Hate to Lose You
By: Penny WylderThen again, neither was I.
It’s only been a month you lunatic, I scold myself internally. But what a fucking month it’s been.
From the day we met, we’ve been inseparable. We drove to her place straight from our ignoble beginning in that grocery store parking lot, and we wound up fucking three more times in the next 24 hours. The second time, we barely made it through her front door before I pinned her against it, unable to wait another second to feel her tight, hot pussy clenched around my cock again.
The third time we managed to control ourselves for a couple more hours, until we’d finished cooking dinner together—turns out she’s a shit cook, but I more than make up for it with the culinary skills I picked up in between jobs back in Vegas. You learn to get real creative in the kitchen when you realize that your seemingly bottomless pool of backup money is dwindling fast.
On the bright side, Daisy is very good at serving dessert. My favorite course of the night was when we finally gave in and shoved her silverware and dishes to the floor, halfway through cleaning up the meal, so that I could hoist her ass onto the dinner table instead, spread her legs and savor her all over again.
And then there was the blowjob she woke me up with the next morning, straight from a sex dream I’d been having about her, as if she could read my mind… Or maybe as if she’d popped right out of my brain herself, a dream brought to life, who always knows exactly what I want, when and how to touch me, even just to smile at me, to get me rock hard again.
But it isn’t just the sex that’s got my brain going haywire. It’s everything. The way she memorized my coffee order the first time we stopped at a Starbucks on our way to work together—her at the local bank where she’s interning as the secretary to gain experience before she starts to apply for a higher level office job; and me to my apartment where I “work from home” (at least, so I tell her). Since then, she keeps the brand I like and the milk I drink it with stocked at her house, even though she’s lactose intolerant and can’t have any herself.
I got sick a couple weeks ago, and I came home from a late night of negotiating my way into a longer back-payment option, only to find her outside my house with her arms full of cold remedies and at least six different types of tea, because she didn’t know which one I preferred yet.
And it’s our conversations. No matter what we’re talking about, from the weather to sports scores to our dreams, Daisy has an opinion about it, and it’s one I want to hear. She’s whip-smart, funny…
I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve never felt so comfortable with anyone before, and I’ve definitely never fallen into a relationship this easily. Hell, normally at this one-month point in seeing a girl, I’d be chomping at the bit, eager to cut and run. And I’d never use the R-word, even in my head.
Yet somehow, with her, her little joke about buying a comforter for a hypothetical baby’s room someday in the future doesn’t even freak me out. It gets me… I don’t know.
Excited.
This must be what going crazy feels like. But if so, I don’t ever want to be sane again.
“Seriously, though,” Daisy is saying, as we both drift further into the Ikea. “What kind of a vibe are you going for?”
She talked me into coming here—mostly by hyping up the meatballs I’ve been promised after we complete this walk-through—because, as she puts it, my apartment is “a barren wasteland where taste and culture go to die.” Or, as I put it, “tastefully minimalist in its decor.”
But she does have a point. I have a single uncomfortable couch, a dining counter with two stools, and my bed—that, I notice, she has no complaints about. Probably because I’ve tied her down to it enough times that she’s been forced to concede it is comfortable as hell. And plenty large enough for me to toss her across it easily…
And that’s it.
It’s the apartment of someone who doesn’t plan to stay here long. The apartment of someone just passing through, someone who doesn’t want to—who can’t want to—put down roots. Because that’s the reality of my situation. I can’t stay here.
