Haymitch is avoiding Effie. For the last ten days, he's done a very good job of it. He's left early for work everyday and he's stayed at Twelve until closing every night. When he finally drags his weary ass home, he should feel triumphant because there's a pink sticky note on his door reminding him to come upstairs and pick up his taxes, punctuated with four exclamation marks. He's missed her again.
The only problem is that he can't feel triumphant because he actually does miss her. He never would have helped her and her friend carry that couch upstairs if he'd have known just how quickly she would insinuate herself into his life. He'd just been hoping for a beer or a handjob. Before he realized what was happening and before he could stop it, she was doing his taxes and helping him research a loan to buy the construction company from Chaff. And he was regularly at her place fixing things and bringing her actual food to eat; otherwise, he's pretty sure that she would have starved to death on a diet of microgreens and kombucha.
To make matters worse, they've been slipping closer and closer to intimacy and he can't seem to stop the slide. It's her fault of course. She's always touching him, sliding her arm through his at the fourth of July block party, huddling next to him on the roof for Beetee's eclipse viewing party, peppering his jaw with kisses on New Year's, and kissing him on Saint Patty's. And he's always telling her stupid shit about how much he misses his mother at Christmas, or how he saw a kid who looked just like his brother and like the asshole he is, he cries on her shirt and probably fucking ruins it. They even slept together once on his couch; after a night of going over his finances, she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder amidst piles of pay stubs and he obviously couldn't move without waking her and before he knew it, his alarm was going off and she was half laying on top of him. And if he doesn't fucking cut shit out with her right now, she is going to try to stay and somehow, he'll hurt her, and he could forgive himself anything but that.
He knows it's safe to go down to the row of mailboxes, because she's always at the PR firm where she works until seven or eight. Just as he's sliding his key into his mailbox, the front door opens and it's Effie looking windblown and tired. He yanks the key out of the box and turns to leave without taking the mail. "Haymitch," she calls after him, "Haymitch, wait!"
And he shouldn't. But he does. He feels the blush start at the top of his ears even before she stops next to him. "Hello, Haymitch," she says.
"Hey, sweetheart," he says, trying to sound nonchalant. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her reach for him but stop before her fingers can touch his arm.
"How are you?" she asks. He shrugs and tries to let the conversation start to die an agonizing death.
But Effie won't let well enough alone. "Haymitch, I want to apologize. I know it's terribly bad manners to apologize like this but I know I did something wrong to make you avoid me and I want to apologize and ask for the chance to make things right," she says. "I miss you. If this is about the other night…"
The other night. Christ, how could he have forgotten that? They'd gotten drunk off their asses and she'd stolen Miss Wiress' phone and slipped it into Beetee's pocket. Then Effie had kindly offered to call the woman's phone and somehow they had both managed to look shocked that Beetee would take her phone. Beetee had apologized, red cheeked and stuttering, but Miss Wiress had blushed too. Effie had collapsed, giggling, against Haymitch and whispered, "Take me home an-and fuck me, Haymitch." She had barely been able to stand, and had leaned heavily on him on the way to his truck, the heat spreading from her body to his like a wildfire. She had filled the drive with a drunken lecture on the importance of mahogany, and how amazeballs his thighs looked in jeans. On the threshold of her apartment, she had rested her head on his chest and began to nuzzle him, asking if he would take her home because she wanted to take him to bed. He wanted to sleep with her. Half the reason he'd helped with that damned couch in the first place was for the chance to sleep with her.
But she had been too drunk and too tired to take to bed. She'd even been too drunk to kiss. So he had unlocked her door and tucked her into bed. "I still wanna, you know." She had pointed at his crotch. "Suck you off. You don't even have to stay after. I can cuddle myself," she had said, reaching for him. He had taken her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as her breathing slowed. He had returned home and touched himself as he thought of all the other things that pale little hand could've done if she had only stopped a few kir royals earlier.
"It's not," he snaps. She rests her hand on his arm.
"Do you want to tell me what I did?" she asks, squeezing gently.
He lets out a long breath and then says, "You didn't do anything. It's me. I'm all fucked up. I saw this thing."
There's a moment of silence. Then she says, "A thing? What thing, Haymitch?"
"It's stupid," he replies, looking at his feet.
"It's not stupid if it upset you this much," she says. Another moment passes then she sighs. "What did you see?" He stomps his foot and runs his hand through his hand.
"You want to know what I saw?" he snaps. He wishes that she would just leave him alone. His text notification chimes. He wishes that everyone would leave him alone.
"Yes, that's exactly what I want," she replies, throwing her hands up.
"Fine," he says, moving so their faces are inches apart, "I saw a girl who looks like you in a fucking porn. Okay?"
She looks confused. "Okay. Why is that a problem?" she asks slowly, as if she's trying to tease out the significance of what he's said. "Do you think I do porn on the weekends?"
"No," he says a little too quickly. "I mean, it's none of my business if you do. But when I see you," he takes a step back, "I think of-of the…." He lets the sentence die there.
She blushes and says, "You think of porn when you see me?" He nods and she laughs. He pulls back a little, unsure as to why she's laughing at him. "It's kind of flattering. I mean, you...they're supposed to be pretty, right? If you think she looks like me, then that means you think I'm pretty, right?" He shrugs.
"You know you're pretty," he replies but his voice is too soft.
"Well thanks, I guess. Look, Haymitch, I just want to know that we're okay. Are we okay?" she asks with a hopeful little smile. He nods and tries not to tense up too much when she hugs him.
He avoids her for four more days and even skips a party at Finnick's so that they don't run into each other. He's still slogging through a New Yorker article about the influence of communism on West African architecture and listening to the deafening silence as no one texts him and Effie's newest favorite band isn't on the speakers when he hears Effie's door open and shut and her heels on the linoleum floor. She knocks on his door and he considers pretending to be gone or asleep. Surely if he doesn't answer the door, she'll just go away. She knocks again. Of course she won't make this easy and go away. He'll never get that fucking lucky.
He throws the magazine away in disgust and opens the door to find Effie glassy eyed on the other side. "I want you to show me," she says firmly. He's never had a conversation with her that didn't begin with a greeting and a how-are-you. It takes him a moment to recover.
"Show you? Show you what?" he asks as she pushes past him. The first time she'd invited herself in, he had fought hard against the tide of embarrassment that washed over him when she had seen his couch with the 70s floral pattern from Goodwill and the battered coffee table. But she had oohed and ahhed over everything like she'd never seen goddamned furniture before. Then she had whipped out her phone and taken a picture of light streaming through his window onto his coffee table and posted it to Instagram. (Instagram, he has since learned, is an app that lets her share pictures of dumb shit with other people who like to look at pictures of dumb shit like someone's breakfast or a red leaf in August or Effie's cheek smashed against his. He supposes most people follow Effie because she's beautiful and occasionally posts pictures of herself in nothing but a sports bra and yoga pants looking like she's just had a decent fuck with a caption like, "Sweat like a pig, look like a fox," and some of those little animal picture emojis.) She had made him feel like something special that day and he had wished that he knew how to do the same for her. But the occasion never seemed to arise.
"The porn," she replies, perching on the edge of the couch with her ridiculously large bag clutched to her chest.
Haymitch tries his best not to feel embarrassed but he can feel the heat in his cheeks. "We're not watching porn together," he says, quickly shutting the door, lest the downstairs neighbors hear what she's saying.
"Well, I think we should," she says, turning a delicate gold ring on her finger. "I think we should watch it. I'll tell you all the ways that she doesn't look like me and then this can be over. I want us to be friends again. Do you have any idea how terrible it is to watch Beetee try to get up the courage to talk to Miss Wiress? Because I'm going to tell you right now, it was painful and if you'd been there, we could've made it into a game or something."
"Friends?" he asks.
She laughs and says, "Well what else would you call us? What do you call the people you see everyday and text everyday and go to parties with?"
Something other than friends, because friends don't fill up every damned corner of his life. They don't feed him and keep him company at all hours saying that it is okay because it has been years since they have slept through a night too. Friends don't help him buy a phone and show up at lunch to take pictures for all his contacts. Friends don't cut down on their drinking when he does as a show of solidarity. Friends don't buy each other expensive gifts just because something reminds them of him. Friends don't let him press them into their front door and kiss them so deep and hard that he thinks he might come just from the kissing. No, friends is the wrong word to describe their relationship. Even if she'd only peeked the inside of his bedroom once ("Matress on the bare floor with white sheets spilling onto the floor is so Kinfolk, I can't even cope," she had said as he steered her away from the bedroom to the bathroom), he thinks that maybe some stupid-ass word like "lovers" or "partners" better describes the level of attachment and intimacy they have.
Instead of saying any of that he just rolls his eyes and says, "I'm not going to watch porn with you."
"Okay, Plan B is: I google 'blonde' and 'porn' and just start watching videos here on your couch until I come across the right one," she says, taking her phone out of her bag.
"Effie," he says as her fingers tap furiously on the small screen.
"Hmm?" she replies, tapping on a video, "It'll take a second to load. The reception is crap in here. You can just barely use my WiFi."
He clears his throat and says her name again. She looks up at him for a second then back at the phone as some cheesy music starts to play. "Now, you can't possibly think this girl looks like me. You've seen me in a swimsuit. You know I don't look anything like this," she says holding her phone up so that he can see a woman with platinum blonde hair-wrong shade, Effie's looks like honey-and painfully large implants undoing some man's trousers.
"No, that's not it," he says.
"Thought not," she replies, "I'm practically a boy on top so…" She lets that sentence trail off and starts to load another one.
He groans. "You don't look like any boy I know," he says. She flashes him a smile and holds her phone up as a woman with yellow hair and an ill-fitting suit makes eyes at a man who is supposed to be some kind of suit but has a gage in his ear. "It's not that one either."
Effie makes a noise of assent and goes back to scrolling through videos. He wants to say something but he doesn't have the first idea of what could salvage this situation. "How many guys were in the video?" she asks. "Because this next one is a gang bang kind of thing and I just don't see you being into that." She looks up at him and kind of smiles. "Not that I'm trying to kink shame you in your own home or anything."
He stares at her for a second then he says, "Fuck this," and grabs his jacket. "I'm going out."
"Okay!" she replies brightly, "I'll be right here when you get back. I'll just load a ton of videos and you can just swipe through them when you come back. Is it okay if I steal some of the juice I left in your fridge?"
"Fuck," he says and throws his jacket on the floor. Effie gives him a disapproving look and it's about all he can take. "You wanna watch the fucking porn. We'll fucking watch it."
"Good," she replies. "Because it would've taken forever to get through all the porn on the internet." He storms off to his bedroom to get his tablet. He returns to the living room where Effie has set her purse aside and her phone is tucked between her knees as she waits. He sits down next to her and goes to his favorites and opens the video.
"You favorited it?" she asks but her voice is different, more high pitched and a little strained. He doesn't reply.
The video loads and he wipes his free hand on his jeans as the couple on the screen sit on the couch together. The husband is wearing dirty jeans and a flannel shirt like Haymitch wears most days. The wife, in his opinion, looks like Effie-pale skin, some freckles on her shoulders, honey blonde hair, a huge smile, and ridiculous fucking heels. The couple on the screen kiss passionately and the frame shakes a little when his leg hits the table. It's clear that the video is either homemade or made to look like it. But when he cradles her face in his hands and looks at her with a ghost of a smile on his lips, Haymitch believes that it might be an actual couple.
Haymitch switches his tablet into his other hand and wipes the hand that had been holding the tablet on his jeans. As the blonde slowly unbuckles her husband's belt, he glances at Effie. She's watching silently but her right hand is curled into a fist and her thumb nail is pushed against her lips. He has the most absurd impulse to grab her hand so that she doesn't start to chew on her cuticles because she thinks it ruins her hands. But instead, he keeps rubbing his hand on his thigh.
On the video, the man is murmuring praise as the woman sucks his dick and Haymitch feels his cock jump against the the fabric of his jeans. He takes a steadying breath and then almost jumps out of his skin when Effie places a hand on his shoulder. She doesn't look at him. Her eyes stay on the screen as the man guides the blonde's face away from his dick and pulls her up over him. Haymitch's throat feels tight as he swallows, and his breathing is becoming faster and shallow, despite his best efforts. The woman on screen lets out a breathy laugh and he hears Effie's breath catch. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that her breathing is rapid and shallow too. She wiggles in place and licks her lips as the woman on the screen guides the man into her.
As the woman rocks her hips against him, the man starts to say-no, it's more like a chant, really-, "I love you." The woman dips her head down to kiss his neck and he starts to rub her clit. Effie's breathing next to him is stuttering as the man's words become staccato and the woman rides him to their completion. When the two on the screen are done, she lays on his chest and peppers it with kisses. Then she looks up at him and he tenderly tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I love you," he says and they share a brief kiss. "Love you more," she murmurs against the man's chest. And then the screen turns black and the video shrinks from full screen mode. He sets the tablet down without a word.
The room is too quiet without the video. Their breathing is ragged and Haymitch is careful not to look at her. Effie clears her throat and says, "Her eyes are the wrong color. Not that I expected you to notice because she's not a surfboard, so you probably weren't looking at them." He just grunts in response because he can't very well say what he is actually thinking. He can't say that he didn't know until this moment that it wasn't her hair or her smile that reminded him of Effie, not really. It was the way she touched him, the way she made him feel. And it was the way the man looked at her, like he'd found something he'd lost, that made him think of himself.
"That was actually very sweet. I don't know what I was expecting but it wa-not that. I kind of thought that you'd show me something really weird just to prove a point." There is a beat of silence. Then she says, "Is that what you want, Haymitch?"
The words hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. Suddenly, it's hard to suck air in and he feels hot and dizzy. Is it what he wants? He can't remember anyone asking him that kind of question before Effie. Usually, he just does his best with what has. He tries not to want anything because he knows he will never get it.
Her hand lands on his leg and it's so hot that he swears it's burning him. "It's okay to want that, Haymitch," she murmurs, slowly running her hand over his thigh. He closes his eyes tightly and his stomach burns and twists with desire. He doesn't want to say yes. He doesn't want to ruin what he has with Effie, the intimacy he has with Effie. If they have sex, he's going to fuck it up and she's going to leave.
Effie leans over and kisses the point where his pulse hits right below his jaw. A shiver passes over him and he puts his hand on her back, fingers spread wide over the soft fabric of her shift. He can feel the heat radiating from her body through the thin cloth as she cradles his cheek in one hand and wraps her other arm around his back. Effie trails kisses down his neck slowly, then back up. She follows the kisses with the light scrape of her teeth against his pulse and he groans. He grabs her knee and pulls her closer, and her phone clatters to the floor, startling him.
"It's okay, it's just my phone," she says, her lips moving against his neck. She drops the hand on his back to play with the hem of his shirt, slowly pulling it up. "Help me get this off of you," she says. He stops for a moment and then she says, "It's okay. I've already seen it." She drops her hand down to rub the scar on his belly.
He knows that she's seen it a hundred times since the first time he answered the door without a shirt at two in the morning but he still hates the scar. Hates that she has to see it. Hates to think about how it got there and all of the pain it still causes him.
He helps her take off the shirt all the same. Her smile is fond as she runs her hands down his chest. She inhales deeply and says, "God, you always smell so good." He doesn't always smell good, especially not after work or a night of heavy drinking. But it's hard to remember how to formulate sentences when her nails are scratching against his nipples.
Her fingers reach his jeans and hesitate there for a moment. She runs her index finger over the button and asks, "What do you want, Haymitch?"
"You." The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it. A little whimper escapes her lips and she brushes her fingers over his scar briefly.
"I'm going to make this so good for you, Haymitch," she says, popping open the button to his jeans. He wants to tell her that there's no way that she could make it bad. That the barest touch of hers sets his skin on fire and his stomach to churning. She could get up of the couch and go home and she would've already made it good for him.
He can just hear the sound of her dragging the zipper down slowly over the blood rushing in his ears. He lifts his hips at her prompting and she slides his jeans and his boxers off and after a moment's hesitation, she tosses them to the side. He hisses as the cool air hits his cock. He's aching as she takes him into her hand and runs her thumb over a pulsing vein. He's not sure what he should do. Just laying there doesn't seem like enough.
"Is this okay? Is this what you want?" she asks, slowly raising her eyes to meet his. His gut clenches as he looks into her eyes and nods. "Okay," she replies, pressing a kiss to the base of his cock. She kisses her way to his tip and there's this bit of dried skin on her bottom lip that scratches a little with each gentle touch of her lips, and it makes it hard for him to keep his hips on the couch. When she reaches his head, she licks his slit and teases his sensitive foreskin. She leans forward and takes him into her mouth, her hair falling in her face.
He cards his hands in her soft hair so it won't get in her way. She stiffens and he says, "Just so it don't get in your way." She hums in assent and his eyes nearly roll back into his head as the vibrations travel straight to his core. She chuckles and little puffs of hot air hit his stomach as she takes all of him into her mouth. "Effie," he moans, rubbing circles on her scalp with his thumbs. She starts bobbing her head slowly, coating his dick with her saliva. As she pulls her head back, the cool air on his wet cock gives him goosebumps and his eyelids flutter closed.
He struggles to open his eyes and when he does, he can see her looking up at him with her mouth curved into a smile as she works his length. He moans her name again and she picks up the pace, curling one hand around his hip and the other around his base. The sound of him moving in and out of her mouth is wet and fucking obscene. His breathing is ragged and he means to tell her that he's close but instead those words come tumbling out from somewhere deep inside of him. "I love you."
She stops moving and takes him out of her mouth. He knows that she's going to leave. It's one thing to fuck him, but feelings are another thing altogether. His cock is bobbing between them as she reaches up to frame his face with her hands. She kisses him, deep and slow. He can taste himself on her lips as he flicks his tongue across them. She slips her tongue along his and he groans. Their tongues tangle and his lungs are on fire as she draws the breath out of him.
Breaking the kiss, she crawls off of him and says, "I'm going to get a condom from my bag. Is that okay, Haymitch?" He nods mutely. She walks over to her bag and and bends at the hips to dig a condom out of her bag. He licks his lips at the sight of her and imagines taking her that way, bent over, her soft ass against him.
Instead, he stands up and walks over to her. He rests his hand on her hip and says, "We should go into the bedroom."
She straightens up, turns towards him and frowns. "Why?"
"Because we have the time," he says, leaning in slowly for a kiss. She leans into him, pressing her lips hard against him. Her hand brushes against his and he tangles his fingers in hers and she pulls away slightly.
"I was just trying to give you the condom," she says haltingly. His cheeks burn red and he takes the condom from her. "But we can hold hands if you'd like."
He can't even look at her when he says, "That's okay. Maybe later." He jerks his head towards the bedroom and follows her in. He turns on the light but she makes a sound of protest. He frowns at her.
"You should just leave it off. There's really not much to look at," she says, playing with the hem of her dress. Haymitch knows that he deserves all the credit in the world for not laughing at her right there. He leaves the light on and crosses the room. Hesitantly, he reaches out and strokes her arm with the back of his hand. She shivers under the touch and closes her eyes as she lets out a ragged breath.
He swallows hard and says, "There's everything to look at for me." He slips his hand into hers and kisses her again. He knows where she got that idea. He knows about her mother's constant criticism and her father's indifference. But he's a little hurt that she doesn't realize that he's different. That he wouldn't have said that thing if he weren't interested in her.
Reaching down, he touches at the hem of her dress and she puts her arms up so that he can pull it over her head. He's a little surprised by her plain, white lace underwear. He had caught glimpses in the bathroom and in accidental glances down her shirt of strange strappy things and cutouts and riots of color.
"If I had thought this through a little, I would've worn something sexier," she says, biting her lip.
He gives a little frown and says, "Looks good on you. I think it'd look better on the floor though." She laughs and gives his shoulder a little push.
"We'd better finish up fast. You're going to have to have that come on back to the old folk's home soon," she teases. She does that thing she always does when she tells a joke-she kind of tenses up and holds her breath until he laughs. Then she exhales a laugh and gives him the sort of smile that could light the Tennessee sky.
He kisses her as the laughter dies on his lips and reaches down to grab her ass because he's always wanted to touch it but has never had an opportunity before all of this. As she massages her tongue against his, he has a moment of panic about what this is, about having said that thing to her. But then she grinds her hips against him and he forgets to be worried. The world seems to have narrowed to the rasp of lace against his shaft, the smell of her and their breath mingling in the silence of his bedroom.
She reaches back and unhooks her bra, shrugging it off. It dangles for a moment from her fingers before he tears it away and tosses it against the wall. She shivers and shimmies like she's never done anything so wanton before. Her eyes are dark as she threads her fingers through his hair and nudges his face towards her breast.
Since he's known her, he's heard her complain about how small her breasts are, and make aborted plans to get implants. But seeing her now, he can't imagine why she ever thought she'd need altering. She's not exactly Christina Hendricks, but as he takes her breast in his mouth, he thinks that if she's got more than he can fit in his mouth, she's got more than enough for him. She makes a surprised little gasp and scratches her manicure against his scalp. He wishes that he had finished on the couch because if she keeps making those little noises, he's going to come all over her pale belly before she's out of her panties.
He swirls his tongue around her nipple and grazes it with his teeth. He watches her chew on her lip as he moves to her other breast. She opens her mouth and instead of a moan, a laugh comes out. He jerks back and asks, "I do something funny?"
She laughs breathlessly and says, "You'll think it's stupid." He grunts in response and she gives him a look that says that she'd roll her eyes if her mama hadn't raised her better. "All the times I imagined...this, it was over so fast. I didn't think you'd take the time. And I'm in your room and…." He frowns because it almost sounds like she's disappointed. He's ready to fuck her up against the wall if that's what she wants. "Haymitch," she says, giving his hair a little tug, "I like it. Everything you're doing feels...perfect." He makes a little sound in the back of his throat and he nudges her back into the bed.
There's never been anything more perfect than Effie Trinket in his bed, propped up on her elbows, hair a mess, lipstick smeared, bare chested in little white panties. He reaches down and gives her underwear a tug. She lifts her hips so that he can slide them down her legs. He crumples them up in one hand and he can feel the dampness and heat from her cunt on them. He tosses them aside and slides a hand from her knee down to her thigh. She squirms a little under his touch but her mouth is still smiling like she has some kind of secret.
He trails kisses down her warm skin, circling her belly button with his tongue and making her laugh. He nips a little above her pubic bone and she giggles, running her fingers through his hair. He kisses her labia and sucks them as she starts to rotate her hips under him. Spreading her labia, he licks her inner lips up to her clit. He takes a deep breath, and then he sucks her clit into his mouth. She cries out and throws her leg over his shoulder, grinding hard against him. He grabs her hips, pulls her closer to him and sucks harder. Her wetness soaks his stubble as he changes position, rising up so he can slip a finger into her hot cunt. He curls his finger slightly and drags it until he feels a rough patch of skin; he rubs it with the pad of his finger and she chokes out a sob. He adds another finger and begins pumping as her cunt clenches around his fingers and her juices start to trickle down his arm.
She tugs on his hair and he smiles against her, thrusting his fingers harder inside of her. "Haymitch, stop," she pants. He freezes and looks up at her, absolutely terrified of what she's going to say next. "I want you inside of me." He's already anticipating a dozen cutting, dismissive things she could say, so this throws him for a loop. He stays there for a moment then her words sink into his bones and he's on fire from the inside out.
He crawls on top of her and without thinking, he kisses her deeply. He wonders for a fraction of a second if she'll be disgusted by the taste of herself on his lips. But she just pulls him closer. Her hands run up and down his back as he grabs blindly for the condom that's somewhere on the sheets. He grasps the foil packet and tears it in two, rolling the condom over his cock and pinching the tip while they break for air. He hesitates for a moment above her, ready to stop, when she says, "Is this what you want?" and takes ahold of him.
His throat is dry and he chokes when he swallows but he manages to croak, "Yes." Then she guides him into her, raising her hips to meet him. When he had been between her legs, he'd almost forgotten how fucking hard and aching he was. Her tightness alleviates some of the throbbing but he wants to move in her so badly, he can almost taste it. She starts to rotate and grind her hips against him even before her internal muscles have adjusted to him. She's making these little whimpering noises that make his cock jump as he drops his hand and starts to rub her clit. Her muscles relax enough for him to move, so he starts with slow, shallow thrusts. He buries his face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent as he tries to pace himself. She feels like heaven, she feels so much better than his hand and his dreams.
They move slowly in concert with one another until she sits up and grabs his ass, pulling him towards her roughly. He's not sure what she wants until she gasps, "Harder, Haymitch." She looks at him from under hooded lids, her eyes black. He pushes deep into her, as hard as he can. She digs her nails into him as he pulls back and grabs her thigh, hooking her knee on his elbow so that he goes deeper with every thrust. They find their rhythm together, only their panting and moans asynchronous. With a harsh cry, she arches against him and clenches down hard. She bats his hand away from her clit as her hips jerk against his. He moans loudly and increases the pace until his vision flashes white and something deep in his gut unspools. He collapses next to her feeling completely undone.
As his breathing slows, he feels her fingers brush against the base of his cock, making his thighs spasm. She laughs a little as she rolls the condom off of him and ties it off. "I'm going to go, you know," she says, gesturing towards the bathroom.
"Stay," he says, fighting the urge to sleep.
She laughs again, "I'm not leaving. I'm just not going to get a UTI so that we can cuddle. I'll be back." She climbs out of bed and he watches her shapely ass disappear around the corner.
He crawls under the covers, wincing as he realizes that he might actually have to wash his sheets in the morning. Worth it, he thinks, pulling back the sheets to make room for Effie. The toilet flushes and the sink turns on and his heart thumps hard in his chest. He considers pretending to be asleep so that he doesn't have to speak to Effie. He's not sure what he's supposed to say now that he's fucked his best friend. Although, he has to own that he thinks he did a pretty good job of it.
Effie comes back into the room cautiously. She picks up her panties but cringes when she touches the fabric. "I should go get something clean to wear," she says, folding the underwear and grabbing her dress.
"Fuck that," he replies, "Come to bed. There's no dress code." She gives him an exasperated look but she puts down her clothes and lays down next to him. He covers her with the blanket even though he's burning up.
"So, I guess you'll be avoiding me more now, huh? Probably just upped the awkwardness factor by like a hundred," she says, looking at the ceiling.
"At least you didn't say that you loved me," he replies, turning towards her.
She tenses for a second then says, "I've told you that I love you a hundred times."
He flops on his back. "It's not the same," he says.
There's a pause. "You don't think so?" she replies. Her voice is thick like she's about to cry. He's not sure what to do with his body.
So he says it again. "I love you, Effie." Time expands and every second feels like a decade. Another decade alone, spent pushing people away until Effie's fingers touch his own under the covers.
"Love you more," she says, giving his hand a squeeze.