nc-17 | sexual content

You should be miserable, you suppose. At the very least, you should feel like a failure, because, let's face it, you are. You failed, you lost, you backed the wrong horse, and now you were unemployed. Maybe. He had mentioned something about a job with the Santos camp, but that was hours ago, before the two of you had that screaming match. Had he taken back the offer at some point? Had you accepted it in the first place? And did you even want to work for him?

(You can almost hear Josh's voice correcting you: "Not for me; with me." You're not sure the distinction would hold up if you took the job.)

So, you haven't slept in almost 24 hours, you're probably out of a job, and your throat is sore from (unfairly) calling your ex-boss a manipulative asshole. You should be miserable. You almost want to be miserable. Maybe you deserve to be miserable, considering that Josh as much as told you that you had broken his heart. You can't figure out how you could have ever thought that he was indifferent.

(There's still this little twinge of doubt that you fight to shove down, down, down.)

But you can't feel miserable with his cock inside you, stretching you, filling you. You can't feel miserable with his hands on your body, moving from your breasts to your hips and back again. You can't feel miserable with your fingers on your clit, pinching it as you move on top of him.

You came not long ago, with his head between your legs, but you want a second climax. He owes you, you think, for something.

He won't stop talking. You always thought he'd be speechless during sex, but if anything, he's more talkative. He's drawing on that impressive vocabulary of his, finding forty different ways to call your skin soft. His words alone are enough to drive you crazy, and it isn't until he says something about it that you realize you've stopped moving. You shift once, twice, three times, and then you're staring up at the ceiling, gasping as you lose control.

(And there were a million moments when the two of you were almost here, so close to this. You could have had this years ago. You're both so stupid.)

Everything gets blurry, from the force of your orgasm, you think. But then you look back down at him, and when you blink, your vision clears. There are small drops on his chest. Your face is wet. He's staring at you, concern and fear evident in his expression. Still, it isn't until you hear yourself sniffling that you realize that you're crying.

You don't know what to do, but your reflex is to run, apparently, because you find yourself crawling off him, fleeing for the bathroom. Cold water on your face doesn't do much for the blotchiness on your cheeks. When you lift your head from out of a towel, he's standing behind you. He's thrown on his underwear and a t-shirt; he hands another shirt to you and you slip it on.

(It doesn't really help, though; your mortification has little to do with your nudity.)

"So, was this bad sex, or really bad sex?" He's trying to laugh it off, but you can hear the anxiety in his voice, practically feel it radiating off him in waves.

"I'm not like this," you try to assure him, but then another tear escapes your eye. "I don't normally cry during sex. I'm not some shrinking violet or ... or ... dammit."

He finally puts his arms back around you, holding you in a tight (if somewhat awkward) embrace. "It's been a long day," he says, his breath tickling your neck. "I think you're just exhausted."

And yes, yes, yes, you will blame it on exhaustion. Months of not enough sleep, combined with the emotional rollercoaster of the past 24 hours. The next time you make love, it won't be like this.

(Assuming there is a next time. Assuming your sobbing routine didn't turn him off.)

You want to feel skin against skin again, so when you return to his bed, you take off his shirt. He pauses for a moment before following suit. Then he's on top of you, kissing you, wiping residual wetness from your cheeks. You're still not sure why you broke down; you don't feel miserable, in spite of the fact that you probably should.

His cock is limp against your thigh. You hope that's because he climaxed before you ran off. He's sucking on your neck and you're running your hands over his ass when the phone rings. He groans and reaches over you, picking up the receiver and slamming it back down.

"That could have been an emergency," you point out, but he's already returned to his task. He's discovered this sensitive spot near your collarbone. The phone rings again, and this time he leaves it off the hook once he hangs up on the caller.

"Shit," he blurts out when he lifts his head long enough to glance at the side table. "I think that was my wake up call."

You grab the alarm clock and angle it so you can see, whimpering when it confirms your suspicions.

"We shouldn't have spent all those hours arguing," he grumbles.

"If we hadn't spent all those hours arguing, you wouldn't have gotten laid."

"I don't know." He resumes his assault on your neck. "I think I could have gotten one of my groupies in bed."

"You don't have groupies anymore, Josh. They all went to grad school and started crushing on their professors."

"You're so cruel, Donnatella." He runs his hand down your body, stopping when he reaches the apex of your legs.

"Didn't you say you had an early morning meeting today?"

"We do, yes, but we've got some time."

Your breath catches in your throat; due to what he's doing to your clit or the implication of his words, you're not sure. "Josh?"


"That job offer, did you do that because you really want me working on the campaign, or are you just trying to keep me under your thumb?"

He lifts his head, his brow wrinkled. "I thought we settled this hours ago. I want you on staff because he needs you, people like you, if we're going to win this. I want you here," he says, gesturing to the bed, "because I need you."

"Josh," you whisper.

"You cry again, though, the deal's off."

Your laughter helps diffuse any tears that had been building up. He yawns, settling himself half on top of you, and before you even get a chance to suggest that he move, he's asleep.

There's a wave of claustrophobia, but it passes as suddenly as it arrives. You're not trapped here; all you'd have to do is push aside his arm and you could slip out from under him. His weight isn't suffocating you; it's warm and soft, promising many more nights like this in the future.

You feel anything but miserable.


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