The Two-Night One-Night Stand (12 page)

“You make me so horny, Matthew.”
Yes! More dirty talk
. She raises her sweater up over her head and tosses it to the side. “Why am I such a slut for you?” Oh, um. Am I supposed to answer her? She reaches back and in one quick move, flings off her bra. “You like what you see?” Another question. I want her to talk. Not me. “Come on, Matthew,” she says in a breathy voice. “Tell me what dirty things you want to do to me.”

“I’m….” Shit. I suck at this. I’ve never done anything like this before. “I’m… I’m gonna have sex with you.”

“You can do better than that.” She uses a sugary, baby-like voice, urging me to go dirtier. “Say what you really want to do to me.”

Peen, a little help.

Say fuck. That’s real dirty.

“I’m gonna
fuck
you.” My shirt comes off and she presses her bare breasts against my chest. The dirty talk works.

Say you’re gonna fuck her really hard.

“I’m gonna fuck you real hard.” She hooks her thumbs into her thong, lifts her hips, and slides down her last article of clothing. Peen knows his shit. The word fuck holds so much power. Fuck makes everything sound dirtier. I can do this. I can definitely do this.

“What else are you gonna do to me?” Her breaths catch in her words, making her sound desperate.

The Jack has officially soaked itself into my system. There’s no stopping me now. I use both hands to grab hold of her juicy ass. “I’m gonna get you so fucking wet. And I’m gonna slam you hard into my bed.”

“Yeah,” she continues to beg, panting as she waits for my next words. Her actions sanction me to give her a gentle push. She falls back, her curves bouncing on my soft mattress.

I lower my jeans and boxers all at once, kicking my way free of them and shoving them off to the side. My cock is rock-hard and my veins are pumping with liquid courage.

You got it. Keep going. Share a fantasy.

“Then, I’m gonna grab some lube, get that ass in the air, and split you like a fucking log.”

The heaving comes to an abrupt halt, her chest deflates, and she exhales a long stream of air into the room.

Whoa. Not that one. Too far, Dude. Way too far.

I’m frozen, a deer in headlights about to be hit by a Mack truck.

“Was that too much?” I ask. My quick-fix buzz instantly goes away. And so does my hard-on. The drunken haze that had her talking dirty and breathing heavy just moments ago seems to have dissipated as well.

“I don’t… um. No. Just no.” Her face is pale.

“I don’t even have lube,” I blurt out quickly, scratching my nails across my scalp. I lower my chin to my chest glancing downward. Naked and flaccid is not a good look. I use my hands to cover myself and sidestep over to my dresser in search of boxers.

“Oh, God. Oh, no.” She gurgles before cupping her hands over her mouth. Her shoulders lurch forward in a heave. “Oh, no… Oh, no.” She’s gonna be sick.

I have one leg in my boxers hopping toward her. Her face contorts as she watches me. Shit. Naked, flaccid and
bouncing
cannot be a good look either. I hurry to get my other leg in, but my foot catches on an article of clothing and down I go. I’m tangled. Caught in a spandexy net of black lace. I look down and see her bra wedged between my toes. It takes three shakes for me to get the damn thing off. I roll onto my back, lifting my hips, finally tugging the boxers into place. In one quick movement Holly springs up from my bed, rushing past me, dashing toward the bathroom at warp speed.

And she almost makes it.

Mushroom chunks soaked with the strong scent of cinnamon splatter onto my hallway floor. She steps over the wet mess, or at least she thinks she does, and continues to barrel into my bathroom.

I’m right behind her as she falls to her knees with a thud and continues to heave out her night into my toilet. I scoop her long hair back and away from her face. I’m no stranger to vomit. On average, eight people come in to the ER with stomach issues every day. Unfortunately, aside from this small gesture, there isn’t much else I can do but wait it out with her. Thankfully I have a strong stomach, but if I hated mushrooms before, well now, I hate them even more. She heaves again and again. Christ, how many mushrooms were on that one slice of pizza?

Holly’s hand weakly reaches up and she flushes away round one. “Please go.” Her body backlashes with one last heave but doesn’t bring anything up. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. It’s just vomit. We all vomit.” I search for the right thing to say that might comfort her. “In 1992, George Bush vomited at a Japanese banquet in front of 135 people.” A slight smile forms on her pale face before she rests her forehead back down on the toilet seat. It worked. I’m helping. I keep talking. “Some people actually love vomit. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of emetophilia, but that’s where a person is sexually aroused by watching someone vomit.” She lifts her head up from the toilet and looks back at me, her mouth drooping into a frown of disgust. Oh, fuck. Back it up. Beep, beep, beep. “Not me, though. I don’t get aroused by watching people throw up. I wasn’t turned on
at all
watching you puke just now.” I’m making it worse. “You looked disgusting.” Stop talking. “But still pretty.” Just shut the fuck up.

“Matthew?” Holly positions her hands clumsily, trying to cover her body.

“Yes.”

“You think maybe I can have a towel or something?”

She’s naked, she’s freezing, she’s sick, and what am I doing? Standing here like an idiot rambling on about vomit fetishes. My jaw clenches as I curse myself while grabbing a towel from the closet. “Here.” I stretch my arms, opening the large gray towel up for her but she grabs it instead.

“I got it, thanks.” She wraps herself up tight. “Can I get some privacy? I just want to clean up. I’m a mess and I still feel like I might be sick. Maybe you can grab my clothes so I can get dressed? I need to go home.”

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll go grab your stuff from my room right now.” I back out of the bathroom and close the door behind me.

My eyes close and a deep groan rolls out. In an instant this night took such a disastrous turn. Alcohol is never the answer. So thinking the answer was more alcohol was just fucking crazy. But I guess that’s what happens when you let your peen do most of your thinking.

I sidestep the puke that I need to clean and retrieve Holly’s clothes from my room. I take a second to peer out the big picture window. The snow is still falling and the roads below are a blanket of white. A plow scrapes down the road pushing the snow to the side, trapping in all the parked cars, including my own. I grab my phone and search for an updated weather report. Instead of the possible one to two inches that was in the forecast, twelve inches are now expected, and by the looks of it outside, I’d say at least five to six of them have already fallen. I’m not sure how or when Holly is getting home.

I knock on the door and it opens only enough for her to stick her hand out so that I can hand over her clothes.

“Twelve inches!” I burst out, and her hand snaps away and the door slams shut.
Fuck!
I rest my forehead up against the door. “Snow, I’m talking about snow. The forecast is now calling for twelve inches.”

It takes a few seconds before the bathroom door slowly cracks open. She takes the clothes from my hand and stands in the doorway all wrapped up in my towel. “As soon as I’m dressed I’ll use my app to call for a ride.”

“You don’t need to go. Stay. I can drive you home in the morning.” There’s little chance she’ll say yes, but at this point I’m not sure there’s really any other option.

“I’m not sure if that’s such a great idea.” She tugs on the towel, blinking her pretty brown eyes up at me. “I should probably just go.”

“I think it would be safer if you stayed here and waited out the storm. You can stay in my room and I’ll sleep on the couch. I have an extra toothbrush, some clothes you can borrow.” I can’t let her leave. I don’t want to her to leave. “Did you know that Pennsylvania has one of the highest numbers in the US for icy road fatalities?” I ask, hoping the scary statistic will help in getting her to agree to stay.

“I didn’t know that.” She pulls a long brown strand of hair over her mouth and hides the smallest hint of a smile. “You sure do know your facts.”

“I do and I’m
really good at
Jeopardy!
” I boast, like I’m some kind of scholar. And because I don’t quite sound ridiculous enough, and never know when to quit talking, I also say, “And Trivial Pursuit. My parents have an old nineties version of it and on family game night, I’m hard to beat.”

Silence.

Jesus Christ. I turn my head away. I don’t want to see her face when she responds to the stupidity that just flew from my mouth, yet again.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” I chance a glance in her direction.

“Okay, I’ll stay the night.”

IF I WERE to sum up this night in a hashtag, that hashtag would be #shame.

The snow makes sleeping here awkward, yet necessary. Twelve inches? It’s not even Thanksgiving yet, where the hell did this storm come from?

A hangover is already stomping its way through my head. Locking myself in the bathroom, I scour through the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. After popping three, I run the water to let it warm up. Matthew not only offered for me to stay, but to use his shower as well. A shower I am in desperate need of. Why is there barf on my feet?

While the mirror collects with steam, I poke the new toothbrush he gave me out of its plastic bubble and scrub my filthy mouth clean. My very filthy mouth. The mouth I used to refer to myself as a slut. I place the toothbrush down and use both hands to rub deep into my temples. If I rub hard enough maybe I can erase the memory from my mind. What is it about this guy that leads me to make such rash, poor decisions? And where in the hell had all that dirty talk come from? That’s not me. Or at least it never was. Fireball, I love you—but you have got to go. You are banned from my life from this point on.

I step into the warm water of his glass-tiled shower. For some reason seeing that he uses Aussie shampoo makes me giggle. I use it too. Picking up the bottle I sniff the grapey scent before squeezing a small amount into my hands. I scrub my hair as the foamy soap spills down my face, still cringing at all that transpired this evening. At least I can congratulate myself on sobering up before it went too far again, but I guess the mention of lube and ass play followed by three rounds of vomiting will sober anyone up pretty damn quick.

Matthew’s not a mistake I can make again. Sure, the first time was fun. And surely a second time would have been just as fun. But it wouldn’t be worth all the regret and self-loathing that followed. I want a relationship, not a one-night stand. I step out of the shower, toweling off quickly and using a comb on the sink to rake through my tangled wet hair. So then why did I wind up here again?

Jayne was right. Matthew is my rebound. I grab the t-shirt he gave me, slip it on over my head, and slide back into my panties. He’s just the guy that will help me get over Tyler so that I can move on.
Ugh.
Tyler. My stomach turns as the image of the sparkling diamond ring on that beautiful bitch’s finger resurfaces. And my face burns remembering how I mortified myself acknowledging their engagement.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, saving me from the tortuous returning thoughts of last night. “Hey, Holly, I’m gonna make mac ’n’ cheese. Would you like some?”

More than anything in the world.

“Yes!” I open the door to him and even though only moments ago I was naked in his arms shouting out profanities, he glances at my bare legs and bashfully snaps his head in the other direction.

“Do you want sweats or something?” He’s changed into blue running pants and a gray t-shirt. There’s a smudge on his glasses and his hair… well, that hair, I’m guessing, will never lay flat.

“Nope. I’m fine.” Just his oversized tee and my panties are more than enough for me to be comfy in. The fact that it seems to be making him squirm makes me need to hold back a chuckle. He wasn’t this shy a half hour ago.

He leads the way into the kitchen where a pot of water is already on the stove and starting to boil. A measuring cup of milk sits on the counter, and he grabs a stick of butter from the fridge, counting out the lines before making a precision cut at the quarter-cup mark. He drains the pasta and adds in the ingredients, ending with the packet of cheese that brings it all together. My empty stomach painfully awaits the cheesy goodness. He fills two bowls and hands one to me. It’s a small kitchen with no table, so I opt to hop up and take a seat on the shiny countertop, crossing my legs and resting the warm bowl on my thighs.