Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            It lasts less than a dozen thrusts. His mouth is by my ear as he tells me how beautiful I am, how he wants to feel all of me, how he could fuck me every second of every hour of every day. The spasms bloom inside me, drive me mindless, and I cling on to his shoulders as my orgasm explodes through my body, wiping my mind clean. Erik, I mouth against his hair. Erik, Erik, Erik. He stays still while I ride it out, a near-silent growl in his throat, the tension in his arms nearly vibrating. Then, when I’m almost done, he asks,

            “Should I— Fuck, should I pull out?”

            “No,” I exhale. “I’m—we’re good. Pill.”

            He comes inside me before I’m done talking, burying the sounds of his pleasure into the skin of my throat.

            We stay like that, after. He holds me up, like he knows that I would wobble on my legs if he were to let go of me, and kisses me for long moments. Chaste pecks wherever he can reach, long licks up my sweaty neck, soft hickeys that have me squirming and giggling in his arms. I never, ever want this moment to end. I want to paint it and frame it and hang it on the wall—this wall—and treasure it and make a million more and—

            “Sadie?” Erik’s voice is even deeper than usual. I am happy and pliant and relaxed.

            “Yeah?”

            “Do you still have your hamster?”

            “Guinea pig.”

            “Same thing. Do you still have it?”

            “Yeah.” I pause. “Why?”

            “Just making sure that a giant rat isn’t trying to eat my jeans.”

            I look down over his shoulder and burst into laughter for the first time in weeks.





Epilogue


            One month later

            “Okay,” I say, determined. I stare first at my masterpiece and at the remnants of my hard work, and then I repeat, louder, “Okay, I’m ready! Prepare to be blown away!”

            Erik appears at the entrance of his kitchen about five seconds later, looking sleepy and relaxed and handsome in his Hanes T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. “You have dough on your nose,” he says, before leaning forward to kiss it away. Then he sits across from me, on the other side of the island.

            “Okay. Moment of truth.” I slide a small porcelain plate toward him. On top there is a croissant—the fruit of my many, many labors.

            So. Many. Labors.

            “Looks good.”

            “Thank you.” I beam. “Made from scratch.”

            “I can tell.” With a small smile, he glances at how three quarters of his kitchen is coated in flour.

            “My culinary genius is apparently a bit chaotic. Come on, try it.”

            He picks up the croissant in his huge hands and takes a bite. He chews for one, two, three, four, five seconds, and I should probably give him a little more time, but I just can’t wait to ask, “You like it? Is it good?”

            He chews some more.

            “Amazing? Fantastic? Delicious?”

            More chewing.

            “Edible?”

            The chewing stops. Erik sets the croissant back on the table and swallows once. With noticeable difficulty. Then washes it all down with a sip of coffee.

            “Well?” I ask.

            “It’s . . .”

            “It cannot be bad.”

            Silence.

            “Right?”

            He tilts his head, pensive. “Is it possible that you mixed up salt and sugar?”

            “No! I . . . Is it worse that Faye’s?” He thinks about it. Which is all the answer I need. “I hate you.”

            “There is a bit of a . . . vinegary aftertaste? Did you maybe add that instead of water?”