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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"Just one." Erik pleads, sounding like a kid that's begging for candy, rather than a grown man that's dropping his girlfriend off at work.
It's the first day back since New Year's Eve; the first Monday of the new year. And much like everyone else, I've set resolutions I'll only keep in imagination and have decided to start going to the gym, again. It's the gym in the downstairs of the condo building; so really, I have no excuse.
But when I snap on my sports bra - whose existence is solely to keep me from being part of the showing my nipples club, because I have nothing to keep in place, I find myself coming up with a million of them.
Last night, it would be too busy and it was New Year's Day; so, technically I should be relaxing. This morning I was going to go but then Erik wanted to cuddle and said I was disadvantaging him by taking away the warmth of my body. Really, he just wanted to get laid one last time before going away for a road trip. Not that, that stopped me from cashing in on that justification and jumping back into the sack with him.
Really, it's a mystery how I haven't gotten knocked up again. All we do is have sex. Okay, we talk. We laugh. We flirt. He tells me he loves me and I begrudgingly agree before confessing my own sins. Then we have sex again.
And I have to tell you, when people used to talk about how good sex was, how much I would enjoy it, I always thought they were full of shit. Granted, I did spend the majority of my teenage years fantasizing about how good it would be, how amazing my boyfriend would make me feel. All to go home with a guy from Bumble and be shown exactly the opposite of everything I'd ever been hoping for.
Only to be shown that it was uncomfortable, tense, and something you went home right after. Kind of like those free Amazon Prime benefits that get offered to me every once in a while, it was to be used, abused, and then promptly discarded.
Now, I feel different.
"What if someone sees?" I ask, looking over at the person that has made it different. At the person that makes me feel loved, cared for, protected, and like I can do no wrong. Oh, and there's Erik. I'm just fucking with you, it's all him. Mr. Fluffypants is just my side piece.
Though, if somehow you hear about King getting murdered on the news, I feel like the mystery of who did it would be as complex as Dora looking for a clue.
"Nobody's gonna see." He tells me, his hand cupping the side of my face and spreading enough warmth through my body to bake a cake. I am preheated to 350 degrees and now, I just need something inside of me. Okay. So, maybe he isn't the only horny one. "I'm not gonna get a chance to see you again before we leave." He reminds me, as if we both haven't been sulking about him going away for ten days, like a couple of teenage girls on their period.
I look down at his mouth, just to watch him run his tongue over his bottom lip. He's such a tease. "Fine. Just one." Maybe two. "But no tongue." I give him a serious look, trying to be firm and authoritative, but both of us knowing that as soon as our lips touch, his tongue's gonna be in my mouth. He's a very sloppy kisser. And I like sloppy.
Some might even say, love it.
Unless it's coming from someone other than him, then I really do hate it.
"But you love tongue." He groans, bringing my face closer to his and closing whatever remaining space between us. He doesn't go all the way though; he's taunting me. Forcing me to do it. Like store bought cookie dough that doesn't come pre-cut, he wants me to do all the work. Fine, I will.
His lips are soft, familiar, like rubbing my face against the back of Mr. Fluffypants' head. Minus the tingling sensation that goes on down below, because, you know, I'm not that kinky. Is that even considered kinky? Or just plain, wrong. I did used to use my stuffed animals to pretend to have sex, but that was when I was ten and I didn't know what I was doing or what the feeling was.
I also used to stick tether balls in my sports bra because they somehow made me feel more sexual. But this isn't about me or the morally questionable things I used to do as a child. This is about Erik, and him trying to (as my favorite Britain's looking for love would say) lay it on me.
We're not even supposed to be doing this - and by this, I don't mean about to do the horizontal tango in the parking lot of TD Arena. No, I will not stoop that low. I will, however, allow him to park in the player's parking and let him drop me off from there; rather than doing what he used to: park in the space just outside the loading dock or drop me off at one of the parking lots used for games.
I figure, nobody will notice. We're super early; far earlier than any of these other fuckers that actually get paid to be here. Not that anyone cares or appreciates that. And it's not like people are just gonna sit around in lawn chairs, grabbing their binoculars, just to watch us swap saliva. And if they are, that's on them.
Just to be sure, though, I made him park facing the rock wall. So between that and his tinted windows, we should be fine. I think.
"Okay, okay." I say, pulling back when we start getting carried away after a few minutes. And by carried away, I mean my hands running through his hair and grabbing his shoulders, wanting his lips to permanently be stuck to mine. Now that I think about it, that sounds kind of weird. But I do wish he was inside me. Or at the very least, that his fingers were and we were wearing less clothes.
He looks back at me, the look on his face saying it all. It's the one a man wears when he's lusting over you. I recognize it from the few times I've been able to tell when a man was flirting with me. Their pupils look gigantic and there's this slight shimmer in them. It's almost like you can feel them thinking about doing the dirty with you.
It's weird and oddly intoxicating, especially when it's someone you want to do the dirty, with.
"I'm gonna miss you." He tells me, entwining our fingers together even though they'll need to be separated within a few seconds. Erik's very emotional and expressive - much more so than most men I've ever met or read about, which I appreciate. Because if it were up to me and my lack of emotional vulnerability, we'd still be metaphorically passing notes in math class.
"I hate road trips." I sulk, saying what we're both thinking. I appreciate that some hockey players like going on the road and traveling and getting to play somewhere else - and while he definitely doesn't hate them as much as I do, he still prefers to be home, with me. At least, that's what I tell myself when I justify waddling around the living room in one of his big t-shirts and listening to Celine Dion's My Heart will go on.
I also sniff his pillow, look at photos of us on my phone, and occasionally masturbate while thinking about him. What? Don't fucking judge me. I'm in my sexual prime and have a boyfriend that's constantly ripping off my clothes. Okay, it's Erik; so it's more like, caringly taking them off my body and tossing them in the hamper. But you get the point.
"I'll be back before you know it." He promises, leaning over and kissing my forehead. I see he's trying to be positive today - maybe it's good he's going away. "And I'll call you after the game." He adds, us both having done the math back home and figuring out that Portland is three hours behind Montreal.
It's one of the rare times that a time difference actually helps - not hinders, us. Because if it were the other way around, he'd be calling me at three in the morning.
"It'll be fine." He tells me again, kissing me one last time - and one time more than permitted (though, I don't contest it), before I finally go into work.
