Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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"Ok. I'm taking these off." Erik says, sounding the most annoyed I think I've ever heard him. Even more than when someone stole is parking spot that he was about to reverse into at Wendy's; and when that guy drunkenly spilt his drink all over him at the bar - because he was just so excited to meet him.
No, the thing that makes this two-time Olympian, multi-million dollar earning a-year, professional athlete, is a pair of cotton briefs. More specifically, they're bikinis - I think. Then again, I've never really been able to tell the difference between underwear styles, other than the classic is it a thong or not thing. Which I think everyone can tell because one of them has a pouch for your ass and one of them just lets it hang out.
All I can do is laugh as he lifts me up again - and steady myself on his shoulder, because I'm not trying to die; and watch as he pulls off my underwear and tosses it to the floor with impatience. It kind of reminds me of the time I wore high-thigh boots on our first date and he spent a total of ten minutes struggling to take them off.
Looking back on it now, I wonder if that was god's way of telling me to not cry after sex wasn't everything I was hoping it would be and yet I still found a way to miss his calling miserably. Maybe it all worked out in the end though, because I found a man that loves me enough to put up with my batshit crazy emotional outbursts - and by emotional outbursts, I mean random spurts of tears over non-existent problems that I've conjured up in my mind.
Anyone else? No? Just me? Okay. I'll see myself out.
"I'm telling you, when we move into the new place, I'm stuffing all your underwear on the highest shelf I can find." He grumbles, tossing it onto the floor and then wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Clearly, despite whatever athletic talents this man may have, he would not make a good surgeon.
"I still can't believe you put an offer in without telling me." I remark, making him look over at me and realize maybe that wasn't the best thing to say before sex. As in, potentially causing another argument which may result in him going back onto the couch and away from my vagina. Vagina. Like the doctor in The Back-Up Plan, it's my new favorite word to say because it makes people uncomfortable. More specifically, me.
"Yeah, sorry." He apologizes, looking about as bashful as one of the seven dwarfs - minus the height difference and wearing a pointy toupee. "I should've told you." He adds, as if trying to preempt whatever I'm about to tell him and avoid another squabble between the two of us. To be fair, I think this is the only time we've gotten in a fight since we started dating.
Minus that one time he watched ahead without me, but he was deserving of the silent treatment that time. Anyone that watches Bridgerton without me, is the devil. Or in this case, a puppy in a devil's costume for Halloween.
"Mhm." I respond, crossing my arms over my chest and giving him a look of disapproval. It still hasn't been accepted yet but let's be real, what idiot wouldn't accept an offer over-asking on their million dollar home. Unless they're in a bidding-war, but given that it's a new build, custom home, that isn't even on the market yet and was only shown to him, to us, because of who he is, I'd say that we have a pretty good shot of getting it.
And by we, I mean he. Because there's no way in a cat's tenth life that I'll be able to afford even a penny of that place; I mean, first of all it's in a gated community - which, who on earth lives in a gated community when they're 6'4? You can just look at someone and be your own security guard.
Second of all, it's a seven or eight bedroom - actually, I can't even remember how many bedrooms it has; but given that Erik's hand is getting dangerously close to my inner-workings, I don't think I care at this point.
"Jesus, Rosie." He says, groaning when his fingers touch my inner meat pie and he's alerted to how wet I am. Wet as in flooding season in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest. Wet as in the bottom of the basement in a house that those two evil villains from Home Alone stole from. Wet as in the bottom of my sink when I let the drain get all clogged up with M&Ms from my baking adventures.
I mean, what's a boyfriend for, if not to clean up my kitchen messes? Just kidding, don't crucify me. Or if you want to, get in line; you're not the first.
"Your hands are cold." I say, shivering a little when his - I don't know which finger it is, but it's a big one, but not big enough to be his dick, runs down my interior flaps.
He notices the way my goose bumps haven't gone away and immediately seems to feel bad. "Sorry, baby." He apologizes, apparently making an internal pact to make it up to me in more than one way.
He runs his hands out of my parking lot and over my thighs; then, reaches over and turns on the floor heating of the bathroom. That's right. These fuckers have heated flooring in not only their bathrooms, but their guest bathrooms. If that's not bougie, I don't know what is. Besides maybe the fact that his sister-in-law has a live-in nanny.
"Better?" He asks, having gone ahead and literally breathed on his hands like he's trying to stay warm, before putting them back near my lady parts again. It is better, but I don't want to confess how much better it is because if I did he would grin so hard that his face might fall off.
I guess he can tell just from the way my body relaxes that it is, and he goes ahead and continues on with this pelvic exam of my labia. Is the labia the part just outside your vagina? Can someone Google it? I'm a little pre-occupied at the moment. "Mhm." I breathe, feeling a rush of pleasure - one that I wasn't sure could make me feel any better than I already do, when his thumb skims over my clit. My bundle of nerves. My mother's chocolate chip cookie recipe. Coveted and secret; only accessible to those who ask nicely and I allow to feel it.
"You know I have to say, I think this is my new favorite position." He remarks, his eyes captivated by the free-flowing juices of my nether regions, causing him to lick his lips like he's looking at a well-done steak, instead. "Best view in the house." He murmurs, he himself seeming to have trouble concentrating on anything but me.
One of his fingers runs over my inner flaps, collecting wetness like a bee collecting pollen, and then slides into my bun hole. That's my baby-making one, not my butt hole. That one is off limits until I figure out a way to either not be grossed out by anal or shrink his dick. I'm sorry, I just can't get turned on by someone enjoying causing me pain. It's unnatural.
"Erik." I breathe, my lips parting a little when he mimics the movement again. This time, he's going for the full course meal: vibration on my nerves and hot dog entry. I'm so glad he can't hear the way I think; otherwise we would need the world's supply of Viagra.
It's also kinda nice to have someone look at you like you're something to desire; like you are the dessert at the end of a long meal, rather than someone awkwardly tip-toeing their way through life. Like there's something amazing about you, rather than something needing to be taken to the mechanic.
"You're so beautiful." He marvels, making it sound like a matter of statement rather than his opinion. He says it with so much belief and conviction, that I think he could make a blind man see. "So fucking beautiful." He tells me, again, as if to force me to accept the compliment.
His one hand moves away from my nether regions whilst the other remains working overtime. He uses the free one to cup the back of my neck and pull me into a long - and very wet, kiss. I swear, this man enjoys working overtime. Not only making me feel good down below, but making me wonder why tongue kissing isn't classified as an addiction.
Sometimes I wonder why things are so easy with Erik when they've been so difficult with others, in the past. Men, grumbling and groaning - not in a good way, because I wasn't automatically wet after a few seconds of half-assed groping by their clammy hands. Men that made it a given that I should give them head while they never cared to try and explore my own pleasures and pains.
Men that didn't understand the word no, or the word go, or why someone might want you to hold their hand after they've had an orgasm and not leave, right away. Men like that, I think were only put on this earth so that when I finally did meet someone like Erik, I would realize how fucking lucky I am.
