Friends with benefits should have been the perfect arrangement.
Jake started as a client at my design firm. He needed a couch and had some design problems. I fixed them for him, and in turn, he fixed some things for me—like my appalling lack of orgasms. We decided to keep it simple. Sex, with no strings attached. No chit chat about jobs, or our personal problems. Sure we'd text every few days or so, and he's always send me something he thought would make me laugh. And then, once a week or so, there'd be the mind-blowing sex. No dating. Just sex. And orgasms. Lots and lots of them.
It's perfect. Or it should be. I'd be stupid to want to change it.
Except I find myself wanting more.
It's crazy, right? Why would we risk ruining a perfect thing? Or could risking it all mean we could have everything?
Jake started as a client at my design firm. He needed a couch and had some design problems. I fixed them for him, and in turn, he fixed some things for me—like my appalling lack of orgasms. We decided to keep it simple. Sex, with no strings attached. No chit chat about jobs, or our personal problems. Sure we'd text every few days or so, and he's always send me something he thought would make me laugh. And then, once a week or so, there'd be the mind-blowing sex. No dating. Just sex. And orgasms. Lots and lots of them.
It's perfect. Or it should be. I'd be stupid to want to change it.
Except I find myself wanting more.
It's crazy, right? Why would we risk ruining a perfect thing? Or could risking it all mean we could have everything?
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