Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

A pause. “No more than two.”

He lay down next to her, and being inside her was a slick, tight fit that made the prospect of never fucking this woman absolutely devastating. When her face showed nothing but pleasure, he added another finger, and that was a game changer.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, canting her hips against him.

“Yeah? You like it?” He crooked his fingers, and her thighs began trembling. “I think you like it,” he said against her shoulder. He found the hood of her clit with this thumb, tapped it gently, and it was like lighting a match.

This was supposed to be a brief stop. Just a slight detour before Eli got to do all the other things he wanted. Bite into her ass, eat her out some more, maybe fuck her tits for real this time, and then get her off. But Rue contracted around his fingers abruptly, with a breathless, shocked gasp, and all of a sudden every single thing within the hotel room was pushed miles beyond his ability to control. “Fuck. Fuck, you’re so close.”

She turned her head, gazing blindly at him. “I—” She gasped against his mouth. “Yes. I’m going to.”

He grazed her clit, and that was it. She arched in a curve of pure pleasure, eyes open and unseeing, lips parted in a soundless scream, and she looked so—beautiful and fuckable and lovely, Eli was completely ruined. His orgasm thundered through him with no warning. He ground his cock against the tender flesh of her hip and came like a freight train, the pleasure pulled from him in large, pulsing gusts.

He started kissing her instinctively, before fully coming down. And then he kept on kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her, through the tail end of her orgasm and through the crest of his own. She didn’t always kiss him back, overwhelmed by the shudders running through her, but her mouth stayed underneath his, even as the pleasure slowly subsided. Sweat cooled on their bodies, the tempo of their hearts quieted, and once it was time to pull away from her, Eli found that he couldn’t. His fingers remained between her thighs, and he began to trace soft, aftershock-inducing circles around her clit, dragging his fingers through the damp mess at her opening, and . . .

It wasn’t over yet. It couldn’t be over. They’d just gotten started, and the things he could do for her, the things they could do for each other were beyond this world, and—

Rue turned away from him. “Eli.” Her fingers slid down to grip his wrist. “I have to go.”

“What?”

“Please.”

He moved away, giving her space. But said, “Rue. Come on.” Body still twitching with pleasure, she slid out of bed. The moment she stood, her legs almost gave out. Eli reached forward, steadying her before she collapsed. “Rue? What the hell?”

“I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and held out a halting hand. She sounded weak. Not like herself. “Just a . . . a cramp, I think.” She turned to him, and she was undone. Destroyed. As ruined as he felt, and Eli wanted to pull her back. Have her underneath him. He wanted to clean her up and do everything all over again, a thousand times over.

“Rue.”

She ignored him, silent in a busy, industrious way that involved cleaning herself of his semen with her underwear, pulling on her T-shirt with trembling hands, retrieving her pants. Not meeting his eyes.

He exhaled a laugh. “Are you really . . . you’re done,” he half said, half asked.

“Yeah.” She shrugged. Her breathlessness belied her indifference. “You aren’t?”

Fuck no, he thought. Said nothing.

“I’m going. I . . . thank you. It was fun. Maybe I’ll see you again. If not, have a good life and all that.” She was gone before he could think of a response. He watched the door close behind her, and when he glanced away, his eyes fell on her panties, forgotten in a heap of dark blue cotton on top of the sheets.

Eli covered his eyes, wondering how he’d ever thought that once was going to be enough.





12





BECHDEL TEST: FAILED





RUE

Early on Sunday I dragged myself out of bed after an unsettled night of tossing and turning. I showered, had a long, quiet, luxurious breakfast of oatmeal and berries, and went to work.

Going in on weekends wasn’t part of my normal routine. I’d done enough free labor during grad school and my pre-Florence internships, and liked to keep a semblance of work-life balance, even if my weekends tended to be spent underwhelmingly, doing very little either at home or at Tisha’s.

But Tisha was somewhere south of Austin at some grandaunt’s birthday party, and even though I had a standing invitation to all Fuli family things, I skipped the ones involving relatives I’d never met. So I went into work, staying until the sky turned dark and my stomach growled. In those nine hours, my phone buzzed with exactly two texts, but I was busy running flow cytometry on my samples. I only bothered to read them as I headed back to my car, and it was almost an accident—a misplaced tap when I pulled up the flashlight app, because the sensor lights outside of Kline were busted, and maintenance hadn’t yet gotten around to switching them out.

The texts were from an unknown Austin number. The first: Are you okay? And, approximately one hour later: Rue, I need to know if you’re okay.

Eli had not deleted my number when I’d asked him to. Or maybe he’d found it in the Kline employee directory—who knew? And really, who cared? The sheer triviality of it all could have swept me away like a leaf in a storm. I tossed my phone in the passenger seat, not intending to reply. After starting the engine, I changed my mind.