by Sara Ney
Miranda reemerges. “Big deal. You’re a shower AND a grower.”
That’s a good thing—everyone knows that.
She wraps around me again and this time, I don’t dump her back into the water, instead walking us toward the edge of the pool where a bench is built into the side. It’s not nearly as deep, but we can bob here, kissing without me nearly drowning us both.
“It’s so nice that you’re tall,” she tells me, kissing the underside of my chin. Neck. Collarbone. Wet lips, wet skin. “I like being carried around—you should do it more often.”
“Carry you? I can do that.” She’s light and naked, entire body smushed up against me. Her boobs feel amazing.
I nibble at the side of her neck and she tilts it, giving me more access.
“Mmm,” she moans, fingers running through my drenched hair, nails massaging my scalp.
I heft her so her back is to the wall, ass perched at the edge of the narrow tile bench, pressing my pelvis and dick into the V of her thighs. Inviting. Warm. Even in the water, I can feel the heat of her pussy.
My cock twitches. Hardens.
“Does he want to play?” Miranda reaches below the water and grips it as I gasp, our movement causing a small ripple around us.
Holy shit her hand feels good.
I bite down on my bottom lip when she squeezes.
“Apparently.” We kiss again, my hand sliding up her skin to cup her bare breast, the nipple hard. Pert. Perfect.
“I hear having sex in water is like going down a dry water slide,” she muses, the tip of my dick now pressing against her clit, growing stiffer by the second.
I could make a habit out of touching her.
I kiss Miranda’s wet mouth; it’s warm and soft, tongue sweet. Her boobs? Blissfully flattened against my chest. My hand? Inching down her rib cage, fingers brushing along her side boob, down to grasp her hip.
She adjusts her position on the bench, moving closer toward me. Spreading her legs. Head tipping back.
I suck on her neck, mouth roaming, sun warming our skin as we make out and dry-fuck in the pool.
So hot. So sexy.
The sight of her wet hair and her glistening body has my cock so hard it’s painful, a porno of my own making—a wet dream turned reality.
“I want you inside me,” she whispers as the sprinklers on the lawn kick on, water spraying, casting small rainbows over the grass beyond.
Miranda’s hands travel from my penis up my abdomen, over my chest. She smooths her palms over my pecs, fingers circling my hard nipples, breathing heavy.
Scoots closer still. Pressing into me as if begging for it.
I inch forward, pelvis pushing.
She spreads her legs, tipping her head to the side, hair hanging and hitting the surface of the water, drenched at its ends. She lets her hands drop, one braced on the bench, the other reaching around to grip my ass, drawing me in.
Eases between our bodies and guides the head of my cock to the valley between her thighs, positioning it so it’s in the perfect spot, so if I were to push, I’d ease inside.
I push.
Little by little, I push, and fuck if it isn’t the most fantastic fucking feeling I’ve ever felt.
“Shit,” I moan as I’m welcomed, halfway in and stiff as a board. Burying my face in her neck, I push again. Again.
“Ugh,” Miranda moans. “Keep going.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask, eyes rolling clear to the back of my head from how tight she is.
“I mean, I could stand to use lube, but it’s not the worst.” Her breath hitches when I thrust in all the way. “God that feels good—maybe I’ll even come.”
It would suck if she didn’t; no dude wants to bang someone and have them not have their own happy ending. “Do you want to get out and go to the bedroom? I have lube…”
Whatever she wants.
“No—don’t you dare stop.” Her head tips back, neck exposed to the delicious sunlight. “Feels so fucking good.”
Okay then.
I thrust, and thrust, and fuck her good, thighs pumping into her, water thrashing around us, her gorgeous tits jiggling—the sight of them is so goddamn sexy I want to reach out and touch them, but I can’t since I’m holding her steady.
“So good,” she groans, moaning. “Yeah, fuck me.”
Shit, Miranda is a dirty talker, something I never would have guessed.
“You like that baby?” I taunt, banging into her harder.
“Yes, your big dick feels incredible.”
Your big dick feels incredible—a sentence I’m likely going to replay over and over in my mind when I’m alone in bed later.
Or maybe I won’t be? For once, I’m not dreading the after.
The telltale sign of an orgasm tingles inside my balls and I can’t help but ask, “Are you close?”
Do not be the guy who comes before her, do not be the guy who comes before her, do not…
“Yes, but fuck me harder.”
Shit—how am I going to fuck her harder and not come until after she does?
I’m screwed—literally.
Somehow, I manage it. Fight through the intense vibration of her pussy clenching around me, fight through her loud, whiney “Oh god, oh GOD!” before bearing down and driving myself into her once, twice—then coming myself with a shudder far more dramatic than I’d prefer.
Like a damn amateur.
Miranda wraps her arms around my neck, kissing my shoulder, fingers at the nape of my neck playing with my hair.
17
Miranda
Noah is feeding me at the kitchen counter a half hour later, both of us dry, dressed, and tired—yet hungry enough for a late lunch. I watch as Noah fusses behind the door of a giant, stainless steel refrigerator, hauling out a bowl of cut-up fruit, turkey meat, and mayo for us.
For me.
“What are we doing with that?” I point to the mayonnaise, not seeing any bread hanging around.
“I just dip the meat in it.”
“Like—with a knife?”
“No.” He laughs. “Like a savage. You cool with that?”
His house, his rules, and I like both, so I lick my lips. “You’re the boss.”
He eyes me as he twists the jar lid off, muscles straining, drawing my attention.
I just had sex with this big, beautiful man.
Me.
Miranda Jane Pressinger.
It’s not like I haven’t had sex before, but somehow this feels different. Special? As if Noah and I have reached a new phase in our new relationship—an unspoken bond, an agreement after the drama happening the past few days.
I feel close to him.
Protective.
Glancing around, I do my darnedest not to gawk at his house, but it’s difficult. He is only a few years older than me and lives in a house he owns. Compared to my dinky apartment, this is a palace. Compared to any apartment, this is a palace.
Shiny stone countertops. Expensive stainless steel appliances. Expansive windows. Custom furniture. Miles and miles of hardwood floors.
“I also have some leftover pizza. Should I warm that up?”
Leftover pizza? “Um, that’s my favorite.”
He sets about tossing the slices on a plate, setting it in the microwave, zapping the cheesy goodness a few minutes, my stomach grumbling in the process. I content myself with watching him fuss, getting me a water with ice. Adding a lemon.
Adorable.
Melts my heart and I ask one more time, “Are you sure you don’t need me to help you?” My mother didn’t teach me to sit idly by while someone waits on me hand and foot, unless it’s at a restaurant, and even then, occasionally, I feel guilty.
“I owe you one,” he says simply.
“You owe me nothing.”
“After those articles came out—”
“Noah, that was not your fault. Those things they wrote about us were not your fault—or mine. You have to let it go.”
I hav
e. Why can’t he?
“What is the point of staying upset about it?” I pop a piece of strawberry in my mouth and chew. “It will drive you nuts.”
He rests both hands on the counter, leaning forward. “Dwelling on things seems to be my thing.” He shrugs, standing up straight once the microwave dings. “I have a history of not…letting things slide. They…” He pauses again. “Weigh on me.”
I study him: his face, the determined set of his mouth, the frustrated slashes of his brows.
I want to tell him that worrying and letting things weigh you down does no good. Those two things do not change the outcome of any situation—they only stress you out. Instead, I pick up the pizza on the plate he’s set in front of me and bite down into the thick slice, chewing thoughtfully. Wipe my mouth with a napkin and chase it down with water.
Noah is only wearing boxers, a pair he threw on after strutting back inside the house naked and I can’t help my eyes from straying up and down his toned chest. Arms.
My mouth salivates and not from the salty pizza sauce, as I sit here in just the t-shirt I arrived in, and panties, of course, the chair cushion under my ass coarse against my smooth skin.
I shift in my seat, still eyeballing the prime young man in front of me who seems oblivious to my ogling.
I’ve noticed that about him—Noah is modest and seemingly unaffected by the fame and notoriety, and not just for show. He truly only seems to want to play baseball and doesn’t care about anything that goes along with it.
Like this massive house.
“Can I be weird for a minute?” I ask, setting down the remainder of my pizza. “Would you show me around the house?”
I love looking at houses online and on Instagram—decorating is my passion—and it appears someone very well paid came and designed Noah’s interior. It doesn’t fit his personality, but that is none of my business.
Still, when he agrees to show me around and I hop off the stool, I can’t help, but commenting, “This really does not fit you at all.”
Cold metals. Cold stone. Cold appliances.
“What does fit me?” He walks me to an office near the front of the house, carpet on the floors and framed posters on the walls, trophies and baseball paraphernalia. I spot my grandpa’s cards on a shelf, still in their plexiglass boxes.
“Definitely something cozier. I feel like…your mom should have had a hand in helping you out and not a professional.” I lift a heavy, silver paperweight from the desktop that had to have cost over five hundred dollars. “I love this office, Noah. Bet you spend most of your time here.”
“Yeah and in the loft. That’s upstairs.”
So, not the big room with stiff couches across the hall from here?
Figures.
I hate rooms like that—spaces that get no use because they’re fancy and for company. Why would a designer buy him ridiculously expensive sofas he is never going to use and are just for show?
Money.
Another user.
No wonder he is so jaded sometimes.
He walks me out of his office and we go up the winding staircase; a loft is at the top, with an overstuffed sofa and a beanbag chair. It looks like it’s meant for kids, but the imprint in the couch tells me this is where he spends his time.
I peer into a guest bathroom. A guest room. Another guest room. Another guest room. Another guest bathroom. There is a den with an air hockey table and I blurt out, “I just don’t understand all these random rooms? None of this makes sense.”
Noah shrugs and I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to criticize.
“And this is my bedroom.”
I take a step inside.
Large windows at the back of the room. A sitting area, two chairs and an ottoman flanking a fireplace. Your usual bedside tables. Lamps.
Giant bed. “I would need a ladder to climb up on that thing,” I tease, walking over and pressing my ass against the mattress to demonstrate. It hits high on my waist.
Noah walks over, two hands grasping my hips as he hauls me up, setting me on the edge. “See? You can get up just fine.”
He kisses me.
I kiss him back.
He presses into my spread legs; I wrap those legs around him, tugging him in closer, loving the heat from his body, wanting it on top of me.
My hands roam; his slide over my bare thighs.
Our tongues mingle.
His dick hardens and I moan softly, scooting back on the mattress, making room for him to climb up and on top of me, and he does so without ceremony. Hands roaming from my thighs up to the hem of my t-shirt, over my stomach.
I help him pull my shirt off.
He helps me remove his boxers.
Sleek, toned body. Warm skin. Hard muscles, hard dick.
All for me.
Impatient, I’m already wet and want it now. So when he begins kissing his way down my body, intention clear, I tug at his shoulders. “I want you inside me.” Don’t want to wait.
Greedy. Selfish.
Listen—when you’re like me and haven’t banged in forever, you want all the sex and you want it now.
He eases back up my body, kisses me on the lips.
“Noah…we didn’t use a condom in the pool. Should we put one on now?” Is it pointless to use one now? What if his swimmers are super sperm and penetrated the birth control I’m on? He didn’t even ask me about it before; it’s a good thing I’m on something and don’t have to worry too much. For all he knows, I’m a cleat-chasing gold digger looking for an easy ride—bad move, Noah.
Bad move, indeed.
“I have one here, somewhere—I think?” Naked, he moves toward the side table, ass in the air as he pulls open the drawer and begins rummaging through it. Victorious, he holds a gold foil packet in the air. “Found one!”
Indeed.
“How old is that?” I ask teasingly, lying flat on the bed, watching as he tears the package open.
“No idea—I don’t have women here, so I’m not actually sure why there are even condoms in the drawer. Wishful thinking, probably.”
He rolls it on and I watch, transfixed, never one to find that sort of thing sexy, though I get a bit turned on watching him now. He does it slowly, deliberately. Brows furrowed with concentration, as if he is also enjoying every second of the act.
“Come here,” I tell him when he finishes, my hand going around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. A warm, full kiss that melts my insides, his hand brushing along my skin.
“Are you sore?” he mumbles. “You know, from before?”
Hardly.
Okay, maybe a little. But, “Not enough to stop me from doing it again.”
I wiggle my hips and reach over to pull him on top, loving the weight of him. His heat. So different than how he felt in the pool with water lapping around us, weightless. I could feel him inside me, but the sensation wasn’t the same—the experience wasn’t the same, although it was just as intimate.
Noah leans in and runs his lips over the slope between my neck and shoulder, and I tilt my head a bit, so he lingers there with his mouth. Heaven.
When he lines up our bodies and pushes forward—for the second time today—I am more than wet enough for him to ease in without a problem. Unlike in the pool, where more persistence was necessary.
I cradle the back of his head when he buries himself inside, hands then dragging down his back, nails lightly scraping his spine, that dip above his ass I find so incredibly sexy.
He thrusts and I wish I could watch those thick, athletic thighs pumping into me. Mmmm…
“Fuck you feel good,” he groans.
Better than before, so much better…
“Do you want to get on top?” He pulls back and looks at me, eyes glazed over, lips parted.
Why yes, I would. Thank you for asking. “Yes please.”
We roll until I’m on top, adjusting so he’s back inside, and move back and forth, back and forth, leaning forward, so I can push against the headboard
. He’s deeper.
So good.
I clench my Kegel’s hard, knowing full well that with the condom on, he can’t feel me as well as he would without one. It has the desired effect; everything inside me knows “I’m close. I’m…”
Going to come. Again. For the second time in one day, without having to do it myself.
Hallelujah, there is a god!
“Come for me, baby.” Cliché, but sexy.
I come, clenching every muscle in my body, so he can feel it and maybe he will come soon too. Back and forth, back and forth…
“Shit, yes. Don’t stop doing that.” Noah grips my hips, pulling me across him, pulling me deeper, nostrils flaring. Red-faced, his orgasm face is intense and almost has me laughing—thank God I don’t. He looks so serious and determined.
Strong.
God he turns me on.
After he cleans up, we’re back on the bed, under the gray down comforter, all snuggled in for a nap, Noah traces a finger along my shoulder. Kisses it before settling his head on the pillow next to mine, facing me.
I close the distance to kiss the tip of his nose.
Vomit inducing, I know.
“I won’t lie,” he says after a time. “Having that condom on was like having sex while wearing a moist gym sock,” he pouts.
“Don’t say moist.”
He pauses. “Moist.”
We laugh, disappearing under the covers and don’t come back up until we’re both satisfied again.
18
Noah
“You know what?” Miranda is laughing softly, naked under my blankets, drowsy from our nap. “When—I mean if, sorry—we’re in a committed relationship, we can have sex without a condom.”
Oh? This perks me up. “How long do people have to date before they consider themselves committed?”
She stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know—I don’t think there are rules.”
I roll toward her and brace myself up on an elbow. “I don’t plan on dating anyone else—do you?”
Her eyes move to my face. “No.”
“Does that mean we’re committed?”