Read Online Losing Clementine by Ashley Ream - Free Book Online

(top, bra, jeans, underwear) in the utilitarian way of couples who have done this many times before. I wondered if I’d gained weight since he last saw me naked, figured I had, and wished the room had kinder lighting.
    I got down on my knees. The industrial-grade carpet bit into them, but sex is always intermittently uncomfortable. I kissed the length of his cock and took it into my mouth. It was familiar in a way I had forgotten.
    Richard rested his right hand on the back of my head, trained by years of girlfriends not to press down. His breathing quickened into a pant, and I pulled back, letting him slide out past my lips for fear that it would end before I’d begun.
    He lifted me up off the floor by my armpits, and I struggled to find my footing in time. He slipped his hand between my legs, and we worked together to rock his fingers into place. I buried my face in the crook of his neck while he found his rhythm and blood swelled me around him.
    Too much and not enough, he took his hand away and steered me backward across the room to the bed. He pushed me back onto the comforter, and just for a moment I imagined all the unwashed bodies doing just this on top of it. Then he pushed his face between my knees, and I cared less about the biohazards.
    Richard had always been good at this—enthusiastic and near worshipful—and when I had clutched and groaned and clawed and bucked without half of the restraint he had shown earlier, he stood with his knees crosshatched and red and guided his cock inside me to take his turn.
    I had forgotten how good it could be when I wasn’t half dead on medication. This was better. This was much better.

26 Days
    When I woke, I had a low-grade headache to remind me of why it’s never a good idea to order wine by the vat. Richard was still there. The comforter with all its biological contaminants had been kicked off onto the floor, and nearly all of the white sheet was wrapped around his narrow hips, leaving me with cover up to my thighs and no more.
    I wondered whether I should wake him or if I should get up and shower, letting him slip out the door in yesterday’s clothes. We could agree to pretend the night before never happened. We might, if we were deft, be able to agree without ever mentioning the agreement. We would just start talking about breakfast and then never stray into other territory. I wanted to know what he wanted to do, but by asking him what he wanted to do I would by default mention the sex and thereby eliminate not mentioning it as an option, leaving only the possibility of dealing with it.
    It was a goddamn logic puzzle, and I was dehydrated and headachy.
    I got up and went to the bathroom, because peeing wasn’t really taking a position on anything.
    When I came back, having spent some time trying to read the back of the bottle of complimentary shampoo in Spanish, he was awake and wearing pants.
    â€œThere’s an espresso bar in the lobby,” he said. “You want me to bring you something?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    Was this the deft agreement or just a desire for caffeine?
    â€œYou still like it the same way?”
    â€œMilky, weak, and sweet,” I said.
    He pulled his shirt over his head and didn’t bother looking in a mirror to see what state his hair might be in, which is the sort of thing that had sparked in me from an early age the sneaking suspicion that I had gotten the short end of the gender lollipop.
    By the time Richard came back, I had showered, carefully protecting my nipples from the power wash, dressed, and was fighting with the hotel-provided blow dryer, which was about as effective as someone repeatedly sneezing on your head.
    He had done more than fetch coffee. He was shaved, washed, and wearing new clothes, which made me wonder if he had been stalling. The fact that I wondered that made me angry at myself. I was sure he wasn’t psychoanalyzing my personal hygiene, so why was I being so needy