Chapter Text
One Sunday in March, Amy’s sitting at her kitchen table, half-catching up on work while having a FaceTime conversation with her college roommate.
“Second time’s the charm, probably,” Charlotte says. Amy snorts. “Anyway, at least I’m spending my own money this time, so it’s actually going to be really cute. Wait until you see the venue.”
“Martha’s Vineyard, though? Really? Aren’t you a little worried about literally becoming your mother?”
Charlotte makes a face like ‘what are you going to do.’ “I dunno. Brooks, promise me you’re coming. I mean you never call, you never write- Boston is not that far away, you know, they have the Acela and every-”
“Calm down, I’m coming, all right? Jesus. I’ll take a long weekend.”
“You bringing the boyfriend?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Okay. I really think you’re going to like David, by the way. He’s really nothing like Eric.”
“I trust your judgment,” Amy says primly.
“Amy, you don’t have to be mean,” she pouts.
“I’m not,” Amy says. “I’m sure he’s great. Can’t wait to meet him.” She is reasonably sure the new model will be better than Eric, an abusive cokehead who had, impressively, made Dan look like a Barbie Dream Date.
“Okay, hon, I gotta go, but let’s talk soon, kay? Promise?” Amy nods obligingly.
“Love you, bye,” she says, hangs up, and pages over to the Excel spreadsheet she’s been working out of all day. Not a minute later, she hears Jonah skulking around behind her. He’s left the TV on in the living room, clearly trying to be sneaky. “Hi, Jonah,” Amy says loudly, bursting his bubble. She tilts her head back over the top of the chair, and he takes one long stride over to peck her on the mouth.
“Hi,” he says. “So where are you bringing me?”
“Massachusetts, apparently,” Amy says in a long-suffering tone. “Charlotte’s getting married, again. July. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Jonah says. “I’m great at weddings. But, uh-”
“But what?” Amy’s distracted by three back-to-back email alerts flashing up on her screen. When she looks up, Jonah’s standing on the other side of the table, staring at her. “Sorry, what did you say?”
His voice is a little quiet. “Charlotte thinks I’m your boyfriend,” he says.
“Yeah, I guess?” Amy agrees, not really seeing where he’s going with this.
“Amy, am I your boyfriend?” the tone of the question is uncharacteristically serious, and he’s meeting her eyes so intently that it’s unnerving. It feels like a trick question.
“Sure?” she says after a moment’s hesitation. This seems to have been the right answer; Jonah grins and holds up his hand for a high five. The fact that she indulges this fourth-grade move without thinking is probably a bad sign vis-a-vis her judgment and mental state.
“Fuck yeah I am,” Jonah says, and plants a wet, smacking kiss in the middle of her forehead.
“Byeee,” Amy calls out, exasperated, as he lumbers loudly back into the other room.
---
“Ame,” she tries to ignore the voice and sink back into sleep, but it persists. “Ame. Amy. Amy, wake up.”
Amy opens her eyes to squint down at Jonah, who for some unknown reason has rucked up her shirt and is pressing ticklish kisses all over her stomach. The sun is just barely coming in through the blinds. “Jonah, what the fuck time is it?”
“Like six,” Jonah says, sounding way too cheerful. He is not usually a morning person.
“Why the fuck did you wake me up, then? I can sleep for another hour and a half. Get off me,” and she swats at him irritably.
“I can’t sleep,” Jonah says. “I wanna go down on you.”
“What, now? Fuck you, I’m sleeping.”
“Please?” If you had told Amy Brookheimer at age 21, or age 28, or even age 32 that she was ever going to be in the position to turn down oral sex- of getting so much head so regularly that the batteries in her vibrator last through the month, so much that she can credibly be thinking ‘meh, maybe not right now, I could take it or leave it’, she would not have believed you. In fact, she would have definitely thought you were making fun of her, and you would have left that conversation with some kind of physical and/or emotional injury.
Just from the way Jonah’s looking at her, all young and eager with his pupils blown out in the low light, Amy can feel her body start to wake up. She bites her lip and looks off to the side to hide a smile. “Fine,” she says, doing her best to sound put-upon.
The thing is about Jonah Ryan- he has a very limited set of skills. Making strangers uncomfortable in a record short amount of time; video games; finding the exact worst specimen of music from every genre and putting them all on the same three mixtapes; and eating pussy. That last one might be the strongest, though. He is really fucking good at this, like on some Rain Man shit. He laps at the crotch of her panties for a while, warming her up; she keeps her eyes closed and tries to breathe steady, and just like she’d been hoping he gets impatient before she does, yanks them down out of the way and dives in.
It’s like a game between them, and it never really gets old: some guys expect you to do the whole porn-star-moaning, writhing around thing, prove you’re enjoying it even when they’re doing a cursory, mediocre job as a quick starter course on the way to sticking their tiny dicks in you. Jonah, on the other hand, really wants to earn it. Amy can let herself drift, just breathing, waiting until she can’t help but cry out and buck up into his mouth. She threads the fingers of one hand through his hair and tugs, and he moans. She doesn’t have to look to know he’s probably grinding down against the bed; a lot of times she’ll make him finish like that, not even touching him once, and he’ll come in his pants and kiss her fucking gratefully afterwards.
“Fuck,” Amy says, close now; he’s gotten preternaturally good at this through excessive practice, knows exactly the rhythm and the angle she needs. “Give me- fucking hell- give me your fingers.”
He obliges right away, and she’s so wet that they slip in easily, crooking forward in time with the thud of her pulse in her ears, and just like that she comes even harder than she’d expected to, thrashing a bit, and sort of kicks Jonah in the side. “Sorry,” she says.
“No,” he says, blinking at her dopily and licking his lips. “You wanna go again?”
Amy shakes her head. “I have work, remember?”
“Okay,” Jonah says, and sort of slithers his long body up the bed until they’re face to face. He looks at her sort of weirdly for a few seconds, and she kisses him to cut the awkwardness. Jonah has made her disgusting- the taste of herself on his mouth triggers another rush of wetness to her cunt. No, Amy. Monday morning. Work day.
“How was it?” Jonah asks.
“How was what?” Amy looks at him curiously. “What, you need a performance review now?”
“No,” Jonah says. “I just mean, that was the first orgasm I gave you as your boyfriend . Did it feel different?”
“It was good, Jonad. You know it was good. Don’t let it go to your head. Also, get off me, I have to shower or I’m going to be late despite waking up two hours early.”
“Hour and a half,” Jonah says, and kisses her again. “Love you.”
He says this periodically; Amy has gotten used to it, relatively certain it’s not part of some kind of ploy or long con, and mollified by the fact that he doesn’t seem to expect her to return the sentiment. “Okay,” she says instead, extricating herself and heading for the shower.
“Okay,” Jonah echoes teasingly. “You want breakfast or just coffee?”
“Coffee’s fine.”