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“Frank.” Mel gestures toward his legs.
“I’d like to try something new,” she says. “If that’s, um, okay.”
Frank is not convinced there exists a scenario in which Mel could do anything to him that would not be okay. He also knows he can assure her of this a thousand times, in a thousand different ways, and she will still ask. She is, as a rule, not someone who takes without asking first.
“Go for it,” he says.
She straddles his leg, settling over his thigh with a grunt, her underwear lost to the floor, already, earlier in the night. Now she is swallowed up by his t-shirt, the hem drapes over her thighs like a dress, the puffy outlines of her areolas show through the fabric. He swallows. He has never actually seen her bare-chested, which sounds absurd, considering everything else, but somehow it has never come up; the things they do, as friends, never require full nudity.
She is moving now, wet against the skin of his thigh muscle, in a rhythm he is starting to know, having requested multiple viewings of her performance: first circular motions, a slow pulse. Then faster, more hurried, the rubbing less careful as she gets closer. Her eyes will close, a sure sign; then her breaths will turn irregular. She will collapse beside him, limp, soft and glistening.
She is getting into the first part of the ritual now, the slow grinding, when something possesses him to lift his leg, just a little, into her. She gasps. Surprise or arousal or both.
“Did that feel good?”
She nods. “Can you do it again?”
“I don’t know, Mel.” He feels uncharacteristically selfish.
“I’ll keep doing it, but only if you tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“Okay,” she says, flustered. “I—”
He has never interrupted her like this before. He enjoys the way her face turns darker shades of scarlet, the color rising in her cheeks and throat. She is hot against his leg, and slick too. She keeps shifting slightly, trying to be subtle, failing, cheating at this new game.
“Um, you,” she gets out.
“Can you elaborate on that?”
“The first day we met.” Her voice strains. “You, um, told me I was making a great impressi—”
He juts his knee into her, is rewarded with another soft noise.
“I liked…that you, uh, noticed me.”
Another lift. A gasp.
“It felt good.”
He waits.
“It felt really good.”
She swallows, then continues.
“Sometimes, after you left, I would, um, think about you.”
He lifts his knee twice. She breaks off, breath catching, her hands tightening.
“Think about me how?” he asks.
Her eyes are closed now. He can see the pulse beating in her throat, the urgency.
“What you w-would do to me—"
He withdraws his leg, abruptly. She sinks down, knees splayed out, and stares at him.
“That’s—that’s not…part of the game.” Her voice falters, uncertain, her glasses are askew, her cheeks rosy, her breasts flush against his chest. She looks majestic. And so fucking forlorn he cannot bear it. His hands find hers on the sheet, clenched in fists.
“It’s a new game, Mel. If you want to keep playing?”
She nods; her worry smooths out. She squeezes his hand back, tight, and does not let go.
Mel is slack and tangled every which way across him. Her heart rate is slow and steady. She sticks to him, a little, where she came on his knee. She is maybe the only person who looks the same asleep as she does awake. Most people look softer, kinder, when they’re sleeping; she looks the same. Her face is honest. He presses down, beneath the cotton fabric, nudges the soft skin of her back, traces circles across it, over her scapula, tilted like wings. One slightly off center. She is angelic. A cliché but true. There is no other way to describe her than otherworldly.
The point of this exercise was for her to fall asleep. Frank knows this. But he can’t stop touching her hair, massaging her neck, her shoulders, checking for the slightest thread of tension he can pull out of her. Each time she shifts, he can feel the wetness there, the pleasure for which he is responsible. He is hard, now, and she is obviously noticing; there is no way for her not to notice his dick digging into her hip. She curls her body and rolls over, faces him.
“Frank. Do you, um, have a routine, too?”
“Uh… not anything so elegant.”
“I want to help.”
“I know your pain gets worse at night,” she says. “And an orgasm will release endorphins. It’ll help you sleep. It’s important to get enough sleep. To be at your best for patients. Sleep deprivation is estimated to cause—I read this paper the other day—almost twice the odds of medical error in physicians.” This she says with genuine concern.
“Please, Frank. Show me what you like. Like I showed you. It’s only fair.” Her voice is whiny now, petulant, and she squirms against him in a way that seems intentional. It surprises him, her insistence, but it is dawning on him that he’s never really said no to her before. This is the first opportunity he has given her to put up a fight, and she is winning.
“Okay, okay.” Immediately the squirming ceases. Jesus, Mel.
He reaches down.
“I’m putting my glasses on, so I can actually see what you’re doing, okay?”
Not a problem, Mel, he thinks.
He is pretty sure this is the first time she has seen him naked. A small sliver of self-consciousness projects through his stomach. He looks at her face. She is biting her cheek, her glasses cut into the bridge of her nose.
“Mel. Any, uh, comments? You’re making me nervous.”
“Um. Bigger than I expected. And… veinier.” She studies him.
“I think you…undersold yourself. I guess I didn’t expect you to be circumcised, either, but that makes sense, given your upbringing and demographic.”
He laughs despite himself.
“Can I, um, hold it?” she asks suddenly.
God, yes.
He twitches as she takes him in her hands. They wrap around him neatly, aligned, as if they were made for this. Her hands shake. He reaches down, dwarfing them with his own. “I’ve, um, done this in a medical context, for treatment of priapism,” she mumbles. “I’m guessing…it’s different.”
“A little,” he says. “Same general idea. Usually I, um, just use some spit.”
He spits into his hand to demonstrate, cringes at the crudeness of it. She doesn’t seem to mind. How fast and willingly she spits into her own hand makes him pulse again. He closes his eyes, trying not to dwell on how different, how soft, her hands feel.
She looks at him and almost smiles. “I’m doing that? Making you twitch?”
“Y-yes.” He grits his teeth.
The next part blurs. Mel asks questions, looks up at his face to see how he responds. The mechanics seem to interest her as much as anything else: what pressure, what pace, which breath means yes, which means stop. Her face tightens in concentration as she moves her hands, wet with both their spit, up and down.
“Do you like, uh, dirty...talk?”
“Anything you say is hot. I promise. Y-you’re doing great.”
She lowers her mouth.
“W-wait, Mel. If you do that, I’m going to come. I don’t think you…want that, right?”
She blinks. “Oh. It’s okay. You can come in my mouth, if you want. I may spit it out, but it’s not...personal, if I do. You know how I am with new tastes.”
She has him in her mouth before he can respond. She struggles a little, which makes him harder. He moans, his hand goes to her hair. He wallows in it, each new sensation: the soft noises she makes as she moves up and down, her lips, her hair, the curve of her glasses, the strand of hair fallen over one eye. He hears himself saying things: thank you, Mel, you’re—you’re so pretty like this. You’re so good. You, you look so good with me in your mouth.
He groans as he spills out. He cannot hold it in. Mel looks at him and swallows, panting a little as she takes in air.
She watches him grow soft. “Does that feel better?”
He laughs. “Yes. You did that, baby.”
“Should we clean up?”
He nods, goes into the bathroom, returns with a damp towel. He wipes her face, around her mouth, longer than necessary.
“What about your leg?” She gestures toward his knee.
“I’d kind of like to…keep that, actually.”
“Oh. Okay.” She smiles. She is so fucking pretty, he cannot stop himself. He pulls her up, into his lap, and kisses her.
Mel is not tired, after that; she vibrates against him. She is all wakefulness now, squirming, giggling, kneading her fingers into his shirt, retracting them.
“I didn’t hate it,” she whispers. “I kind of like the taste of you.”