‘Okay, mmmm. Yeah,’ Penny lightly sighed.
‘Yeah?’ Francesco asked.
‘Yeah,’ Penny said. ‘Yeah. That feels good.’
‘Okay. Good. Could you just …’
‘Oh. Sure. Like this?’
‘Or maybe—’
‘Ouch! Watch my hair, it’s caught—’
‘Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
Francesco and Penny had initiated incredibly bad sex.
He had kissed her – kissed her everywhere. Penny had let his tongue roam her body, her cheeks, her chin, her breasts, her thighs, between her legs. She had undressed him, and pushed him onto the sofa, rolling a condom onto him and straddling his lap. She’d braced herself for the feeling of being filled, of handing herself over to him, of their two bodies becoming one … but it wasn’t working.
‘What if I go on top?’ Francesco said.
‘Yeah, okay,’ Penny murmured, moving off him and lying back.
He loomed over her, and she grumbled, ‘I just – these cushions. I’ll just move these …’ She picked up a throw pillow and dropped it to the floor.
Silently, and with increasing half-heartedness, Francesco pumped away. His eyes were scrunched closed in intense concentration. Penny coughed a little. She’d been hugely turned on but now things felt significantly less … lubricated.
Francesco stopped for a second to wipe hair from his clammy brow.
They made eye contact and smiled, Francesco going to speak but seeing that Penny was about to, and Penny going to speak but seeing Francesco was about to, and so both nervously giggling and neither saying anything until Francesco uttered, gingerly: ‘Should we stop?’
Penny said, ‘Yeah. It’s okay. Let’s stop.’
The relief was palpable to them both.