MARCUS RESTS HIS forehead against mine. We’re both panting; the heat of our breath mingles in the tiny space between our lips. I want to stay just like this—with the exceedingly pleasant weight of him over me, and the quiet intimacy of his cock still within me, just starting to soften. I want to fall asleep here, and wake up with him spooning me. Maybe he’d be hard again, pressing against my lower back. I want my turn to take him into my mouth. I want to explore his entire body the way he’s explored mine.
I thought I knew all of his secrets. And maybe I do know him, but I’m starting to suspect I don’t actually know us at all.
At this thought, my brain switches back on and I push him gently off me so that I can roll away from him onto my side. I try to remember what the websites said about this moment. Roll onto your side or on your back with a pillow under your hips to aid gravity. I’m supposed to stay like that for fifteen to twenty minutes.
I’ve never read anything about what you should do if your supposedly platonic best friend has just given you not one but two unexpected intense orgasms. Nor do have a clue what to do now that I find myself in a postcoital bliss right at the same moment that my inhibitions and self-consciousness have reappeared. The articles I read about conception didn’t say anything about how much I want to snuggle into him, and let him hold me while my heart rate slows.
If it ever slows.
Maybe it will never slow again.
If I stay, he’ll cuddle me. If I stay, he’ll try to talk to me.
Holy shit, what is he going to say about what just happened?
“I have to go,” I say, and then I shuffle so that I can slide my legs over the edge of the bed.
“Abby, no,” he protests, and his voice is still rough. I feel a delicious shiver down my spine at the sound—this is a tone that I’ve never heard him use, and I marvel again that there is so much more here for me to discover. It’s like we’re suddenly in a brand-new world, and I want to breathe it in and gaze around in wonder—but I can’t.
Adrenaline surges in me and I have to get away before he tries to talk through this, or worse still, before all of these surging hormones drive my thoughts to reveling in the new intimacy between us. I stiffen as Marcus tries to tug me back into an embrace. “Stay. Please. You’re supposed to lie for at least twenty minutes. We can just—”
“No, I’ll do it in my room. I have to go.”
“Abs, please—”
“N-no, everything is okay,” I lie. I sound so blatantly defensive—I know he’ll see right through it. “I just need to go to sleep. See you tomorrow.”
I fumble for my clothes and literally jog from his room, crossing the living area stark naked with his semen running down my leg.
Semen.
Sperm.
Baby.
Fuck.
I tell myself it won’t make much difference; the websites also said most of the stuff that runs out isn’t the sperm, anyway, and I promise myself I’ll lie on my back for the rest of the night to give his swimmers at least a fighting chance. I shut my door, then pull on my underpants and scoop a shirt off the floor before I crawl onto my bed and prop a pillow under my butt.
The buzz is gone altogether now. I find myself simply scared, and oddly alone. I feel like I should be with him, but that’s not going to happen. Lying in his arms after what we just shared would be too...
Too what?
Too close? Too intimate?
Too romantic, I realize. It would just be too damned romantic, and this is not about romance.
None of this makes any sense. We were supposed to get the job done as quickly and simply as possible. What just happened? And how do we come back from it?
He wasn’t supposed to be able to read me like he did—none of my other partners ever had. He wasn’t supposed to care so much about me. I could have fallen pregnant without a single orgasm, let alone two of the most intense of my life.
I should have known Marcus would be an amazing lover. He is a sensitive guy—sure, hopelessly self-absorbed at times, but he really does know how to read people—that’s what makes him so great at his job. Plus, of course, I’ve seen the revolving door of women that have come through his adult life. He’s had a lot of practice, and I try to tell myself that’s probably the only reason it seemed so good to me. It was probably ordinary to him. Boring. Disappointing.
“Abby?” He is at my door, but waits hesitantly on the other side. The sound of his cautious greeting makes my heart race all over again.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? That was—”
“I’m fine,” I say again to cut him off, because I’m not at all sure what he’s going to say but I know the two logical ends to that sentence are “crazy” or “awkward” and I’m not sure I can handle either. What if it wasn’t even good for him? He seemed into it, but when things got really intense he screwed his eyes closed and what if he was pretending I was someone else, what if he was just trying to be polite and what if—
I can’t stand this—the uncertainty, the sudden awkwardness. This relationship is my safe space, and we’ve made it all chaotic, and fucking hell what if we can’t fix it? I squeeze my eyes shut tight and force out, “I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning?”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
He sighs heavily, then almost pleads, “Abs, please, can we talk? Just a bit.”
“I can’t. Can you just let me go to sleep?” I know that makes me a bitch, but I don’t care. I feel trapped—cornered—exposed. Nothing good can come from us talking tonight, not while my emotions are running high like this. I try to breathe...try to clear my mind and center myself. It doesn’t work.
Maybe it’s whole minutes, or maybe it just feels that long, because I’m tense from my head to my toes. It seems such a long while later that he finally walks away.
And I go right back to wondering if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life, because I have no idea how on earth I am ever going to reconvince my body that Marcus is nothing more than my best friend.
AS I WANDER around the silent apartment the next morning, rising long after I hear Marcus go to work, I try to convince myself to focus my energies on business as usual. If I ruminate on the situation too much, he’ll read me like a book, just as he always does. I’m not surprised when an IM pops up as soon as I log into my computer.
Marcus: Abby. You okay?
I write back quickly, but I’m blushing even as I do.
Abby: Of course! What’s up?
Marcus: You know what’s up. That was intense last night. You freaked out on me.
Intense. That’s the perfect word for it, and I am almost relieved—at least he felt it, too. I wonder how Marcus is feeling today. Is he freaked out like I am? I’m definitely not going to ask him. Denial is a strategy that’s proven effective in the past.
Abby: No! I just was tired. You wore me out. All is well.
Marcus: Bullshit. How is it possible that you can’t even lie convincingly over plain text?
Abby: Promise, I’m fine. Lots to do today, catch you tonight?
Marcus: Wait. I need to know you’re okay. Are we still doing this?
The sensible thing would be to tell him we should just use the syringe. But if I tell him how shaken I am by the chemistry between us, will he change his mind about the baby? Will it then be his turn to freak out?
He’s probably used to mind-blowing sex.
He’s probably not at all fazed.
Okay, so I’m freaking out, but I can’t risk extending that to him, too, like some communicable disease. I usually talk to him about almost everything, but in this case surely it’s better to stick with the plan, enjoy a few more outstanding orgasms and hope to high heaven that we fall pregnant this month so we can stop before I get my heart shattered.
Abby: Absolutely. Keep your calendar clear for tomorrow night. Talk to you later.