Amber was all smiles and near-laughter, sated with orgasm and the prospect of teasing, and maybe even satisfying Eric in return. But her mirth drained as Eric rubbed his hands vigorously against the napkin as if he were removing oily gunk from some undesirable source, like his car's engine. Her heart started to pound again while he zipped up and packed himself away. The whole time, he wouldn't meet her eyes. I can't, not here.
That first morning after, too, Eric had turned away from her. She now knew the reason why: he'd just realized they both worked for House, and was, in an automatic reaction, giving up what-- who-- he thought he couldn't have.
There was something to be said, though, to the fact that Amber always ended up feeling filthy after having sex with him.
Neatly-- or as much as possible-- cleaned up, Eric turned tail and ran. Amber seethed, jaw hurting from how tight she clenched it. If he hadn't wanted to do this, he could've said so. A simple "no" and she'd have stopped. He shouldn't have egged her on, shouldn't have let her foot him into an erection, shouldn't have fucking made her come.
If she wanted to feel dirty and shamed after sex, she’d do so. But she was Amber fucking Volakis and she did what she liked. No one here had been hurt by what they’d done, and if anything, they’d profited. They’d have a story to tell. 'Once, in a restaurant, can you believe,' they could start in scandalized tones, thrilled that they’d experienced, even if only vicariously, something so exciting. People paid for taped porn, and she and Eric had given a live performance. For free. They hadn’t done anything wrong, and she refused to feel like they had. Except that tuck-his-business-into-his-pants-and-slink-away had made her self-conscious. How, if they enjoyed themselves so much with each other, did she always end up feeling like a cheap prostitute?
No. No, she wouldn't let him do this to her, ruin what had been great with guilt and embarrassment and fucking shame. Amber drained what remained of her wine, its bitterness only curdling her mouth, wiped her mouth, and got to her feet, her chair clattering behind her. She strode to the bathroom, where Eric was jerking off or hiding until his raging hard-on went away or who knew what.
What she'd do there, yell at him or ravish him until he blew his too-sacred-for-public-viewing load, his puritan ways notwithstanding, she didn't know, but sit alone stewing in her misery, she wouldn't. She pressed down on the bathroom doorknob. "It's me," Amber declared.
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That first morning after, too, Eric had turned away from her. She now knew the reason why: he'd just realized they both worked for House, and was, in an automatic reaction, giving up what-- who-- he thought he couldn't have.
There was something to be said, though, to the fact that Amber always ended up feeling filthy after having sex with him.
Neatly-- or as much as possible-- cleaned up, Eric turned tail and ran. Amber seethed, jaw hurting from how tight she clenched it. If he hadn't wanted to do this, he could've said so. A simple "no" and she'd have stopped. He shouldn't have egged her on, shouldn't have let her foot him into an erection, shouldn't have fucking made her come.
If she wanted to feel dirty and shamed after sex, she’d do so. But she was Amber fucking Volakis and she did what she liked. No one here had been hurt by what they’d done, and if anything, they’d profited. They’d have a story to tell. 'Once, in a restaurant, can you believe,' they could start in scandalized tones, thrilled that they’d experienced, even if only vicariously, something so exciting. People paid for taped porn, and she and Eric had given a live performance. For free. They hadn’t done anything wrong, and she refused to feel like they had. Except that tuck-his-business-into-his-pants-and-slink-away had made her self-conscious. How, if they enjoyed themselves so much with each other, did she always end up feeling like a cheap prostitute?
No. No, she wouldn't let him do this to her, ruin what had been great with guilt and embarrassment and fucking shame. Amber drained what remained of her wine, its bitterness only curdling her mouth, wiped her mouth, and got to her feet, her chair clattering behind her. She strode to the bathroom, where Eric was jerking off or hiding until his raging hard-on went away or who knew what.
What she'd do there, yell at him or ravish him until he blew his too-sacred-for-public-viewing load, his puritan ways notwithstanding, she didn't know, but sit alone stewing in her misery, she wouldn't. She pressed down on the bathroom doorknob. "It's me," Amber declared.