Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Olivia

Another day.

Another orgasm.

What the hell am I doing?

In general. Motivation-wise. I sure as hell know what I’m doing right now from a superficial standpoint. Clint sits on his couch, and I’m on top of him, kissing him passionately as I move my hips, grinding myself against him.

And realizing I’m setting myself up for tragedy.

I’m becoming addicted to him.

You know, if I buy some sort of male sex doll and screw it all the time, there’s likely to be some guilt. There’s not any guilt if I use a vibrator or a dildo but if I find myself unable to go without it, that’ll make me feel guilty. If I use a dildo or a vibrator, they’re very clearly just sex toys. A doll gets sort of weird, I think. It just makes it clearer that I’m making a choice to use something artificial instead of a real person. If I have sex with an elaborate toy designed to trick me into thinking I’m with a person, it’s guilt-inducing and sad.

This is worse.

This is worse because even though the sex is easily better than any sex in my life, dramatically better, that’s not what matters to me. That’s not what I’m becoming addicted to at all. I’m addicted to the emotions. I’m addicted to the love I feel for him. In the middle of the sex, I love him. I don’t understand it and I don’t know why.

But as I kiss him now and move my hips atop him, I love this man. When Clint’s hands move over my back and my hips, I love his touch. I love that Clint is touching me, not just that I’m being touched. Damn it all, I’m in love with him right now.

Completely.

Googly-eyed, la-la-land, head over heels, absolutely in love.

That’s what I’m addicted to when I’m with him, and that’s what’s so troubling. The moment we’re done, I’ll quietly berate myself. I’ll love him still, though, for ten or fifteen minutes or so. And then, something will click and I’ll get so angry.

I know this.

But it doesn’t stop me from kissing him now, from holding him so tightly and yearning for him so absolutely. It doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m on the verge of happy tears every time he’s inside of me.

He works a shift of three days and nights at his fire station and then four days and nights off. Then, they reverse so four days and nights at the station. I think those nights at the station are all that keep me from being with him every night.

And I miss him when he’s gone.

And I hate myself for missing him and I hate him because I miss him. Everything is a jumbled, crazy mess, and I just don’t really understand what the hell is going on in my head. I feel dumb. I feel typical. Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to feel dumb and typical?

My entire life I’ve been exceptional. My entire life I’ve looked at a situation and found ways to add value. Other people see a useless lot that can’t be improved. I see a parking lot that can help businesses that wouldn’t otherwise be able to build. Other people see a strangely shaped piece of land and I see a destination mini-mall.

I’m exceptional, I’m not typical. Damn it, my whole life I’m driven to accomplish more, do more, and achieve more. And now, I’m a damned slave to my enemy’s dick!

Damn it all to hell. I’m not a slave to his dick even though I’m moving my body like I am. It would be so much happier to handle if that’s what went on here.

I’m a slave to his voice, his mind, his words… Damn it!

I try to keep up with the analysis of this situation. I try to focus on why I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling for Clint, but he grabs me and rolls us so that he’s on top. He ups the intensity, moving faster and deeper, and then, we groan together. Our bodies seem to react in sync, our orgasms building and subsiding together.

Clint sits back and offers a hand to help me up. I smile before I can catch myself. It’s just such a goofy thing to do, pull me up after sex like he just tripped me and fell into me. What is wrong with my head?

“Hey, you want to go get some dinner?”

The question makes me freeze. This is new. Normally, we just sit quietly for a moment and then, I leave. I can’t add any other time obligation to this. It might make everything even more complicated.

I have all these thoughts, and then I say, “Sure.”What the fuck? It’s like I can’t hear my own thoughts.

He stands and offers his hand again. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

I should run for the door and stop all of this now. Instead, I slip my hand into his and stand up. “Okay.”

We take a very nice shower together, and the entire time I can’t stop panicking. The problem is that all of the panicking is inside of my head instead of out in the open where it can do some good. This is wrong! This is not the plan. What plan did I have, though? I mean, really, I didn’t think this out at all.He saved my life, which caused conflict, and I…

Wow, and I fucked him.

Yeah, it seems pretty fucking stupid now.

We finish and get dressed and then, we get into his car and head out to a little Mexican place he knows, Hector’s. Clint promises me they have the best tacos he’s ever eaten.Just a few words indicate just how… damn it, how ludicrous things are. I flirt with him about his restaurant choice!

“Best tacos ever. Absolutely.”

“Really? The absolute best ever? You haven’t traveled very far.”

“No, I guess I haven’t. I’m a homebody. But I know my tacos, Baby.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Baby.”

The conversation continues, and the whole time I can’t stop from pointing out to myself how cozy this all is becoming. I’m relaxing with him. No, I’m enjoying his company for Pete’s sake.

Well, Clint is right.

I have traveled as far south as Mexico City and I’ve eaten a lot of tacos but Hector’s really does have the best I’ve ever eaten. We share companionable silences like a professional couple. My heart starts jogging, and not just because of the hot sauce.

How do I make sense of this? This guy who is making me laugh and sharing very funny personal stories is also the same guy that handed me one of my most humiliating moments. I just don’t know how to reconcile those two facts.

We finish dinner and Clint insists on paying, which gives me a small something to gnaw on angrily. But then he let me to contribute the tip, and I feel things balanced.

I don’t know what to do! Clint is being everything I’d find attractive in a guy. He’s just the wrong guy!

We walk out to his car and he opens the car door for me. Now, I try to remember how I felt about such chivalry but he just waits there for me to get in and I feel strange just standing there looking indecisive. I smile and slide in.

I watch him walk around the front of his little sports car, something I’ve never seen him drive until tonight for our… well, damn it, it’s a date. I watch him walk around, and I see flashes of that perfect fireman’s body naked, muscles glistening. I feel a bit hot and can’t wait for him to start the car so I can roll the window down.

The breeze as we drive home does very little to relieve my discomfort. What am I uncomfortable with, anyway? So, he took me out to dinner. I paid for the tip! So, he’s in my thoughts all day and night now. I think about food just as much, and about what shoes to wear with what skirt. It all means nothing!

We get to my house, and he hurries to open my door again. I smile awkwardly as I get out. The night is cool, but I feel so suffocated. I hurry up to my door, and Clint is right by my side.

“Well, goodnight, Olivia.”

I fish for my key. “Goodnight, Clint.”

I find my key and at that exact moment, Clint leans in and kisses me.

This is not a hungry, lust-filled kiss. This isn’t demanding or greedy or aggressive. It’s soft and sensual and loving.

I melt into it and return it with all the mixed signals thrown right back at him. We break apart and I can barely manage a “Goodnight!” before I get my door open and jump inside.

I return his wave with a small one and then, I close my door and moan at my idiocy.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? That man is not what you want. What are you doing?”

I feel a wave of fear hit me and I run to my bathroom. I don’t get sick even though I feel hot and disoriented.

Fuck. I can’t be in love.

I am in love.

Like some big dopey teenager with braces and pimple cream, I’m falling for a sensitive jock, so to speak.

No. No, I can’t be. I just can’t.