“Mi Amor,” he murmurs against my lips. It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen him, and I’ve missed him like crazy. Because he’s a year older, he graduated a year before me and attends NYU’s School of the Arts. His dream is for his band, Down Coyote, to one day get signed. We’ve been dating for close to two years now. I hate that in order for both of us to follow our dreams, it means we’ll be living four thousand miles away from each other.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks excitedly, and my heart fractures.
“I was thinking we could go back to your dorm. I need to talk to you.”
His steps falter, and he eyes me skeptically before he says, “You’ve decided to go.” It’s not a question, he knows I’ve already made the decision. He knows me that well.
“I have,” I say. “It’s just that—”
“You don’t have to explain, Giselle, I get it. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity and a chance for you to break away from your mom for a little while. You deserve this. But what does that mean for us?”
“It means we enjoy the next couple of months together, and once it’s time for me to go, we say goodbye.” I’ve always been a realist, and I’m not about to hold either of us to being in a long-distance relationship. While Christian was my first kiss, my first love, the first guy I had sex with, it’s not fair to expect him to remain faithful to me while I’m overseas for school for the next four years, if not longer.
“Okay,” he agrees, “but promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“When you return to New York, I’m the first person you look up after you see your sister.” He pulls me into a hug and gives me a soft kiss on my lips.
“I promise.”
“I know this isn’t the end for us, Giselle. This is just a minor detour. One day you’ll return, educated and cultured, ready to take the design world by storm.” A grin splits across my face. “I’ll be a famous musician, making millions and living in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We’ll be a power couple, baby.”
He kisses me again, and I nod in agreement. Is it possible? Everything he’s saying about our future…can we really have it all? I guess only time will tell.
One
Giselle
Seven years later
“Fuck yes. You like it when I ram my cock into you, don’t you? Scream my name when you come all over my fucking cock.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes as Paul ‘rams’ his cock into me. And I’m using air quotes to emphasize the word rams, because let’s be real here, when the guy is only working with a four—maybe five—inch dick, he isn’t ramming anything into anyone. But he thinks he is, so I guess it’s the thought that counts. Not that it matters. He’s Paul Cohen, a multi-billionaire real estate tycoon who owns a good portion of the Upper East Side. I wouldn’t care if he had a one-inch dick and wanted me to call out his mother’s name as long as he keeps wanting to fuck me.
“Oh, Paul,” I call out dramatically. He looks down and grins at me as several beads of sweat fall from his face and land on my chest. And because we’re fucking missionary, and he can see every face I make, I have to force myself not to cringe. But internally I’m screaming, “Ewww! Fucking gross!”
How someone is able to work up that kind of sweat in only—my eyes dart to the clock and see it’s 9:08 p.m.—seven minutes is beyond me. But if his nasty sweat and breathless grunting is any indication, we’re going to call this a wrap in under ten minutes. Not a record time, but pretty damn close.
Wanting to speed this along, I squeeze my vaginal walls together in an attempt to grip his dick—not that it does much good. His groans get louder, his thrusts turn frantic.
“I’m coming,” he grunts out, and my eyes go to the clock again. 9:10 p.m. Damn, I’m good. Just under ten minutes like I predicted.
“Oh yes, Paul,” I call out, putting all the years of my doing Kegel exercises to use as I force my muscles to clench around him and fake my orgasm. He stills on top of me, pulls out, and climbs off the bed, going to the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I wait until he comes out, then grabbing my clothes off the floor, head inside to quickly clean up. I’ll shower once I’m home, but I hate the lingering smell of latex. After washing my face—because eww, sweat!—and hands, I make my way back out to the bedroom. Paul is in only his boxers, and is laying on the bed, scrolling through his phone.