The Ending I Want
Page 2
Every time Benjamin and I had sex, he was too busy trying to put the condom on and put his dick in the right place to worry about giving me oral sex. And the one-night stands I had were for one reason only—for me to get off as fast as humanly possible. And I wasn’t exactly caring about how I got off, so long as I wouldn’t have to think or feel anything for that short period of time.
But I should at least have oral sex before I die. Even if it’s only one time. I don’t want to die an oral sex virgin.
Next to Have sex with a stranger outdoors, I write…
Receive oral sex.
There. That’ll do it. Next…
Dye my hair pink. Or purple. Or any cool color.
Go to a rock concert.
Get drunk.
I’ve done that one—hence the reason I ended up losing my virginity in the backseat of Benjamin Harley’s dad’s Toyota.
I put a line through that one and write next to it…
Get drunk. Get totally wasted until I vomit and pass out.
Perfect.
Get a tattoo.
Have something pierced.
Sing in public.
Dance in the rain.
Experience a true moment of romance, like they do in the movies.
Okay, that’s just plain cheesy. But, in my defense, when I wrote that, I was sixteen and thought I was going to die.
You’re twenty-two and going to die.
Romantic moment stays then. Not that it’s going to happen. Romance only happens between couples and people in love—and I’m not down for either of those things.
Do something that scares me.
Flying on this plane scares me. Does that count?
No, that sucks. I cross that out and write…
Do something that scares me. Do something that terrifies me to the point of pissing my pants.
There. Perfect.
That’s the end of my list.
Is there anything else I want to add? I press the tip of my pen to my lips.
A shadow falls over me. I pull the buds from my ears as I flick a glance to my left, and my eyes meet with a suit. A very nice black suit covering a really broad chest.
I drop my phone in my bag. Then, I remember my list, which is still visible on my lap. I turn the paper facedown and then place my hand on top of it.
In my peripheral, I see Suit Guy remove his jacket and stow it in the overhead compartment.
Hello, biceps. I can see them clearly through the shirt hugging them tightly.
Lucky shirt.
The guy clearly works out from the looks of it.
Suit Guy takes the seat beside me and turns to me with a smile on his face. I take in that face for the first time and—
Holy effing shit!
Hotness incarnate is sitting next to me.
Actual pure male hotness. All men should have been made to look like this. Seriously.
He looks like Clark Kent without the glasses, which would mean he looks like Superman—the Henry Cavill version.
Superman in a suit.
Lord, help me.
Dark brown hair with a natural wave to it. His nose has a slight bump, like it was once broken. Gorgeous eyes with the kind of long dark lashes that girls envy, perfect full lips, and tan skin.
He’s just…hot. I can’t think of another word to say—sexy, gorgeous, beautiful. Yep, he’s all of those.
I’m totally unprepared for this level of hotness—well, any kind of hotness, to be honest. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I wanted to be comfortable for traveling, and now, I want to slap myself.
I am not dressed to meet a man of his caliber, especially not now while I’m going to be seated next to said man for the next six and a half hours.
Honestly, I can’t even remember if I put on deodorant.
Oh God, please let me have put on deodorant.
I’m trying to covertly sniff my armpits when he says, “Hello,” in the most delicious British accent I’ve ever heard.
I hear a whooshing sound in my ears. I’m pretty sure it’s the sound of a hundred panties dropping on this airplane—my own included.
Not that I haven’t heard a British accent in real life before because I have. My mother was English. I’ve just never heard a male English accent before, except for on television.
And I’ve never heard his English accent.
Sex toy manufacturers should record his voice saying dirty things and put it into vibrators. They’d sell out in seconds.
“Hi.” My word comes out strangled.
He smiles again—God, he has a beautiful smile—and then he glances past me to the window.
I take advantage of the moment to eye-grope him. I mean, who wouldn’t? You don’t see many men like this every day.
He’s built and tall. His long legs barely fit in the space in front of him.
God, I want to climb him like a tree.
When I bring my eyes back to his face, he’s staring at me, and he’s smiling—an amused kind of smile because he knows I was totally checking him out.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Because I don’t care. It was totally worth getting caught just to be able to stare at him.
How the hell am I going to cope with sitting next to him for the next six hours?
My sex hormones are off the charts just from being in close proximity to him. I might need to go to the restroom and put my hand to good use just for some relief.
Or…he could be my stranger.
Now, wouldn’t that be something?
“You have to have the window shutter open on takeoff,” he tells me, nodding in the direction of the window, pulling me from my reverie.
I think I’m supposed to move to open the shutter, but I can’t seem to function like a normal human being right now because I’ve had the normal knocked out of me by this English Hottie here.
But I should at least have oral sex before I die. Even if it’s only one time. I don’t want to die an oral sex virgin.
Next to Have sex with a stranger outdoors, I write…
Receive oral sex.
There. That’ll do it. Next…
Dye my hair pink. Or purple. Or any cool color.
Go to a rock concert.
Get drunk.
I’ve done that one—hence the reason I ended up losing my virginity in the backseat of Benjamin Harley’s dad’s Toyota.
I put a line through that one and write next to it…
Get drunk. Get totally wasted until I vomit and pass out.
Perfect.
Get a tattoo.
Have something pierced.
Sing in public.
Dance in the rain.
Experience a true moment of romance, like they do in the movies.
Okay, that’s just plain cheesy. But, in my defense, when I wrote that, I was sixteen and thought I was going to die.
You’re twenty-two and going to die.
Romantic moment stays then. Not that it’s going to happen. Romance only happens between couples and people in love—and I’m not down for either of those things.
Do something that scares me.
Flying on this plane scares me. Does that count?
No, that sucks. I cross that out and write…
Do something that scares me. Do something that terrifies me to the point of pissing my pants.
There. Perfect.
That’s the end of my list.
Is there anything else I want to add? I press the tip of my pen to my lips.
A shadow falls over me. I pull the buds from my ears as I flick a glance to my left, and my eyes meet with a suit. A very nice black suit covering a really broad chest.
I drop my phone in my bag. Then, I remember my list, which is still visible on my lap. I turn the paper facedown and then place my hand on top of it.
In my peripheral, I see Suit Guy remove his jacket and stow it in the overhead compartment.
Hello, biceps. I can see them clearly through the shirt hugging them tightly.
Lucky shirt.
The guy clearly works out from the looks of it.
Suit Guy takes the seat beside me and turns to me with a smile on his face. I take in that face for the first time and—
Holy effing shit!
Hotness incarnate is sitting next to me.
Actual pure male hotness. All men should have been made to look like this. Seriously.
He looks like Clark Kent without the glasses, which would mean he looks like Superman—the Henry Cavill version.
Superman in a suit.
Lord, help me.
Dark brown hair with a natural wave to it. His nose has a slight bump, like it was once broken. Gorgeous eyes with the kind of long dark lashes that girls envy, perfect full lips, and tan skin.
He’s just…hot. I can’t think of another word to say—sexy, gorgeous, beautiful. Yep, he’s all of those.
I’m totally unprepared for this level of hotness—well, any kind of hotness, to be honest. I’m dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I wanted to be comfortable for traveling, and now, I want to slap myself.
I am not dressed to meet a man of his caliber, especially not now while I’m going to be seated next to said man for the next six and a half hours.
Honestly, I can’t even remember if I put on deodorant.
Oh God, please let me have put on deodorant.
I’m trying to covertly sniff my armpits when he says, “Hello,” in the most delicious British accent I’ve ever heard.
I hear a whooshing sound in my ears. I’m pretty sure it’s the sound of a hundred panties dropping on this airplane—my own included.
Not that I haven’t heard a British accent in real life before because I have. My mother was English. I’ve just never heard a male English accent before, except for on television.
And I’ve never heard his English accent.
Sex toy manufacturers should record his voice saying dirty things and put it into vibrators. They’d sell out in seconds.
“Hi.” My word comes out strangled.
He smiles again—God, he has a beautiful smile—and then he glances past me to the window.
I take advantage of the moment to eye-grope him. I mean, who wouldn’t? You don’t see many men like this every day.
He’s built and tall. His long legs barely fit in the space in front of him.
God, I want to climb him like a tree.
When I bring my eyes back to his face, he’s staring at me, and he’s smiling—an amused kind of smile because he knows I was totally checking him out.
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Because I don’t care. It was totally worth getting caught just to be able to stare at him.
How the hell am I going to cope with sitting next to him for the next six hours?
My sex hormones are off the charts just from being in close proximity to him. I might need to go to the restroom and put my hand to good use just for some relief.
Or…he could be my stranger.
Now, wouldn’t that be something?
“You have to have the window shutter open on takeoff,” he tells me, nodding in the direction of the window, pulling me from my reverie.
I think I’m supposed to move to open the shutter, but I can’t seem to function like a normal human being right now because I’ve had the normal knocked out of me by this English Hottie here.
