Publication Date: 22 June 2015
Synopsis: It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel wrong. It just...feels.
EJ Cunning, an art history major, dates musicians. Foster Blake, a chemical engineering major, can’t sing a tune. They’re not each other’s type. They’re coworkers.
Then, one night leads to sex—sex between friends—which leads to an agreement. It all seems so simple—but nothing ever is.
Many layers build a person’s facade.
Look into the depths for what’s hidden within.
It’s more than water. It’s a story—a living and breathing substance beyond the reflective surface.
“Ow. Fuck,” I cry out in protest.
“Sorry.” His sinful mouth drops to my neck, distracting me from the recent injury. “Do you want me to get some ice?”
“Only if you’re going to get kinky with me.”
“Are you into that sort of thing?”
“Not ice. That shit’s cold.”
Foster drops us to the bed, half-falling on top of me with a mistimed and misjudged thump.
“No ice,” he confirms, righting himself a bit. “Got it.”
He removes his black frames, and I grab them from his hand before he has a chance to stash them away. I settle them over my face. The prescription on the lenses is so minor that my already drunken vision is barely distorted.
“Do I look smarter?” I ask, playfully pointing my index finger to my cheek.
Ducking his head, Foster connects his lips to the skin on my neck and then the space under my chin while slipping his hand under my blouse and over my bra-covered breast. I fumble with the hem of his shirt tucked into his pants. Then, I pull his clothing upward, and like a total amateur, I manage to get it stuck around his neck. He lets out a half-gagging, half-choking sound before rescuing me from my sloppy seductive efforts by removing the layer of fabric himself.
My hands are like magnets being drawn to his firm chest, and they connect with his comforting skin.
Skin. Skin. Skin.
Fucking sexy-as-hell and all-over-me skin.
My mouth runs along his collarbone.
He tastes good, too—a combination of man and mint.
Foster lifts my top over my head before dropping it to the bed, and then he reaches behind my back. I sit up to assist him in the effort of de-clothing me. He tugs at the hooks on my bra a few times.
“Fucking girl clothes,” he says, flustered, yanking at the force field of intimate apparel. “These damn hooks.”
“You can formulate a hydrogen bomb, but you can’t undo a bra?”
“The university doesn’t offer classes on this shit.”
“I’ll complain to the dean.”
About Renee Ericson
Originally from the Midwest, she now resides in a small town just outside of Boston with her husband and three children.
Most winters, Renee can be found on the slopes of the White Mountains skiing with her family. During the summer months, she likes to spend every spare minute at the beach soaking up the sea air. All those moments in between, she is talking to imaginary characters and caring for her children.