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Why can’t he just accept my response?
I’m tempted to write him an email that will make him feel like an idiot, but I won’t. There’s no sense in trying to explain something to someone who thinks of you only in terms of sex.
Pissed, I close the laptop and decide to do my laundry.
When I start sorting the dirty clothes, I run into the underwear Eric ripped off me. I close my eyes and sigh.
I open my eyes, get up, and go to my bedroom. I walk around the bed and open a drawer. There are the gifts he gave me: the vibrators. I look at them a minute, then slam the drawer shut. I return to the laundry.
The washer starts its cycle, and ten minutes later, I’m still looking at it going round and round, just like my head.
“I hate you, Eric Zimmerman!” I cry in frustration.
My feet take charge, and I head for my bedroom once more. I open the drawer again and just stand there, staring at the vibrator with which we had so much fun.
Everything in me wants to play with it.
I won’t!
But unable to get Eric Zimmerman out of my head or out from between my legs, I throw off my pants and panties and sit on the bed, the vibrator in my hands.
I touch the controls, set the power at “one,” and the purring starts.
Then I go to “two,” “three,” “four,” and the max, “five.”
I play with the vibrator in my hands while my sex—especially my clit—screams for it. I lie down on the bed. I turn off the vibrator and run it on my labia, surprised by how wet I am already.
I turn it back on. It starts to hum, and I close my eyes. I up it once and use my fingers to spread myself open and rub it next to my clit. An irresistible heat overtakes me, and I begin to pant. I remove the vibrator and bring my knees together. But I want more.
I open my legs again. I turn up the vibrator once more and place it where my desire grows. I think of Eric. His eyes. His mouth. How he touches me. I get aroused thinking of his face, his gestures. Thinking about yesterday afternoon gets me going. Me, legs akimbo on the bed, while Eric took what he wanted and I lay in complete surrender.
I’m hot. I jack up the vibrator once more. The heat is unbearable. A red-hot desire to come rises inside me. The wave takes over as I imagine all kinds of games with him. Eric!
My climax hits, and I writhe on the bed. I open my eyes while the heat still has me in its grip, and feel how I’m drenching my hand. I close my legs tightly and ride the moment. I feel thousands of new sensations. The only thing missing is ... Eric.
Five minutes later, after my breathing has returned to normal, I sit up on the bed. I look curiously at the little gadget and smile. Even though I’ll never admit it to him, I did, in fact, think about Eric.
Fernando gets to my place at seven thirty that evening. As usual, he’s smiling and happy. He gives me a peck on the lips. At eight, we arrive at the club where my friends and I have decided to watch the Spain-Italy final. We have to win. The crowd surrounds us as I begin to sing. I’m wearing the flag around my neck, and my face is painted with our national colors, red-yellow-red.
Nacho shows up. He’s a friend, a tattoo artist. We have a very special friendship. We tell each other everything. When he sees Fernando, Nacho just cracks up. He knows what kind of relationship I have with Fernando, and it amuses him. He doesn’t get why Fernando’s still after me despite all the obstacles I put in his way.
The game starts at quarter to nine. We’re all very anxious. C’mon, Spain!
At minute fourteen, David Silva scores a huge goal, which makes us all jump with joy. Fernando hugs me, and I hug him back. Italy toughens up, but at the forty-one-minute mark, Jordi Alba hits another goal, which has us screaming like crazy fools. Fernando kisses me on the neck; feeling good, I let him. By halftime, he’s holding me around the waist.
When the second half starts, things are getting wild, and Fernando takes advantage of the situation by pulling me down on his lap. I let him. I’m ecstatic when, at the eighty-four-minute mark, Fernando Torres—my Torres!—scores the third goal! Hurray!
Seeing me so committed to the cause, Fernando lifts me up in his arms and, overcome, plants a championship kiss on my lips. He lets me go, and then, at the eighty-eighth minute, Juan Mata hits a goal after a pass from my Torres. This time, I’m the one who jumps into Fernando’s arms and gives him a kiss infused with pure Spanish fervor.
When the game concludes, my friends and I celebrate big-time. Fernando is right by my side, and at a particularly horny moment, we sneak into the men’s room. For a few minutes, I let him kiss me and touch me. His hands are all over. But oh God! I can’t get my boss out of my mind! Suddenly, Fernando doesn’t exist. Just Eric.
I need him to be possessive and challenging, yet Fernando is everything but that. I finally get him out of the bathroom without his having climaxed. He’s pissed off; but even so, it has zero effect on me. When I refuse to go to his hotel, he leaves, and honestly, I’m more than fine. When I get home around three in the morning, I climb into bed and smile at the thought that we’re Euro Cup champions.
I refuse to think about anything else.
14
I’m up at seven thirty Monday morning. Curro is calm. I give him his breakfast and medication. Then I take a shower. Ten minutes later, I get dressed and put on my makeup.