by Amanda Faye
Her chest heaves with every little pant she lets out, and the goosebumps that break out over her skin make my dick so hard it hurts. My skin is both too hot and too cold, and I kiss her one more time, tweaking her nipples as I feel them pebble and ache to be touched.
"Assume the position, Austen."
Her eyes twinkle in anticipation, and I love the playful smile that splits her face in two. She bends over the back of the couch again, flipping her hair around her in a flair of dramatics. As she's settling into a position that will support her while I pound her from behind, she gives her ass a little shake, watching over her shoulder to make sure I see it.
"Is this what you wanted, Dr. Taylor?"
I step up behind her, wedging my dick into her ass crack and grinding my cock between us. I run my hands down her back and side, relishing her response. She arches up into my touch, practically purring like a cat. Reaching between us, I test her wetness with my fingers and flick across her nub a few times until she's pushing back against me. When I finally push inside, I can't help the moan that escapes my chest.
"You feel so fucking good, Austen."
My first instinct is to take her as hard and fast as I can, and it makes my balls clench up in need to deny myself that. But that would be over too quickly. After all, I promised that we'd make this encounter last. Instead, I stroke her slow and steady. I bury myself as deep as I can go and wait there until Emma is pushing back against me. A constant trail of whimpers and swear words have been dripping from her tongue since I put my hands on her. Now, the commentary changes to pleads and begging as I deny us both what we really want.
I could come just like this, from the little thrusts and grinds of Emma's hips and ass between me and the couch, but that wouldn't be fair to either of us. When I can't take it any longer, I pull back until I am almost separate from her, then start on a rhythm that will bring us both to our orgasms. The feel of her internal walls gripping my dick from all sides is exquisite, and I'm trapped between wanting to come as deep inside her as I can and making this torture last forever.
When her moans take on the higher-pitched grunting that tells me she's close, I lean forward on her back some to wrap my hand around us and run my fingers against her clit. Like most women, she struggles to come without some sort of stimulation there, and I like it better when it's my hand than hers. The position changes the angle that I'm fucking her at, and her little grunts turn into a keening noise that makes my cock pulse in her pussy.
I'm close, so so close, and I close my eyes to concentrate on bringing her first before I take my own pleasure. Within a handful of thrusts, she's coming, and her whole body clenches around me.
"Yessss." My release bursts from me as my lungs squeeze my words from my chest, and I lose my concentration as all of my senses concentrate on the way Emma makes me feel. Little starbursts pop around my head as I lose all my dignity and jerk and twitch inside and on top of her.
I try to keep from squishing her as I collapse on top of her, and I notice in an out of body sort of way that she's gulping for air as hard as I am.
Suddenly, the alarm on my phone rings out around the room, and the sound from the vibration against the table gives out a harsh grinding noise to accompany it. I completely forgot about the fucking alarm, and I jerk at its announcement that we've used up all of our time.
At my unexpected thrust into her body, Emma let's out a squeal that ends in a fit of laughter.
"Ooohmp, Logan, you're killing me, babe."
Her words are jumbled with her laughter, and as the alarm continues to remind us that we have to get back to the real world, we end up on a pile on the floor. Naked and laughing together so hard, we have tears streaming down our faces.
I crawl the few feet to the little table where I put my phone, and I'm so shaky from laughing and the drain on my body from our sex, that it takes me two tries to hit to the stupid snooze button. Instead of collapsing in a heap like I want to, I crawl back to where Emma is stretched out on the floor. She's smiling with a sense of peace around her. Before I can think about what I'm doing, I crawl into her arms and let her pull me to her.
"We can cuddle until the snooze goes off again, and then we've got to go." She puckers up her lips for a kiss, planting it somewhere on my shoulder, then closes her eyes and goes limp against me.
"Don't let the cuddling fool you, though. I still don't like you."
My laughter is as light as I feel.
Fuck. I really could stay like this forever.
Chapter 18
Emma
It's nine o'clock on Saturday night, and I'm as knackered as a grandma after a knitting spree. It's our weekend with Char's kids, and we left the house at ten a.m. to run errands, not getting home until after seven.
I think we hit half the stores on our side of Denver— Lowes and Walmart, Safeway, and the arts and crafts store to grab supplies for the bevy of school projects that are due over the next few weeks. We ate both brunch and dinner out and even hit the dollar store so that each of the kids could pick a treat to shut them up in the car for more than five minutes.
It always amazes me that I can perform an eighteen-hour surgery with little more than sore feet by the end of it, but a day of running around town with my crew sucks out my life and soul.
I spend longer in the shower than I usually do if only to enjoy the semi peace the private bathroom off of my room provides me. I feel an additional round of built-up tension melt from my body when I make my rounds and find that the two boys are already asleep in the pillow fort they have set up in their room. Char's in her bed with a bottle of red wine and what looks suspiciously like a VI Keeland book in her hands, and I hear Tessa talking to her friends on her phone downstairs.
All that leaves is me. I should do the responsible thing and try to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Even on the weekends, the boys are up before eight, and my throwing pillows at their heads and threatening never to feed them again does nothing to stop Brandon from climbing up in my face and telling me the sun is up, so I need to get up too. I can't wait until he's fifteen and begging to sleep for just five more minutes. I think I'll sing a different Disney song in his room every morning.
But, like the masochist I am, I crawl into my bed and send Logan a text instead.
Watcha doin? Want me to come over?
The old me would have had no problem calling up a guy for a bootie call. My opinion was if Darcy could do it, then so could I. Needless to say, I had a copious amount of sex while in college and med school. The mom me who has had their thirties filled with heartbreak and rejection feels her pulse speed up, and bees congregate in her belly waiting for those precious little dots to appear on my screen.
I don't think so, love. WE have a problem.
Oh, God. Here it is. He's realized what a mistake he's made by agreeing to see only me while he's in town. Fuck. I knew this was going to happen. Why does it hurt so bad then? The text starts to appear again, and I brace myself for the gentle let down.
While I openly admit to being what Mandy refers to as a man whore in my past, I can't in good conscience continue to sleep with you without knowing more. I want to know more. What's your favorite color?
Seriously? What's my favorite color? Did you maybe leave your man card behind in New York or something?
You don't seem to doubt my manliness when I'm using my very manly dick to make you scream out my name Austen.
Game and match to Logan. Damn. This breaks all sorts of rules. No personal information. Do I care anymore?
And what if I don't want to tell you my favorite color?
Then I'm cutting you off. No favorite color, no more sex.
You wouldn't dare. This is a bluff.
If you want to take that risk.
When I don't reply right away, he sends another text.
I really hope you don't Austen.
If it makes you feel any better, I'm super embarrassed that I need this. If I hadn't already misplaced my man card,
as you previously pointed out, they'd take it from me as soon as word of this gets out. But alas, I need to know your favorite color. I just do. I'm willing to die on this hill.
And I will die if I don't get to make love with you anymore. So tell me the fucking color Austen.
Make love? Wow. He's won the whole fucking tournament now.
Purple. My favorite color is purple.
YES! Thank you, Austen. My favorite color is green. What's your favorite song?
Unchained Melody. You?
Hard to choose. Sounds of Silence, Disturbed version
My goodness, are we bonding? Is that what's happening here? Do you want to get mani-pedis tomorrow?
It's been ages since I flirted with a guy like this. Ages. I met Joe when Brandon was one, so five years? Even then, he pursued me. If only I'd known that he'd break my heart and leave us like we meant nothing more to him than if we'd been a roommate. I shake the melancholy from my person when my phone goes off again.
You see, I think you meant that an insult, but I totally want to go get mani-pedis tomorrow. Can we?
Seriously? You really have lost your man card.
I'll have you know; proper nail care is very in for men right now. Besides, I'm a surgeon. I have to have neat and trim nails. And on top of all that, my best friend since infancy is a girl. A girly girly girl. She's got pictures of us with our toes painted when we were toddlers. Or at least our mothers do.
I literally have no words. If I'd have tried to paint Darcy's nails when we were kids, he'd have thumped me.
It didn't stop when we were kids. I have no problem with painting my nails, so long as it's not pink.
Before I know what's happened, another text tree appears on my phone, with a number I don't recognize included at the top.
Mandy, send me one of the pics of me with makeup on or our nails done.
Make it two — one from when we were kids, and one more recently.
The response is almost instantaneous.
I don't have any of them digitized, but I know Mom does. She posted some on Facebook recently. Why? Who are you trying to impress? Is it Emma? He looks really good with his nails painted. Very metro.
Which mom? And Fuck off, Mandy. Did you not see there's more than us in the chat?!
Yours, and of course I did. I just wanted to have some fun with you. Hi Emma. And If you're not Emma, sorry I just fucked up your weekend L. Wait! Here's one from the concert!
A picture of a group of adults hot and sweaty, all grinning from ear to ear, pops into the chat. Logan is in the middle with his arms around a medium height woman with chin-length blonde hair and bright purple eye makeup and a shorter woman with tan skin and a head full of wavy crazy gorgeous auburn hair. She's void of the extreme make up most of the others are wearing and very, very heavily pregnant. Logan himself has much shorter hair, but stylishly cut, black eyeliner, and sparkly blue nail polish on both of his hands. On the other side of Logan, partially hidden by the blonde, is a gorgeous African American woman standing tall and proud, looking at the blonde with an expression of pure adoration on her face and a guy with red hair, shaved on the sides, wearing a Gaga tank top not found on very many men his size.
Oh, and Zoe says to call her. She's got a question about some paper you guys were talking about a few weeks ago. A new treatment for melanoma, I think? I'm not sure, and she's all in a tizzy because she can't find the journal it was in now.
MANDY! Shut Up! Seriously! I will kick your ass. Tell Zoe that is was in JPRAS, Novembers issue. Why don't I have that picture from the concert? Do you have any more?
So, it starts. The two of them are bickering so fast I can barely keep track of the different directions the conversation is going. Suddenly, another number appears in the text tree with the same area code as Mandy.
Lolo, Amanda says you need baby pictures? Why do you need baby pictures, son? You're not keeping anything from me, are you?
God Mandy! Did you add mom to the chat?
Hi mom. No, nothing special is going on, except for the murder-suicide I'm going to perform when this is all over. I just wanted to show my friend a picture of Mandy and me with our nails painted as kids. Never mind mom. I love you. Go back to what you were doing. And you know how I feel about being called Lolo in public.
By this time, I'm rolling on my bed, laughing so hard that Charlotte comes in to check on me. Tears streaming down my face, all I can do is hand her the phone and let her enjoy the drama.
"Do they- do they realize that you can see all of this?"
"Yes, or at least Amanda, Mandy does. See? She keeps asking him all of those inappropriate questions? His mother either isn't catching it or is choosing to ignore it. She keeps going on about baby pictures and what Kathy is doing. I think, maybe, Kathy is Mandy's mom? It's hard to follow it all."
"Well, if she's ignoring it, she's better than your mom. Mary would rake you over the coals for that sort of language in front of her. Oh My God, she just asked him if he's keeping you happy on his knees or if she should send him a video refresher."
"Am I having some sort of out of body experience? How in the hell did I end up comparing my mother with Logan's mom on a Saturday night?"
Charlotte takes one look at the bemused expression on my face and bursts into rib crackling laughter at my expense. She leaves my room, still chortling to herself only to return a minute later with her bottle of wine and blanket. Crawling into bed next to me, she makes herself comfortable and passes me the wine, trading me for the phone. This is friendship. Drinking straight from the bottle and sharing private texts from your not-boyfriend.
The messages between Logan and his family continue in that multi conversational fashion, with half a dozen pictures of Logan as a baby and kid sent through, several of them the sort that we try to accidentally on purpose burn when we become teenagers. Now I know for sure his mother knows I'm getting all of these messages too. I'd be willing to bet she pulled out the picture album just to find the most embarrassing photos she could.
I get a few messages from Logan outside of the group chat, too; 'I'm sorry' and asking my stance on assisted suicide. Whether I think mortal embarrassment and shame count as a terminal illness. Much to his goofy disappointment, I had to break it to him that baby pictures and dirty innuendos in front of his mother were not enough to render it a terminal situation. Now, if his niece joined the chat, then we could broach the subject again.
It occurred to me that the easiest way for him to end his pain was just to end the conversation since he's the one that started it. These women clearly adore him. All it would take for him to shut it down is a simple goodnight, and I'm positive that both his mother and his bestie would bow out gracefully.
But he makes no move to end the texting torment that he's currently suffering, and I make no attempt to remove myself either. He must not mind the fact that his mother and Mandy have now moved on to stories about his gangly high school days, and though it breaks every rule I put in place, I haven't enjoyed myself this much in ages. At least, not outside his bed.
◆◆◆
Let's see how long they go on before they realize that I'm no longer talking back.
It's well after midnight on our coast by now, and Logan and I have been carrying on two chats for the last several hours.
While the back and forth between him and his family slowed considerably, it's continued at a steady pace the entire time we've been on our phones.
In our own chat, Logan and I continued the question and answer session we'd started before it veered so critically off course.
Favorite books? Time Traveler's Wife for me, Milton's Paradise Lost, and the Wheel of Time series for him. Color me surprised.
Last movie watched? Mission Impossible five for him, How to Train your Dragon three for me. I was debating about lying about that one, afraid it would give Brandon away, but he didn't seem to question it.
On and on it went. He asked me if we could switch to video chat, but I declined the of
fer. Doing this through text, it gives me a layer of protection, a way to separate me from the intimacy of the situation. If we did it face to face, even through a six-inch video screen, I'm afraid it would open me up to too many feelings. The last thing I need is to open myself up any more to those dreaded stinking emotions. This is a strictly dickly situation.
Charlotte is passed out next to me, taking up three-fourths of my bed. I always forget what a cuddler she is. She kept me company all evening, offering suggestions to some of the questions he asks, and making sure we never run out of wine. The last thing she said to me before she drifted off into an alcohol-induced stupor was, "Emma's got a crush of Looooggaaaann," drawing out his name in the sing-songy way school-aged kids to do pick on each other.
The bitch. I refuse to admit that she may be right.
Chapter 19
Logan
SOS Rihanna
I don't have anything special to tell you. I just wanted to say good morning
I've kept up a constant stream of texting since I got Emma to open up to me Saturday night. All week I've been reaching for my phone like a teenaged girl every time I hear the notification.
As weird as it sounds, Saturday may have been one of the best nights of my life. I think everyone should do the meet the parents visit via text message, even if that was not how I intended that night to go. Mom and Mandy covered everything from naked baby pics to the time mom walked in on me, jacking off on top of the washing machine when I was fourteen. In my defense, Mandy's the one who put me up to it. She'd told me she sat on it and liked the way it vibrated. It's not my fault I was too young and naive to know that it wouldn't have the same effect on me.
But still, my point stands. We got all of the mortifications out of the way from the comfort of our own beds. Emma sent me a picture sometime in the wee of the night with her snuggled up next to her roommate, with the roommate's arm nice and cozy under Emma's breasts. I haven't been that jealous of a girl since Mandy got to nail Stephanie Jenkins sophomore year of college.