirt, blazer, slacks and dress shoes. I have, however, removed my tie, and stuffed it in my pocket. Now, I’m fishing around it for my phone. It’s a text from my wife telling me that she’s going to bed. You return to the table with our drinks just as I finish texting her back to wish her goodnight.

I watch you swirl the ice contemplatively around your cocktail with your little plastic straw. You pick out the floating maraschino cherry, tilt your head back and let it drip into your open mouth. Then you grip the cherry between your teeth, sucking the remaining sweet liquid from it. You do all of this in a way that is not intentionally seductive, but I’m alerted to the first tingling sensations of being a little turned on.

“I love cherries,” you say. “They’re the best part of the drink.”

“You can get jars of them at the grocery store,” I remind you. 

“Yeah, but it’s not the same.” A brightness flashes in your eyes. “Hey, want to see something I learned when I was in my sorority?”

I nod. You pluck the stem from cherry, and swallow the rest of the fruit. Then, you stick the stem on your tongue. I watch your face as you concentrate, your mouth making different shapes. Thirty seconds later, you stick out your tongue and pick the stem from it, which you’ve tied into a loose bow.

“Tada!” you shout. You’re smiling at me, clearly proud of your talent.

“Impressive,” I say.

“I only know one bar trick, and that’s it.” You respond.

“It’s good.” I think for a minute. “Okay, I’ve got one for you.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll bet you I can drink two pints of beer before you can drink a shot of tequila.”

“Ugh, tequila? Really?” You scrunch your face up.

“You don’t like tequila?”

“It’s gross.”

“It’s just a shot.” You shake your head in disgust. “Okay, how about a shot of whiskey instead?”

“Okay.”

“But if you were really going to give me a fighting chance at this you’d do the tequila shot. Remember, I’ve got to drink two beers.”

“Who said I wanted to give you a fighting chance?”

“Fine, alright. Wait here.”

I go up to the bar, and order two pints and a shot of Wild Turkey. As the bartender is filling the glasses, I look back to our table. You’re watching me.  I nod, and you smile back. You really do have a lovely smile.  The bartender comes back with two pints and a shot. I tell him to add it to my tab, and head back to the table. As soon as I set the drinks down, you reach for your shot.

“Wait!” I shout

“What?” you object. “You said I have to drink my shot before you drink your beers, so threetwoonego!”

You tip your shot back, and make a grimacing face as you feel it burning down your throat.

“I win!” you declare.

“You didn’t, you cheated,” I argue. “I wasn’t ready. Anyway, there are rules.”

“You didn’t say anything about rules.”

“Well, there are.” I stand up, “Listen, just stay here, and we’ll do it again… the right way.”

I go to the bar, get one more shot of whiskey, and return with it. I nearly put it down, but as you start to reach for it, I snatch it back. You laugh at me.

“Okay, the rules.”

“The rules,” you repeat with mockingly exaggerated seriousness.

“Alright, rule one: neither of us is allowed to touch the other’s glass.”

“Yeah, fine,” you agree impatiently.

“And rule two: since I’ve got two pints, you’re not allowed to pick up your shot until I finish my first pint and place the glass back down on the table. Okay?”

“That’s it?” you ask.

“That’s it. Are you ready?” I ask, placing your shot glass in front of you. You nod. “You can count down.”

“Alright… Three, two, one, go.”

I grab the first pint and drain about a third of it before gasping for breath and making a show of how hard it is to chug beer. You watch me eagerly, laughing at how poorly I’m doing in this contest, and readying yourself to take your shot. I hold up a finger asking you to be patient as I gulp down the last few mouthfuls of beer.

“Remember, you can’t start until my glass touches the table.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Hurry up and let’s do this.”

“Alright,” I agree.

I turn my pint glass upside down, and slam it down overtop of your shot glass. You look up at me surprised.

“What? That’s not fair!”

“Remember we’re not allowed to touch each other’s glasses,” I remind you. I give you a smug smile, as I lean back in my seat and leisurely sip my second pint.

“Alright,” you concede. “You got me. You win.” Then you start laughing. “We didn’t even decide what the stakes were.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” I say.

Someone starts the jukebox playing The Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks.

“Man, I love this song!” you exclaim, standing. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“I hate dancing,” I complain.

“Yeah, well I still claim that I won the first time, and this is my stakes: You have to dance with me.”

You grab my hands, pull me up from the table, and lead me to the small dance floor. Immediately you begin to move your hips enthusiastically. I hear you singing along with the music: “Just like the white winged dove sings a song sounds like she’s singin’ Ooh baby, ooh, ooh.” 

I settle into an awkward but steady white man’s shuffle, unsure of what I’m supposed to do with my hands. I watch you sway and twirl gracefully in front of me. The way you move is sexy, and you blow me kisses with each “ooh.” I can’t help but think about how much my wife would hate knowing that we were dancing together. But I keep reminding myself, this isn’t anything. We’re just a couple of colleagues blowing off a bit of steam and having fun. Nothing more.

I don’t know if it’s the alcohol going to my head, or the infectiousness of your dancing, but I feel the stiffness in my body begin to melt. Stevie Nicks gives way to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. I move more freely with you around the floor, and I feel like I’m actually enjoying myself. You look like you’re having a great time, too. And you look beautiful. Your outfit really highlights the curves of your body. For a minute I allow myself to see us through the eyes of the others here on the floor, as a couple, and think about how lucky I would be to be with a woman like you… In another life, perhaps…

As Freddy Mercury’s voice fades out, a slow piano figure takes its place, and a woman sings “Turn around…” You move towards me and throw your arms around my neck. Instinctively, I place my hands on your hips.

“Turn around bright eyes…” You sing into my ear as we sway slowly in time with the song. I’m acutely aware that I’ve never actually been this physically close to you before. I can smell the apricot and tea conditioner in your hair. As the song builds to a crescendo I feel the warmth of your breasts pressing into my chest as you pull me even closer. I know, it’s just dancing. I know it’s innocent. But I can’t help but feel turned on by your proximity, feeling your breath on my neck. 

“Once upon a time I was falling in love, now I’m only falling apart.”

You pull back from me, looking me straight in the eyes. I can feel the magnetism between us. It’s taking all I’ve got not to lean in and kiss you right here on the dance floor. But I can’t! I’m married. We’re just colleagues.

“But there’s nothing I can do, a total eclipse of the heart.”

“Come on,” I say, taking your hand, and leading you from the dancefloor. “We should probably go back to the hotel and say goodnight.”

The look on your face reflects how I feel in my heart.

“Yeah,” you agree resignedly. “That’s probably a good idea.”

We settle up our bar tabs, and walk back to the hotel where we’re staying for the conference. It’s a couple of blocks away. Outside the bar, the night is quiet. The air has cooled a little since afternoon, and I notice you shivering.

“Do you want my jacket?” I offer.

“Won’t you be cold?”

“Nah, I’ll be alright. I mean, my shirt is covering more than…”  I gesture to your top, which while showing a tasteful amount of cleavage is still leaving you somewhat exposed to the elements. “Besides, it’s just a couple of blocks.”

“Thanks,” you say as I shed my blazer and drape it over your shoulders. You pull it tight against the chilly breeze.

We carry on for a minute before you break the silence again.

“You know how you were saying what you were going through with your wife and all?”

“Mhm,” I acknowledge. I wish I hadn’t said anything about that. It was too personal. Now I feel embarrassed.

“It sucks,” you observe.

“Yeah.”

“I mean I’m going through something like that, too,” you confide.

I look at you with a confused expression.

“Well, not exactly like you’re going through, but… it’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone.”

“What?” I ask, sincerely shocked. “You look amazing, you’ve got a great personality, you’re fun to be with. You probably could have had your pick of any of the guys in the bar, except they all probably thought you were with me.”

“It’s not that easy for a woman like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m educated and intelligent. I make my own money and speak my own mind. I have standards and expectations about how I want to be treated. And yeah, I mean, I don’t want to sound conceited, but I know I’m not ugly. A lot of guys are intimidated by that. And the ones that aren’t intimidated tend to be full of themselves or just gross. And the older I get, the fewer good guys there are left on the market. They keep getting snatched up and married. And the ones that get tossed back in the pool are usually broken. So, dating is hard for me.”

“I never thought about it like that,” I respond. I speculate what it would be like to get back on the dating scene at this stage in my life, and don’t envy what you have to go through just to find a decent partner. “I mean I guess you could hook up with someone, you know casually. According to the social research, that’s what a lot of the kids are doing these days. I’m sure there are lots of guys at this conference who would be glad to oblige.”

You make the same face you made when I suggested you do a shot of tequila.

“With a stranger?” you ask. “I can’t even imagine how weird and awkward that would be. Especially with someone who is in our own field. God, you know how word gets around at these things. Besides I don’t know where these guys have been or what they’re into.”

We reach the hotel. I use my keycard to unlock the front door, and hold it as you pass through.

“You two have a great night,” the clerk at the front desk says to us as we pass on our way to the elevators.

“For me to be with a guy, I need to know and trust them,” you continue to explain. “… at least a little.”

“Yeah, how well do you need to know them?”

“Well not just going to walk up to some random dude in a bar, and be like ‘hey you, let’s bone!’”

I break into laughter.

“Let’s bone?” I repeat. “Is that what you call it?”

“Well… I mean…” You stumble.

“Like is that the line you use to let guys know it’s on?” I continue teasing you, “Hey baby, it’s bone time.”

You giggle and slap me on the arm.

“Shut up. You’re an idiot.”

The elevator arrives, and I push the button for three. Our rooms are booked next door to each other.  Just as the doors start to shut, another older couple joins us.

“Five please?” the guy asks.

“Sure,” I say.

We ascend in silence for a minute, exchanging goofy looks with each other, but just as we reach our floor, I yawn and stretch, and loudly proclaim, “I’m bone tired.” You fall into hysterical laughter as we get off the elevator with the confused couple watching after us.

“I really am tired, though,” I admit as we walk down the hall to our adjacent rooms.

“Me too,” you agree, unlocking your door.

“Well, goodnight,” I say.

“Goodnight.”

Each of us steps into our separate rooms with a shared wall between us.

***

I’m still awake. A strange bed in a strange room with strange city noises outside my window. The blankets are too heavy, too warm. I throw them off. Now I’m cold. The air conditioner is blowing too hard, too loud. I get up, piss, drink a glass of water. 

The problem is none of those things. I had no problems sleeping last night, or the night before. But tonight my head is full of thoughts flying around like a cloud of mosquitos. I’m thinking about you. You sitting across from me, with that beautiful warm smile. You bending over the bar, and the way your ass looked in that skirt. You with that blouse, just a little suggestive cleavage, and the soft curves of your body as you danced in front of me, moving in your sexy ways. You pushed against me, the feeling of your body against mine, your breath in my ear. You staring into my eyes in that expectant instant. You, my colleague, my friend, nothing more.

I’m thinking about my wife. The look she gets in her eyes when I mention your name. Her insecurity. Her worries. I promised I wouldn’t be alone with you. I broke that promise. But it was innocent. Where was the line crossed, and how far did we cross it? We danced and talked. That’s all. There’s nothing between us.  

And I’m thinking about you. Thinking about your body again. Remembering the excited terrifying tightening sensation in my groin as you pressed yourself against me, my hands on your hips, and how easy it would have been to let them slip lower, and cup your buttocks, giving them a nice squeeze. Your breath, your lips near my earlobe, within the distance of a gentle nibble. Breasts against my chest, arms around my neck. That sensation is returning to my groin now, intensifying, stiffening.  I feel my hand go to it, fingers exploring my hardening cock.

I think about my wife. I think about how we haven’t had sex for months. I’ve been so patient with her. I get it. If she doesn’t feel attractive, she has a hard time getting aroused. I’ve told her I think she’s still beautiful. She won’t believe me. I don’t know what else to do.

I think about you. That precarious moment when our eyes locked, and I could have kissed you. What if I had? What if I had pressed my lips to yours right there on that dance floor? What if I had grabbed a handful of your hair, and pulled you into me, and let you feel my excitement? Where would we have gone from there?

And I think about my wife. I think of how she warned me about you, and now I’m thinking of you and how I’m making all her fears come true. And I’m thinking about me, and I’m feeling guilty, and I’m wondering what sort of husband I’m going to be, because I never thought of myself as a cheater, and really nothing happened, and there’s nothing between us, and we’re only just friends.

I throw off the covers again. Frustrated, I turn on the bedside lamp, then the television. I flip through the channels looking for anything to distract me from myself.  At this hour there are slim pickings for entertainment. Old reruns of 1980s sitcoms. Infomercials. More infomercials. A movie about world war two. Sports highlights from the day before, and even more fucking infomercials.

There’s a knock at the door. I wonder who the hell it could be. I get up from the bed in which I’d been sleeping naked, and search for my clothes on the floor. The knocking comes again.

“Hold on,” I call.

I pull on a thin pair of pajama bottoms, and a vintage T-shirt, then open the door. To my surprise, you’re standing on the other side. You’re wearing a pink satin nightie that is quite a bit more revealing than the outfit I’d last seen you in.

“Hey…” I say, trying to take you all in and make sense of this surprising vision. “What’s up?”

“I can’t sleep,” you complain.

“Yeah, me either,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. I heard you turn on the TV. I figured, you know, if neither of us is sleeping, maybe we could hang out.”

I hesitate. You frown.

“I mean, if it’s a problem, that’s fine…” you continue. “I can leave you alone.”

Everything in me tells me to send you back to your room. But here you are looking amazing, and we’re still just friends. There’s nothing between us. So why not? In fact, if I did turn you away, it would almost be like admitting that things aren’t as innocent as we’d like to pretend.

“No, it’s no problem,” I say. “Come in.”

You pass me in the doorway. The sight of the bottom of your nightie swishing temptingly across the back of your thighs makes me catch my breath. You cross the room, a mirrored replica of your own, and hop up on to the bed that I hadn’t been sleeping in. I watch you arrange the pillows, and then sit, stretching your legs out in front of you. I notice your toenails are painted pink.

“So, what are you watching?” you ask.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer. “Not much on.” I toss the remote to you. “Here, knock yourself out.”

You start flipping through the channels again. Eventually, you land on a pole-dancing competition on one of the sports stations. The stage was constructed on a beach in mid-day, maybe during March break, judging by the crowd. The women were dressed conservatively (for strippers) in sports bras and booty shorts. Each gets three minutes to do a routine, which is judged by a panel of five judges, including celebrity guest judge Kid Rock.

“Can you believe that they made a sport of this?” you ask.

“I mean, I guess the girls are athletic,” I respond.

“Yeah?” You ask, smirking. “Is this the kind of thing you like?”

You get up off the bed, and start to imitate the pole dancing routines. But without a pole, it really amounts to you stomping around the room and shaking your ass. I have to admit that I’m not unimpressed, but I won’t admit it to you. However, that tingling tightening sensation in my groin has returned.

“Come on, sit down,” I say, though I’ve been enjoying the way your body looks in that nightie, and how I think maybe I might have caught a glimpse of a black thong beneath – or maybe it was just shadows and imagination.

You come and sit next to me on my bed.  I’m keenly aware of the thinness of my pajama bottoms, and the stiffening sensation beneath them. I shift in on the mattress, presumably to make room for you, but simultaneously pull the blanket across my lap. You snuggle up next to me.

“Did you like it?” you ask.

“Yeah,” I agree, hoping that will be the end of it. “You’re a great dancer. If you were on the show, I bet you’d win.”

“Hm…” you say, looking suspiciously at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You look nervous,” you say. “What are you nervous about?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it me? Do I make you nervous?”

“I… uh….”

“What are you hiding?” you ask, grabbing the blanket. But I won’t let go. We begin to wrestle, rolling around the bed together.

Finally, I end up on top of you, pinning your wrists down. We’re both breathing heavily, looking into each other’s eyes. Then in a surprise move, you wrap your legs around my waist and pull me down on top of you. I can’t hide it any longer, I’ve become fully aroused during our exchange. You feel its rigidness pushing against your belly.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“It’s… It’s nothing.” I stammer embarrassed. I get off of you, and let you up. “I’m sorry. You should probably go.”

“Listen,” you say. “Neither of us can sleep, and I think it’s pretty clear why... Now, you don’t want to cheat on your wife, and I respect that. I think you’re amazing for it. But the fact is, neither of us is getting what we need. So, why don’t we help each other out?”

“W-What do you mean?” I ask.

Tentatively, you reach out towards my erection which is inconspicuously straining at my pajama bottoms. I flinch away at first, but you persist, and I let you grasp the hot bulbous head in your fist. You give it a squeeze through the fabric, and feel it throbbing back in response.

“If you show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” you say flirtatiously. “I know you’re curious. I know you’ve been checking me out. You didn’t think I knew, but I knew.”

I know where this is going. I know at this point I have no willpower left to stop it. The best I can do is hesitate weakly.

“No?” you ask, wrapping your fingers around my shaft. “Still shy?” You give my cock a tug through my pajamas. I groan softly. “What if I show you mine first, then? Hmm?”

You stand, and lift your arms above your head, pulling off your pink satin nightie and letting it float to the floor. And beneath- it hadn’t been my imagination – you’re wearing a black lacey thong. My eyes graze up over the subtle curve of your belly to your beautiful breasts. They’re gorgeous. Though slightly smaller than my wife’s, they’re more pert and lively. Each of them is topped by a cute little pink eager pointy nipple.

I begin to move towards you, but you put up your finger and stop me.

“Ah-ah!” you warn. “You just stay where you are.”

I watch you as your fingers trail delicately over and around your delicious looking tits, pausing now and then to pinch one of your nipples, causing it to become even redder, firmer, juicier. Your eyes stay on me, savoring my every reaction. My cock twitches again excitedly.

“Ah, he’s just begging for attention, isn’t he?” you ask. “Why don’t you let him out?”

Your eyes are fixated on my hands, as my thumbs hook into the sides of my pajamas and pull, revealing first a small trimmed tuft of pubic hair, then the thick length of my shaft. Finally, the waistband passes over the swollen red-purple head, and it springs up like a catapult. I pull the pajamas to my ankles and kick them off my feet. Then I sit up and remove my t-shirt. I’m not super-fit with six-pack abs or anything, but I’m not terribly out of shape for my age either. Your eyes scan me as I recline naked.

“Mmm, you look so good,” you say.

“Thanks, you look really hot, too.”

“Yeah, you think so?”

“Uh huh.”

“Show me,” you demand. I begin to move but you stop me again. “Show me from there.”

Getting the idea, I grab the shaft of my cock in my right hand and begin to stroke it while watching you. Your reach up and caress your throat, then let your hand slide slowly over your breasts, down your stomach until your fingers meet the waistline of your black lacey thong, and slip inside. I see your knuckles moving and working beneath the fabric. You moan and lean back against the wall.

After a minute you remove your hand from your underwear. You spring off the wall and approach me on the bed. I continue stroking my cock, my pace getting faster with my excitement as I wonder what you’ll do next.

You bend over so that your bare breasts are almost touching my naked chest. Your hand dips once more between your thighs, and when your fingers emerge, they’re glistening with your juices. You offer them to me, and I suck them clean, loving the taste of you, and letting my tongue glide sensuously across your fingertips.

I watch you retreat again to the other side of the room. Then you turn, showing me the beautiful round, full cheeks of your ass. You bend, over pulling at your thong, slowly coming free of the crease of your ass, and revealing the flushed lips of your pussy between your thighs. You pull the thong down to your knees, and then let it fall to your feet.

You stand up again and kick your underwear carelessly to the side before turning around. Your hands follow the lines of your hips down over the smooth skin of your navel converging at the hot bare triangle at the meeting of your thighs.  You watch for my reaction as you spread your lips apart showing me flushed hot pink labia. I squeeze my cock hard and groan loudly.

“Fuck,” I swear.

“Keep stroking,” you say.

I resume my pace, moving my hand up and down my shaft. Your fingers begin to rub in vigorous circles around your clit. I can hear your breathing getting harder, and realize that mine has become labored as well.

“Do you like what you see?” you ask.

“Yeah, you?” I respond in kind.

“You can see what you’re doing to me,” you say. Your fingers begin to press inside yourself.  “I love the way that big fucking piece of meat looks in your hand. Is it hot?”

“So hot,” I confirm.

“And hard?”

“Mmm. Like a rock.”

“God, it looks so fucking good.” You begin to move closer to my bed.

“You look fucking good,” I return.

“Yeah, tell me.”

“Your pussy looks so fucking hot and creamy.”

“Yeah, so creamy… for you.” You climb on to the bed, just a couple of feet away from me. “Thinking about that hard cock deep inside my wet cunt.”

“Oh shit, yeah, filling you up.”

I watch as you spread your legs wide for me, showing me everything.

“Can you imagine me on top of you?” you suggest.

“Yeah.”

“Rocking back and forth on top of you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Grinding my pussy on you?”

“Fuck, as I stuff my cock, balls-deep inside of you making you feel every millimeter of me.”

“Fuck yes! If we keep going like this, I’m going to cum.”

“Me too,” I agree.

Our bodies are so close together on the bed now, not touching, but we can feel the heat coming off of each other. You watch me stroke my cock, fast and hard now. I watch you rubbing furiously at your clit. Your face is desperate, focused, and lost in the moment. The mattress is a violently shivering beast beneath us with the intensity of our motions.

“Feel me inside you, pounding you, feel me hitting every spot in you with my cock,” I say, carried away with the spirit.

“My cunt so wet and warm,” you add. “As you slide in and out! Oh, fuck me so hard!”

“Yes, I’m giving it to you hard. Fuck, I want you to feel me fill you up with my cum.”

“Mmm. Yeah, stuff me full of your hot sticky cum. Make me your fucking cum slut!”

“Are you going to cum for me, cum slut?” I ask.

“I’m close…. So fucking close…” you answer.

“Yeah, are going to be a slut for my cum, and cum for me?”

“Oh fuck yeeeesssss!!!!!”

Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, and I see your body tense up and shudder, as your orgasm washes over you. It’s too much for me. I can’t hold back anymore. With just another couple of strokes and a loud growl, I feel my balls throbbing hard, and a jet of white semen explodes into the air, flying across my stomach. Volley after volley follows as my cock pulses in my fist, and I close my eyes just enjoying the feeling.

When I open them, you’re lying next to me, regarding me with a curious smile.

“So?” you ask.

“I think I really needed that,” I admit.

“Yeah, me too,” you say.

You dip your fingers into the trail of cum across my belly, and then stick them in your mouth.

“Hmm, not bad,” you say appreciatively.

“Yeah, I guess we should get cleaned up, or something,” I suggest.

“Mhmm,” you say, yawning. “You go shower. I feel like I could just fall asleep right here.”

I stand up, and look at your naked body one more time. You roll over on your side, with your eyes closed, already drifting off to sleep. I put a sheet over you before heading into the washroom, to rinse my cum down the drain. The hot water feels so good and relaxing.

Finally, I towel off and climb into bed next to you. You flip over, and throw an arm over me. I can feel your breasts pressing into my back, and your leg finding its way between mine. Finally, I reach to turn off the lamp, and let my heavy eyelids close, wondering if we’re going to be able to wake up in a few hours, or if we’ll decide to spend the day in bed.