Page 40 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Thirty-Nine

HOLLY

Shit. Holy shit . I wash my hands for the umpteenth time pretending to make “bathroom” noises so I’m not suspicious.

How are we going to… do it in here? The book made it sound so easy, but then again, the two characters weren’t like Cyrus and I.

We’re bigger than the young, flexible, stick figure couple.

Knock, knock, knock.

My belly spins, then feels like it’s floating. I’m about to have sex in a plane. Crap, what did he say again? “Uh, busy,” I croak remembering that he said he would knock twice, then count to two before knocking one more time.

Will this even hold my weight? I ask myself, testing the durability of the tiny counter, fumbling over myself and feeling hotter by the second. What if we hit turbulence? What if we need to rush back to our seats and they catch us red handed?

Crikey, I need to calm down before I get my knickers in a knot. Okay, think Holly. Focus . I breathe out, catching sight of myself in the mirror trying to find three things I can see like Cyrus told me to help calm me down. Well, I can see the beads of sweat on my upper lip.

I pat it dry observing my face, my eyes look bright and my skin is almost glowing.

Whatever it is that being with Cyrus is doing to my body is amazing, far better than any skin care routine, or diet plan I’ve ever followed in my life.

I take the moment to fluff my hair, setting it back down over my front so it falls over my boobs and looks less frizzled.

Knock, knock.

It’s him… I’m certain of it.

Knock .

I swallow, sliding the little latch to the open position, hoping to hell that I’m not about to let some stranger into the dunny with me. Relief strikes me across the face when I see Cyrus.

“There’s my pretty woman,” he whispers, locking the door behind him and not taking his eyes from mine. The cubicle is a tight fit, but not unbearable

Jesus Christ he’s fucking sexy.

How have I not gotten used to this yet?

Cyrus is sporting a gray sweater that hugs his taut muscles a little too well with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows, with a black pair of almost emo skinny jeans, finishing the look with a navy blue scarf. And of course, those god damn glasses.

I gnaw at the inside of my lip. “Hi…”

“Hi.”

Cyrus’s mouth connects to mine, devouring me as if I’ve been away from him for years.

A buzzing sensation grows in my gut as his long arms reach around me and pinch my ass, nudging my legs open with his knee.

My mouth pries open, inhaling a deep breath from his hand creeping up my skirt.

He tugs my stockings down, ever so slowly and tormentingly.

Wasting no time, he threads his fingers under my knickers and finds the entrance of my still wet from reading smut pussy.

“You’re so incredibly wet,” he groans into my ear, igniting the goosebumps to soar over my skin. “I considered spanking you for getting soaked from someone else, but if those dirty books make you this wet, I might just buy you a whole damn library instead.”

He thrusts a single finger inside, taking my breath away with the powerful, needy move. When my lungs fill again, I reply, “I do like the sound of my own library, but those kinds of books don’t have what we have.”

Cyrus pulls his finger from between my legs, and brings it to his mouth.

I watch him in awe, dragging his tongue along the glossy finger.

“Nobody on this planet has, or will ever have what we do, Holly.” He lifts me onto the counter, and I gladly give him access to all of me, spreading my legs as far apart as physically possible.

His facial expression is that of dismay for a moment as he loses himself in what I can only pinpoint as his heaven—my pussy.

I welcome the pressure, words unable to form into an audible syllable.

When I’m finally able to mutter a moan his hand rushes to my mouth, silencing me in the process.

“Shh, angel. We can’t let anyone hear us. ”

“Mhmm,” I nod, accepting the inevitable, and this time, a mhmm is permissible.

Cyrus knows exactly what he’s doing with me. His skilled fingers build my climax, working in a gentle circular pattern while his hips are driving slow, deep, penetrating thrusts, elevating my orgasm to its peak as well as his own. When I can’t take it any longer, he covers my mouth again.

“Cum for me,” the words fall from his lips as a desperate plea, and I shudder into an orgasm without even thinking, panting the moans against his palm. “Fuck, Holly.” Webs of hot cum fill me until he has nothing left to give.

His forehead leans in against mine as he catches his breath. We stay like this for some time, our breaths syncing, bodies relaxed, silent and still. It’s like laying by a cozy fire, saying a million words to each other without even speaking.

Cyrus cradles the arc of my neck and I roll my head back for him, complying with the gentle pressure, unable to identify the way he looks at me. His eyes flare between mine and I witness his pupils dilating ten fold.

Is he hesitating about something? Is this disbelief? Trepidation?

Then, in a whole other way than he’s ever done before… he kisses me, but it’s so deeply intimate , and I know my answer immediately.

I am his.

“Fuck I love you, Holly.”

I.

Love.

You…

“I…” I stumble, but I’m not hesitating. I know how I feel in a heartbeat, but the fear of losing him washes through my mind. I can’t imagine him not being in my life, not even for a second. Even as a surge of emotions bombards me, all I can focus on is him.

Then, somewhere over the white, rocky mountain peaks of Vancouver, my words hum to him. “I love you too, Cyrus.”