◊ A little something to remind myself of warmer, lusher days – X
She entered on a gale of raucous laughter.
The garden was strewn with cushioned chairs and tables already top-heavy with wine and beer bottles. The sharp, sour scent of liquor made her woozy, but her mouth still watered for a drink. People’s eyes moved from her sandaled feet up her bare legs to tempting dip of her neckline, then to her uncovered arms, already tan from her daily walks. Most of them were in linen slacks and long sleeves.
She spied an untouched plate of cucumber sandwiches and resolved to eat them all. Her friend gave her a familiar look from inside the kitchen. She knew about her social awkwardness, but she made her promise not to hold her hand during the party. She was a grown woman. She had a rapier wit – at least, on the page.
No one approached her as she worked on the tiny round sandwiches. Her belly gurgled as soon as the food reached it. She hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours. She could afford food, but not the time. Either way, the draft was complete, and she was free. Freeish, since she had already started outlining something new before getting ready for the party.
She was never free, but it didn’t bother her. Her previous partners did, though. They got irritated, then perplexed, and finally resentful of her fervor toward something that didn’t involve them. No declaration of affection could convince them that they were the most important thing in her life, so eventually, she stopped declaring. Then, she stopped having to stop, since no one had come around lately. She sighed and licked wet bread from her teeth.
The sun was warm and the breezes were perfumed with new vegetation. Summer was coming … but it took its time, since the evenings still had an almost biting cool. In her daily walks, she missed a warm body waiting for her when she got back. She missed conversation, both with voice and body. She missed musk and salt and whispered supplication as she gave her mind a much needed rest and her hungry mouth a workout.
She looked down at her sticky fingers, then sucked pensively. She missed orgasms that she didn’t give herself.
Another riotous gale of laughter came from deep in the garden, ripping her from her thoughts. She was surprised she consciously heard it, since it had the tinny sound of condescension she made an effort to block out. Most everyone was dressed in varying shades of pastel cotton and linen – except the man in the middle. He wore jeans, and an evergreen sweater that made him blend in with the vegetation around him. He made a face, mock stern, an uncanny imitation by the lines of his body, and the moths around him burst into fresh laughter.
Her mouth twitched. She wanted to laugh too. She looked down at her red dress, and decided not to approach. She would stick out like a monarch amongst an august gathering of cabbage whites, and she couldn’t stand the silent balefulness of their gaze. She stuck a tart pickled carrot in her mouth and chewed, staring over the fence at the clouds.
She shouldn’t be there. She should be back home, in her own-
“Hullo,” a soft voice said from nearby. The man in evergreen walked nimbly up the stairs to the table and stared gravely at a plate of bacon-wrapped scallops.
“Hi,” she said around a half-masticated strawberry. He seemed to forget about the food and looked down at her. “Good party.”
He shrugged. “I’d rather be half clad, half drunk, watching reruns at home, but here we are,” he said easily, and decided on a juicy wedge of cantaloupe.
She hmmed, and swallowed. He sighed and closed his eyes as he chewed the ripe fruit. She stared so hard she didn’t notice when he opened them again.
“I love cantaloupe. Have you ever noticed that, in the best ones, underneath the almost boozy sweetness of them, there’s a hint of musk?” Her lips moved to talk. Nothing came out. He took another slice and gently brought it near her. “Go on. Have a sniff and tell me I’m lying.”
She didn’t sniff, but she smiled. “Cantaloupes are a type of muskmelon,” she said. “I’m guessing that name isn’t just for show.”
He smiled brightly at her, showing his teeth. “Of course. You’re clever,” he said, pointing a melon-sticky finger at her, then sucking it clean. “I can see it.”
“Oh?” she said. The breeze wafted the scent of his cologne, a spicy citrus musk that reminded her of the promise she made to her friend.
“Staring out at the clouds instead of boring yourself to tears down here, while brilliantly remaining by the food? Absolutely,” he said, and smiled. His eyes were bright with interest, and wine.
“I’m not … bored,” she said. “The party’s lovely.” She smiled and nodded at the person who came up to fill their plate with food while tacitly avoiding introducing themselves.
He turned to her and scrunched his nose mischievously. “Having a lovely time, Arthur?” he said, picking up a petit four the man had been reaching for. It was obvious they knew each other. He popped it in his mouth and gave Arthur a crooked grin he did not return. He pointed at her with both hands. “Hey, Arthur, have you met-“ he stopped. Arthur took advantage of the pause and quietly walked away.
He turned back to her. “What is your name?”
“Tessa,” he repeated, extending his hand for a shake. She wiped her palm discreetly on the back of her skirt and put her hand in his. Instantly, he turned her hand and caressed the cup of her palm with the pad of his thumb – three slow, firm circles, then he pressed, his eyes never leaving hers. She nearly lost strength in her knees, and gasped. He let go and leaned in.
“You okay?” he said, brow creased with concern.
Again, her mouth moved silently. Her palm still tingled from his grip. It nearly hurt, but his thumb had been … what was it? He pressed almost painfully as his gaze penetrated into her. She felt exposed. No one ever touched her that way. She didn’t know whether to be aroused or furious. Emotion made her throat tight.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I have to be going.”
She felt his eyes on her as she walked stiffly back into the kitchen, then the hallway beyond. Her breath exploded from her lips and she bent down, heart pounding.
How could he – who gave him the – the audacity to just do that – just touch me like that-
Her thoughts buzzed desperately, but her hand still tingled. She saw his eyes, inquisitive and lovely, as the pad of his thumb pressed into the soft, damp cup of her palm. Goosebumps prickled up her arms, although her armpits were wet with sweat.
It was just my palm, just a simple handshake-
His thumb had moved up to the tender skin on the inside of her wrist before she nearly fell to the floor. His lips had parted, ever so slightly, to expose canine as he played with the tendons underneath her skin-
“Fuck,” she said softly, and let out another trembling breath.
There was a flash of tongue, and his lower lip glistened with saliva as her muscles went lax with submission-
“Shit!” she said louder, and rubbed at her goosepimpled arms. She gently bounced her head against the wall, eyes closed. She was well beyond her 20’s, but no one had ever pegged her at a glance. Or dared to test her so boldly in front of everyone. Her top teeth worried her lip painfully. Should she have slapped him away, or yelled something? Was it proper-
She heard someone slam into the kitchen and perked up, thinking it Ella. It was the man in evergreen. He washed his hands at the sink, his face a mask of amusement that melted into seriousness the moment he turned away from the back window. She quietly stepped further into the penumbra of the hallway, and fingered the bathroom doorknob.
“Tessa?” he said softly, walking into the hallway, and nearly into her.
“Oof!” she said. He took a step back, and didn’t smile. He just looked down at her. She felt the need to say something. “Just needed to go,” she said, pointing at the door behind her.
He backed into a brighter part of the hallway, putting distance between them. “I was looking for you. To apologize.”
“For what?” she said softly. She was still trembling.
He gave her a knowing look. “I took a liberty I shouldn’t have. The wine or the camaraderie is no excuse. I’m sorry if I made you feel … shamefully exposed.” He clasped his hands with sincerity, then held them up. “I would never, ever want that.”
His carefully chosen words resonated. She didn’t know how to respond casually.
“Thank you,” she said, finally. He nodded. As he turned to go, something possessed her to stop him. “I promised Ella to make lemonade.” He turned back to her. She pointed at the counter, where an earthenware bowl was filled with vibrant yellow.
“Welcome refreshment after all the booze,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”
She walked close by him, and her crisp cotton skirt brushed his leg. “I do a little something special with mine. That’s why Ella asked,” she said, carrying the lemons to the counter by the sink.
“Is it some kind of herbal concoction, with violet or lavender?” he said, as she grabbed a very large, very sharp chef’s knife to slice the fruit.
“Not really. Never been a fan of flowers with my fruit,” she said.
“You’re clever, so you already know that most fruit start as flowers. Oops.” He smiled at her and came near, eyeing the sharp knife.”I’d love to help.”
She smiled down at the cutting board. “Lemonade’s not that complicated,” she said. “Just cut, ream, and sweeten. It doesn’t need much else.” She blew at a tendril of wavy hair tickling her cheek.
“As all naturally delicious things don’t,” he said, giving her crooked grin. “May I?” he asked, pointing at the hair spilling over her breasts. “So you can work.”
He lingered so close she felt the cool of his shadow. His cologne mingled with the scent of ripe lemon and before she could stop herself, she breathed deeply. When she looked up at him, his eyes were soft.
“Okay,” she said, bowing her head as he gently moved the hair off her shoulders, and made a loose braid. His fingertips brushed the nape of her neck as he worked. Her nipples swelled, and ached. His knuckles brushed behind her ear as he tucked a long tendril back.
“There. Better?” he said.
She nodded and smiled. He reached for the knife. She moved it, shaking her head no.
“You have girl hair,” he said, giving her an intimate look.
“What does that mean?” she said.
“I don’t mean it in a creepy way,” he groaned. “I speak out of turn too much.” His cheeks reddened.
“I didn’t take it as creepy,” she said, waving the comment away. “But I am curious. Girl hair?”
“Uh … er … my daughters-“ he rolled his eyes and bit his lip. “Anyway, they have beautiful, long hair. It was one of my favorite chores to comb and braid it when they were younger. It was naturally fine and silky. As they got older, it got thicker. Heavier. Although they rarely let me braid it nowadays, I can feel the difference.”
He fell quiet, and she raised her brows, waiting. “I don’t think I get it.”
“Your hair. It’s bountiful, but it’s not … heavy. It’s fine, and silky,” he shrugged, abashed. “I was thinking aloud.”
She smiled, then shrugged. “It’s okay. You’re not the first person to say it,” she said. “Anyway, If you want to help, get the demerara sugar from up there for me.” She pointed at a cabinet at the other side of the kitchen.
“Demerara? Isn’t that for baking and that?” he said, moving quickly. He put the glass jar on the counter.
“Not at all. Caster sugar isn’t the be all, end all. It’s sweet, but it has no flavor,” she said as she zested the lemons. Ella liked to use it for cooking.
“Sure,” he said, coming near again. “But isn’t sweetness a flavor?”
“Eh,” she said. “Without any other distinguishing characteristic, it’s just cloying.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, leaning against the counter. He eyed the knife. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to do the honors? That’s a wicked blade. How about I cut, you juice, and it’ll be done in no time.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve handled dangerous objects before,” she said, picking up the blade. “In any case, I like the process. I even like hand reaming instead of using a juicer,” she said as she quickly sliced the fruit in half. “It’s cathartic, and when you’ve actually put some work into the preparation, the result is that much more delic- Fuck!” She looked at the quickly growing red on the tip of her index finger.
“Damn it!” he said, grasping her wrist and bringing the hand close for inspection. “That’s I get for distracting you!“
“Wait, it’s dripping-“ she said, her voice heavy with revulsion.
He grabbed a lemon half and squeezed it over her wound. She muffled a scream and tried to pull her hand away.
“Shhh, it’s gonna be okay. I know it hurts, sweetie,” he said as he rubbed the ruffled meat of the fruit on her cut. It burned like fire, but his gentle tone made her stop squirming. The golden flesh absorbed the blood, turning a beautiful shade of coral. He looked at her as he firmly brushed the fruit on her finger. She bit her trembling lower lip. His eyes, again, were telling. He took in the blush on her cheek, and the slight tremble of pain in her hand, and exhaled slowly. He knew it hurt, but she didn’t try to pull away. She licked her bruised lip and swallowed hard.
“Is it still bleeding?” she said softly, actually loathe to ruin the moment. Fucked as it is, he could rub lemon on her sliced finger for eternity.
He blinked slowly. “Let’s see,” he said, dropping the ruined lemon in the sink and bringing her finger kissing-close. It was pruny with moisture. He very gently pressed right underneath the wound, exposing the garish rose of her flesh. Nothing came out. “Good.” He blew on it, slowly, looking at her. He ran the cold water and rinsed her hand, tenderly rubbing at the drying blood that gathered between her fingers.
“I didn’t know lemons did that,” she said. Although her finger still throbbed in the icy water, she wouldn’t dream of moving. “I only thought the juice hurt like a bitch if it got in a hang nail.”
“All good things hurt a little,” he said as he ripped off a clean paper towel and dabbed her finger. “A long run. A new, beautiful pair of shoes. The truth,” he said, winking at her. “I’m a father. I know how to cure and or ameliorate all sorts of booboos.” He scrutinized her bloodless wound. “There’s just one thing left to do.”
“Get a bandage?” She said.
“A kiss,” he said, giving her a smile that warmed her to her toes.
“The last time I got one of those special medical kisses, I was eight,” she said.
“But didn’t they really make it better, though?” he said.
“It did.” She held her finger up to his lips. He blew on it, then kissed right beneath the wound. The warmth of his lips woke her. Pleasure shot like a hot bolt straight to her clit. She sighed. He cupped her cheek, then caressed her sweatslick skin.
“There,” he said. “Good thing you didn’t bleed anywhere near the lemons, or the counter,” he said, looking around solicitously. “I’m doing the rest of the cutting, young lady. You can ream to your heart’s content with your good hand.” He pointed with a new, clean knife.
She stood beside him and watched him work. The satisfying schlick as the knife cut through the fruit was hypnotizing. He picked up a lemon half and slid his thumb into the center of it. The fruit ripped open to accommodate it, dripping juice down to his wrist. Seeds clicked on the counter.
“This one’s got a hell of a lot of pips,” he said, sucked his thumb, and kept slicing. Wetness dripped slowly down her inner thigh.
“Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out slowly. He was so intent on his task his brow furrowed. The afternoon sun shone on his face, highlighting the threads of silver in his beard. She wondered how it might feel against her. Would it feel rough, where she soaked the cotton of her panties? No. It would prickle, then burn so, so good.
She made a sound between a moan and a whimper. He turned to her.
“Does it still sting? You need a bandage,” he said, walking purposefully into the house. She smiled and waited. He came back, looking bashful. “Where does Ella keep the bandages?”
“Come on,” she said, and walked into the guest bath. Ella’s rambunctious kids forced her to keep a first aid box underneath the sink. “Here,” she said, handing him the box. She didn’t realize what she did, it was so natural. He smiled slowly as he turned on the light. She sat on the counter as he rummaged in the box.
“Aha!” he said, holding up a bandage printed with cartoon sea life. He also showed her large plastic tweezers, most probably meant for plucking out stingers. “Care for a pluck?”
She burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard a NSFW version of a dad joke.”
“Wait, was it though?” he said, looking genuinely perplexed. “I thought it was just riffing on the ridiculous tweezers.”
She flushed. “Oh – it’s just that … you know, pluck rhymes with fuck and-” she wrinkled her nose. Now she felt like the presumptuous one.
“You’ve got quite a mouth on you,” he said, giving her a cool look. He unwrapped the band-aid.
“That? You should hear me when I stub my toe, or when I’m around my friends, or when I’m just talking in general,” she said, holding out her finger.
“Naughty,” he said, gently bandaging her finger. “But such words aren’t good for every day use.”
“How are they not? Prime example – if I bang my ankle against the bed frame, what better exclamation that ‘fucking damn it to hell!” she said, yelling it loud enough that it echoed off the tile.
“That’s different,” he said, balling up the paper in his fist. “Exclamations of pain and pleasure don’t count. But using them otherwise in certain company might come off … louche.”
“Louche?” she said, smiling at his ten dollar word. “I never asked your name. Who are you?”
“I’m a James,” he said, holding out his hand for a shake. She stared down at it pensively. They were soft and unscarred. He wasn’t in the trades. Pity, as she adored men who worked with their hands. “I promise I’ll behave this time,” he said softly.
She nodded, and took it. His grip was warm and firm. She looked in his eyes, and mischief swirled in the lovely brown.
“Louche,” she repeated. “So saying fuck or bitch or cunt when you like is bad … in certain company?” Her cheeks prickled. He was still holding her hand. “What is ‘certain company’?”
“Children, or religious folk. Both of which I am very well acquainted,” he said.
“You talk like a book,” she said. She caressed the soft inside of his wrist, underneath his sleeve.
“I’m a professor of literature at the college,” he said, winking. “I suppose I’d be failing at my job if I didn’t.” The local college was an ultra exclusive liberal arts institution that rivaled Harvard with the quality of their education.
“I see. Impressive,” she said.
“Does it impress you further that I’m the head of the English department?” he said. There was mirth in his tone that erased any hint of hubris.
“Perhaps.” Her hand moved higher. She played with his silky arm hair. “It’s so weird.”
“Why?” he said. She looked at him dreamily. He leaned in. She spread her thighs to accommodate him. The cotton of her skirt whispered as it rode above her knees.
“I’m a writer,” she said.
“I heard. Ella brags about it,” he said. He drummed his fingertips against her bare knee.
“She would – she’s the best. How do you know her?” she asked, guiding his hand to her neck. It rested there, warm and heavy.
“We met at a cocktail party-”
“Of course! Her husband’s a history professor. Duh,” she said, nodding.
“Yes, he is,” he said, finally squeezing ever so lightly. She stiffened and raised her face to the ceiling – the reaction was automatic and explicit. He leaned in further. His hard belly was against hers. “She mentions you. A lot.”
She didn’t hear him. All her concentration was on his touch, and the feel of him against her. His breath warmed the shell of her ear. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and his fingertips pressed right underneath her breasts.
“Tessa,” he said softly. “Sweetheart.” He was calling her back. She looked at him. As early as it was, the term of endearment felt natural, and good. She dared to touch his cheek, and gently tugged on his beard. He was like something out of the fantasies she wrote down in one of her battered journals. She wondered whether he was kind and gentle as he was clever. After years of firing the fantasies of sadists, she was done with clever and cruel. Her chest burned with emotion.
“Breathe,” he said, and squeezed. She took a long, whooping breath, then giggled.
“Oops,” she said.
“You were gone away,” he said, caressing her cheeks. “I could see the thoughts clicking away in your eyes. Where were you?”
“I do that sometimes,” she said.
“You’re beautiful when you’re pensive,” he said. Again, he caressed down to her neck. Again, she went docile and quiet. “May I guess at your thoughts?”
She leaned into his touch, eyes closed. It had been far, far too long since someone touched her with such easy tenderness. It seemed to come out of him in waves, and she was gasping for it. She nodded.
“You ache to be touched,” he said, as his hand moved down to her clavicle, and traced. “I saw it the moment you walked in.” She arched into him. His fingers moved to the swell of her breasts. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, and it made her whimper. It was deliciously intense, and needy as she felt. His fingers hovered over her skin.
“Touch me,” she said.
“How, when I haven’t even kissed you yet?” he said, his brow crinkling sweetly.
She grabbed twin handfuls of sweater and kissed him. His lips were still sweet with fruit, and he sucked her lower lip into his mouth. She groaned when his teeth grazed her, and her pussy twitched. Although she ached for tenderness, her body naturally reacted to even the precursor of pain.
“You can bite,” she said into his mouth. His lips were silky and wet with their shared saliva. She shivered with desire. She missed long, slow, slick kisses, and feeling her pussy swell until it ached.
“I can,” he said, and squeezed the back of her neck. He broke it off. “Pleasure can be given at any time, but pain is earned, little one.”
The ease with which he said the words made her squirm. “How do I earn it?” She felt bold.
He shook his head. “It’s too early to speak of that, don’t you think?” he said. “We don’t even know each other’s last names.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing.
“You’re needy,” he corrected. “But all good things come to those who wait. My last name is Teller.”
“Mine’s Lorca,” she said. “Like the famous writer. Sadly, no relation.”
“Tessa Lorca,” he said. “It sounds like a posh Italian beach town.”
She gigglesnorted. “I’ve heard many things about my name, but never something so evocative, or specific.” She decided she really liked James Teller, the professor.
“And I’m no relation to the silent magician,” he said, holding her face with both hands. “Your laughter’s a gift.”
“Kiss me again, James Teller,” she said.
He kissed her, more deeply. The tip of his tongue flicked against her upper lip, and she sat up, sliding her tongue deep in his mouth and moaning. He broke away, smiling and licking his lips.
“You’re impatient as well as needy,” he said, and rubbed off the slickness on her chin. “And you taste good.”
“I don’t think I’m doing this right,” she said, looking away. Usually her partners were chomping at the bit by this point. He wasn’t even hard.
“I don’t usually say this so soon, but you couldn’t be doing it more right if you tried,” he said, and kissed the side of her mouth.
“You don’t like tongue, then?” she said bashfully. He leaned until they were kissing close.
“Like? I love tongue,” he said, and traced her lower lip with his. “Not only here, but in a thousand other places.” He kissed her lightly.
“A thousand. I don’t think I have a thousand places,” she said. Her voice quivered a bit.
“Oh, you do,” he said, nuzzling her. “And maybe, I’d like to take my time exploring them all.”
She nearly exploded. He felt her tense up, and smiled. He wrapped her legs around his hips and barely grazed the warm skin of her neck with his lips. She moaned.
“Shhhh. Party’s just 50 feet away,” he said, then pressed his lips behind her ear. His hand slid from her hip to her belly. He squeezed, and his fingers traveled slowly to the waistband of her panties.
“I thought you like to take your time,” she said. His lips were at her clavicle.
“I do, with my tongue. My fingers have a mind of their own,” he said, and she felt him smile into her skin. He lifted his face. “I’ll stop if you like.”
She stared at him. His lips were a rich rose with friction, and his eyes had a hungry look that her whole body responded to.
“I don’t want you to,” she said, shaking her head.
“I can make the ache go away until next time,” he said.
“Next time?” she said. Her hands were at his hips.
“I’d love to take you out to dinner,” he said as he rubbed the slick cotton between her legs.
“Yes,” she said. He found her swollen clit over the cotton and made slow circles over it. She was so wet his finger slid easily over her, and she saw stars. Her hands moved from his hips to the front of his pants, and she cried out when she felt solid heat. He gently guided her hand to his ass, and she squeezed blindly as he finally pulled her panties aside.
“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” he said as his fingers slid up her swollen slit and parted her to find her opening. He shivered at her wet heat, and his cock twitched against her hip.
“Let me touch you,” she said.
“You will,” he said, and kissed her as his fingers made a slow infinity sign between her clit and her opening. He groaned into her mouth as her pussy twitched against his fingers.
“50 feet to the party,” she said playfully into his mouth.
“Fuck it,” he said, and ground his cock against her as he pinched her button between his index finger and middle finger. She let out a wavering moan as he jerked expertly, gripping the loose braid at the nape of her neck. “I want to hear you come.”
She caressed his hot hardness, but her hand was clumsy with pleasure.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, and bit her lip almost painfully. The almost made her cunt twitch in warning, because if the almost was this mind-blowing…
“Don’t you need it, sweetie?” he said desperately into her mouth.
She moaned in response, opening her legs wider. His fingers moved firmly and rhythmically between her swollen folds.
“Say it,” he said, and kissed the sweet spot between her breasts passionately. “Tell me.”
“I need it,” she said. She sounded close to tears. Pleasure made her hiccup and whimper.
“A delicious, proper orgasm,” he said, and kissed her slowly and deeply, finally letting her slide her tongue in his mouth. His hand moved faster, and she started to grind against his touch.
“A delicious-“ she said, and wrapped her arms around him. “Touch me. Inside.”
His lips moved so slowly against hers, his tongue sinuous and velvety. It was maddening.
He pulled away. “Soon,” he said, looking at her, his lids heavy with lust.
“Now,” she breathed as he drew tight circles around her throbbing clit. “Please.”
“I adore a polite girl,” he said. “But not yet.” Again, he pinched her bud and jerked. She threw her head back, panting with the intense stimulation. She was on the verge of exploding, but at the same time she didn’t want it to end. He barely brushed his fingers against her opening, and she cried out.
“I want it,” she said. “So bad.”
“Good. Want it,” he said, drawing a steady, inverted tear drop on her clit with his thumb. “Let me feel how much you do.” He pressed two fingers against her opening, barely. Her pussy fluttered against them eagerly. He grunted and kissed her. His thumb was almost better than her own fingers, and with a muffled cry, she came, hard, bucking into his hips. He moaned into her mouth, kissing her deeply, his body tense against her.
“That was beautiful,” he said. His voice was a bit rough, as if her pleasure had been his own. “You’re amazing, Tessa.”
She rested her burning face on his shoulder, and he caressed her head. Although she just came, his closeness and his kindness made her pussy pulse even harder. It was as if the orgasm was just a tease.
“I’m sorry for being so bossy,” she said into him.
“You’re a wild one, and needy,” he said again, caressing down her back. “If you’ll allow me, I can fix that.”
She looked at him. He wiped at the melted mascara underneath her eyes. “Which part?”
“The needy part. Maybe. Or I might just keep teasing you ‘till you properly ruin your mascara. Who knows?” he said with an innocent sweetness that made her sigh.
“What about the wild bit?”
He pulled her into his arms. “I’ve only had a taste, but I think I really like it.”
They heard a slamming door somewhere nearby and jumped.
“We should get out of here,” he said. He let her go and adjusted himself.
“You’re still hard, professor,” she said.
“You’re still smoking hot,” he said, and winked. “I’ll survive.”
She jumped off the counter and wet a paper towel to wipe at her smudged makeup. She wriggled uncomfortably, then decided to kick off her ruined panties and wipe herself. She held them up. They were a sodden pink curl.
“Where do I put them?” she said, giggling. She drew back to throw them in the trash, but he grabbed them quickly.
“Hey!” she said as he wadded them in a fresh paper towel and stuffed them in his pocket.
“No use throwing them out, since they’re just soaked, not ruined. In any case, they’re pretty,” he said, smiling at her.
“So you’re gonna walk around the party with my wet panties in your pocket?” she said, tidying her hair.
“Actually, I was hoping I could be walking around town on a date with you with your wet panties in my pocket?” he said, raising his brow.
She smiled. “We’d be the picture of late spring suburban bliss. You, boner tucked into your waistband, with my pussywet pants in your pocket, and me, with nary a stitch on underneath this dress,” she said.
“Nothing?” he said, his eyes widening. His voice cracked.
“I’m not wearing a bra, James,” she said, and opened the bathroom door with a giant grin.
“All the more reason for drinks and appetizers on the roof at DeCecco’s,” he said. “The breezes are absolutely delicious up there.” He followed her into the kitchen. The split lemons winked in the afternoon sun. He darted forward to wash his hands.
“Yeah, and all the tables have lovely long tablecloths,” she said, giving him a meaningful look. She got on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his ear. “I love to give as much as I love to receive.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve received in the middle of a crowded restaurant,” he said smoothly, grabbing the reamer. Her fingered the end of it pensively. “Either way, the evening’s just begun.”
“Whatever you say, professor,” she said, watching dreamily as he juiced lemons into a glass jug.
Categories: Dominance & Submission, Erotic Fiction, Erotica, Fantasy, First Time, Foreplay, Quickie, Romance, Short Story
oohhh I loved this piece! Very hot.
Reading this lying alongside my sleeping wife at 2 a.m. is heating me up…bigtime hotness. Shall I see if I can induce her to join me, or wait until morning? While I am deciding, I will reread this perfect little tale.
I originally read this on my phone during a family gathering, and laughed a bit too loudly at ‘Care for a pluck?’
Had a hell of a time trying to convince them I didn’t need to repeat the joke.
This one makes me yearn for summer and sundresses