Page 91 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
I look at her. I keep my eyes on her face, on those jewel-green eyes with those long lashes, on her upturned nose and wide mouth.
“I know,” she says. She says it like a benediction and a confession also. “I know.”
She’s riding me and I’m dying and she is looking at me with every version of herself—the brat, the lioness, the good girl—all of it is in her eyes and her face, all of herself, and I know that I could spend a thousand years with each version of her and still not get enough, and still need more, and maybe she seesthaton my face, because she says, in a strange, bewildered kind of voice, “It’s never felt like this.”
And then she jerks forward, her hot cunt clamping down on my length like divine vengeance, an act of God, and I grab her waist, brace my heels, and start fucking up into her with every minute’s worth of denied frustration, with every day’s and week’s worth of longing and need. I fuck her like I’ll die if I don’t; I fuck her like I’ve never even heard the wordgood.
I fuck her like I love her.
And then with her still orgasming around me, the climax catches fire, burning me from within, searing up my cock and exploding as I start unloading pulse after pulse deep into her pussy, every jet of semen coming with a rush of pleasure so intense that static fuzzes around her, that my fingers are going numb and tingling.
It’s never felt like this.
It’s never felt like this.
My ears are fucking ringing.
Her green eyes are the only thing in the world.
I’m spilling into her body, each surge coming with a hard thrust from underneath, my orgasm leaking out around us as I stab up into the tight kiss of her cunt over and over and her hands scrabble at my chest as her head falls forward and she shudders and shudders until we—finally—both go slack.
I’m still seeing sparks.
Maddie collapses onto my chest, warm and quiescent, and I stroke her back with fingers that have yet to fully regain circulation.
“Good boy.” She sighs happily, and a rush of satisfaction floods through me. No wonder she likes being called a good girl. It feels fucking great.
I keep stroking along her spine, enjoying her little shivers since I’m still deep in her body. “What you said earlier,” I start. But I’m not sure how to finish.
“Mmm?” She nuzzles my chest and snuggles in closer.
“When you said that it’s never felt like this... it’s the same for me. Which is strange to say with having been married before, but that was different, and this is different, and I want—I want...”
I don’t know what to say next without terrifying her. Without running roughshod over all the rules we agreed to.
I finally settle on: “I want this, Madelyn. I want all of this.”
“I know.” It’s a murmur against my chest, dozy, sweet. Like she’s agreeing with me.
“You’re growing all over me. Like wisteria. Like—” I smile even though she can’t see it. “Like jasmine.”
And it’s a bad idea to murmur the rest, but I don’t stop myself, I won’t, because she is right, she is right. It’s never felt like this. “I want to keep you, Madelyn. Let me keep you. Let me water you and feed you and move you into the sun. Let me...”
I don’t quite have the courage to finish the last sentence, though.
Let me love you.
Let me love you.
But maybe I don’t need to. Maddie props herself up to look at me, her hair tousled to hell and back, her cheeks still flushed. Her pupils are big and there’s a softness to her face that I rarely see. “You’d be a good gardener of me, Bram,” she says. Her voice is full of something, and I can’t quite name it, but it feels fragile and hopeful, and it makes my heart beat twice as fast underneath her.
I love her. I love her, and this, whatever this is, is the only thing I’ve ever had just for myself, and she is the only person I’ve ever let have all of me—my attention and my friendship and my care and my carnality. My darknesses and worries and certainties and the joys closest to my heart, and I want everything of hers in return, and I’ll nurture it, all of it, the thorns, the carnivorous parts, the clever, seeking roots. The sweet, silky petals that bloom only under the right touch.
And yes, I’d be a good gardener of her, but she’s already the best gardener of me, the only one I ever want.
“It’s just as well,” she says, closing her eyes, “because I suck at gardening. I can’t keep a plant alive to save my life.”
“Everyone can keep something alive,” I tell her, a fond amusement curling around all the other emotions blooming in my chest. “Even a preschooler can keep an aloe plant happy.”
