Please, please note the change in rating!
I'm so disenchanted by what I've heard has been going on with the show that this story has been hijacked by St. Berry sexy times. Don't worry, I'll get it back on track ... eventually.
He's really really good at this.
She can't pinpoint what his particular expertise is, but ultimately it occurs to her that maybe that, in and of itself, is the explanation.
There's no formula in his movements that she can discern, though she expects one given the precision and perfection with which he normally approaches his performances. Instead, sometimes it's a caress, a kiss, sometimes the whisper of a touch. He takes his time with her, and he rocks her world by showing her that the navel can indeed be an erogenous zone.
Go figure. Now she's a believer.
He has finally brought her over the edge after what feels like hours of tantalizing, teasing touches when Mitra pointedly and unapologetically reenters the room, heading straight for her laptop to check her email.
Rachel is topless, but thankfully sheltered by the comforter. She lets out a squeak, climbs off Jesse and ensures that both of them are relatively well-covered.
Mitra doesn't as much as spare them a glance, and begins composing an email.
It takes a couple of seconds for Rachel to regulate her post-orgasm breathing, and having Jesse noticeably hard against her thigh doesn't exactly help, but eventually she manages to arrange the sheet, sit up, and address her roommate.
"Mitra, hey," Rachel starts, rallying all of her acting prowess to mask her irritation and sound convincingly sweet. "Can you give us a minute? Both of us need to get dressed, and, I'm sorry about earlier, but we just need a couple more minutes."
Rachel smiles in the girl's direction, thinking that the slut queen couldn't possibly argue with that, but when Mitra finally looks to her, her roommate is rolling her eyes.
"You guys have been in here for an hour," she complains, "I need to get ready for Josh's party."
Rachel is so shocked, Mitra's assertion goes without response.
Rachel looks to Jesse who she thinks is being surprisingly quiet, but he is pushing against her body, has his eyes closed, and is taking deep, steady breaths.
God, he must be in absolute torture.
Rachel feels trapped. None of their clothes are within reach, and neither of them is in a state to venture out of the protective covering of the bedsheets.
She also knows that Mitra's attitude has nothing to do with Josh's party, it's jealously likely, and the other girl won't be helpful in the least to remedy their predicament.
It does occur to her to just screw it, and continue what they had been doing before Mitra walked into the room, but she's just shy enough that it won't happen.
Jesse lets out a low groan that he tries to mask, and Rachel understands, without him saying, that he's equal parts irritated and turned on by the situation, which isn't exactly helping his problem.
Without thinking too much about it, Rachel runs a comforting hand through his hair, winding one of his curls around her little finger.
As soon as she touches him, his eyes shoot open, as if her minor touch had sent electric shockwaves through his entire body.
She has never thought of him as vulnerable before, but there is no other word to describe the look on his face.
His hips snap towards her leg, causing another wave of desire to course through her.
He's not the only one turned on anymore.
Rachel turns back towards Mitra with new determination. "Can you at least hurry the hell up?" she snaps, and Rachel is pleased she can see Mitra's surprise through her attempted mask of indifference.
It seems to work, as the girl gets up, grabs her shower stuff, a dress out of the closet, and makes her way out of the room and towards the communal showers.
Rachel turns back to Jesse and whispers. "She takes really long showers."
Jesse makes a sound that Rachel knows she won't ever be able to get out of her mind, and it's followed by a desperate, "Rach, please."
Rachel smiles indulgently at him and kisses him chastely on the lips. "I'm here."
She scrounges in the gap between her bed and the wall for the bottle of edible berry massage oil that she keeps there for well, you know, and he watches her with wide eyes as she squeezes some into her palms and rubs them together, letting the bottle fall to the bed.
Before she reaches for him, she runs the fingers of her left hand across his lips, and pops her fingers into his mouth so that he can taste for himself what she's about to.
The sound that leaves his mouth is practically criminal.
Her hands slick with oil, she grasps him firmly and starts moving both hands up and down, applying pressure and then backing off, trying to keep him in as much suspense as he had done with her earlier.
She senses that he won't be able to last much longer. (Indeed, given her past experience, it's a miracle that he's lasted this long.)
Still, she wants to taste.
She has never once initiated this – has always felt that this particular action was more of a necessary response, a tit for tat, rather than an instigation - but things have never quite worked the way she plans them with Jesse.
They shouldn't really be doing this in the first place.
She kneels by his side and drops her head to place a few, almost tentative, licks around where he's throbbing and leaking, reveling in the taste of berries mixed with… the certain je ne sais quoi that is Jesse St. James.
When she meets his eye afterward, she can't place the look on his face, but he watches her until he explodes against her chest from her ministrations, dropping back against her pillows with a loud sigh.
It's obvious that any second orgasm she might have been expecting will have to wait, because he is absolutely wiped.
She climbs off the bed and wets one of the monogrammed handtowels her fathers had bought her in the old-fashioned sink in the corner that they almost never use.
She uses it first to clean her chest, but then she sensually wipes the warm, moist towel over where he's still hypersensitive, tidying up the final remnants of their intimacy.
He moans at the hot/cold perfection of it all, and reaches for her, dragging her up to his level and planting a meaningful kiss on her lips.
She falls asleep there against his chest, and doesn't wake up until the next morning at around 4am when he brushes his lips against her temple, crawls out of bed and tells her that he has to go to work.
II.
She doesn't respond to his text messages, calls or emails for the rest of the weekend.
He literally grabs her arm as she's walking on the quad towards her French class, and she still tries to pretend that she has no idea what he's angry about.
Finally, she breaks character. "We can't ever do that again."