by Kira Blakely
I moved her hands up and down with mine, tracing her clitoris like I was the puppeteer and she was my marionette. I listened to her shaky breath pulling in and out and I knew she was pleasuring herself now. I swept behind her, letting my hands separate from hers, and then I was free to peel her pajama pants to the floor. I descended to my knees as I did so, treasuring her ass with a gentle bite to its round edge.
The blood flow to my hard-on was crushing, but I battled through the dizziness to stand and grind my thumbs down against her fleshy hips. I swallowed. God, I love her softness. She’s so much... softer than Lola ever was. And she’s so tentative and sweet and meek. She needs someone to push her into her orgasms, into her pleasure. I can do that for her. Oh, god, can I do that for her.
Michelle abandoned her own sex and peered up at me, standing behind her with my hands planted on her hips. “What do you want me to do?” she whispered.
“Get your hands back on that pussy,” I growled against her ear. “I want to see how you make yourself come, woman.”
I didn’t need to have a light on to feel Michelle’s blushing. I didn’t care. I wanted to push her boundaries. Christ, she needed it. She needed me.
Michelle’s palms slithered obediently over her belly and back to her come-starved pussy.
One of my hands gently rested over top both of hers, feeling how quickly her feverish little fingers moved. My dick was pure steel now. It dripped with desire to fill her. I swallowed and closed my eyes and frowned, holding it at bay. Wait. Wait until the moment is at its sweetest.
I tracked Michelle’s ragged breathing and the way her hips slowly tilted upward to present herself to me. She might not have realized it, but as she came closer to orgasm, her body bowed, subconsciously bending for me. I unzipped and she heard it. She moaned. The sound of my unzipping jeans brought a moan out of Michelle and that almost made me moan. I grabbed her hair in my fist, unable to control my roughness, so overpowered by my own desire for her, and I commanded, “Don’t stop.”
I put my free hand lightly over her hands and relished the way her knuckles bobbed up and down against my palm. I smoothed that same palm down the inside of her thigh, eyes rolling back in my head. Silky juices tracked down her thighs. She was ready. She would come soon. Her thighs trembled as she worked and her ass tilted up higher. Fuck. Fuck. She was ready and I was dizzy.
I played my cock over her hole slowly, back and forth, collecting and spreading her syrup all over both of us.
My head barely penetrated her, and her walls shuddered in response. I didn’t know if it was me or if it was the masturbation which made her so impossibly tight. Her cunt was almost vibrating for me and I plunged completely into her, unable to stop myself. She shrieked in surprise at my girth, and my palm flashed down for a quick, tight spanking on the crest of her ass. It was a dominant animal instinct to do so.
Michelle groaned, burying her face into the couch cushion in front of her.
“You like that?” I wondered breathlessly, almost confused.
“Uhhh, yes,” Michelle rumbled back at me. She sounded possessed, her voice was so raw and earthy right now. She sounded nothing like the mousy, tentative woman I’d first met in my office in January.
Her hands traveled up and dug into the cushions in front of her.
Driving deep into her, I bowed down over her, our skin pressing together for a fleeting, sweaty moment. My hands left her hips to snake up to her hands and spread over them. I breathed against her ear, “I said don’t stop.” My fingers curled around hers, sliding between each finger and binding between the knuckles, dragging her hands back to her waiting button.
I felt her hands move over herself again and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. My cock pulsed and grew and filled her completely.
“Make yourself come,” I commanded raggedly. “I want to feel it, baby. I want your cum on my cock right now.”
My hands returned to their grip on her hips, and I drove into her, again and again, measured and intent. This was the home stretch. I could feel it. I had to stay focused on my breathing and on my pace. If I let myself drown too much in this moment, I’d come before she did and ruin everything. I had to focus. Don’t think too much about this ass in front of you, like a fucking peach. Don’t think about how her sweet pussy pumps your cock. Don’t—
“Uh,” Michelle grunted, and her pussy walls clenched around my member. It swelled in reaction. Oh, shit. This was it. “Uh, uh, uh.” Her little grunts were surprisingly loud and firm. She still didn’t sound anything like the Miss Harper I met so long ago. “Uhhh,” she called out, muscles fluttering and flexing over my shaft. My eyes went into the back of my head and my throat fell open, head tilted back like I was worshipping a celestial deity.
“I’m coming,” her little voice whispered up to me. “Oh, god. Oh, god! Ohhh!”
The smallness of her voice shattered away, and she pressed and twisted on my staff. She was so fucking wet that I could feel a splatter of juices, a literal splash, every time our hips met together in another slam. I lost control of my pace and thrust as fast and as hard as I humanly could. I wasn’t trying to have a simultaneous orgasm with her, but my head ballooned suddenly and absolute magic surged through me, through her, through the room. It wasn’t possible that this was all just in my head. Something magnificent happened between us every time we came together.
I cried out to Jesus, and every vein and muscle in my neck stood at attention. The room drowned in my orgasm. Michelle’s body moved with my thrusts, but the effort of her muscles was completely gone. She went limp and murmured sleepily as the motion of our sex slowed to a stop.
I melted over her back and we laid, slumped on the armrest of her living room sofa.
“This came with the house,” her muffled voice came from the cushion. “This couch isn’t mine.”
“Mm,” I murmured against her wet neck, savoring the powerful combined scents of cleanliness and sex. “I was hoping we could save it for posterity.”
“I was hoping we could burn it to be sanitary,” Michelle replied, and I grinned. The side of my mouth was pressed to her back as I grinned and I knew that she felt it on her skin.
“Hey,” I whispered to her.
“Yeah?”
“Grant and Lisa’s colors are gold and green.”
“Uh. What?”
“For the wedding.”
Michelle struggled to stand upright, even though she still had my full weight bending her and pressing her into the sofa armrest and cushions.
“I didn’t say yes to that,” she reiterated sharply. “Never did, sir.”
“Oh, but you’re going to,” I breathed, fingers creeping toward her soaking pussy folds. I slid one over her abused clitoris and she yelped with sensitivity. “You’re going to come to that wedding for me, or you’re going to come on this couch for me,” I promised her, finger tickling over her, relishing the way she jerked and rolled her hips, trying to make me stop and keep going all at once.
“Okay,” she whined. “Okay, okay, I’ll go!”
“That’s my girl.” I grinned and stood, releasing her from the sofa, and she sprang up and swayed. I took pity on this rag doll of a woman and scooped my arms around her, hugging her close. “Come with me because you want to, Michelle. I want you to be with me. I want you to meet my friends.” And then I finally confessed the truth of it, something I hadn’t even wanted to tell myself yet. “I want people to know that you’re mine.”
Michelle was quiet for a moment and my throat tightened. Was she about to say no? Again?
I didn’t know if my ego would be able to recover from a woman so dead-set to never be with me.
“Okay,” Michelle said. Her fingers traced up my chest, my throat, and my chin. “Okay.”
And I could breathe again.
This woman was going to be mine.
Chapter Eight
Michelle
Gold silk gown. Emerald filigree belt. Emerald teardrop earrings and a mat
ching necklace. Gold heels. I touched every element of my ensemble in front of the mirror and tried to imagine myself as Andrew’s real, live date. I clutched my gold purse and heard his baritone twang behind me, saying, “Now that is flawless.”
My heart leaped and I twisted to smile at him, though I knew that he was wrong. “Look who’s talking,” I told him. He wore a dazzling all-black tux with a simple gold silk tie. I sidled closer and slid my fingers over his tie, thinking about unraveling it from around his neck, thinking about him wrapping it over my wrists and securing it to that coat hook in the foyer again.
Maybe Andrew was thinking the same thing because he crowded against me, his warm breath rumbling out against my upturned lips. This suit did nothing to disguise the healthy bulge of a growing erection and I stepped back suddenly, right before our mouths could brush together. “My makeup,” I yelped.
Andrew’s eyes opened, foggy with lust. “Oh, yeah.” He grimaced. “And we have to be there in twenty minutes.”
“And these are your best friends,” I added with a little gleam in my eye, swatting playfully at his erection as I passed him, striding to the front door. “But I’m flattered that you almost ruined their wedding for me.”
“It definitely would’ve been for both of us,” he corrected me as we stepped down the porch and toward his massive truck.
My heart hammered the entire drive, but when Andrew reached his hand out and clasped mine, dragging it into his lap and driving one-handed, I started to think that maybe it was hammering with excitement, not anxiety.
* * *
The wedding was already in full swing by the time the truck jostled over the uneven church parking lot, even though we weren’t technically late.
And I was right about everything.
The place was packed with laughing, yelling people in almost casual clothing, most of them gripping beverages and practically laced arm-in-arm. Great. I couldn’t imagine being a sorer thumb. I was just going to be quietly clinging to Andrew while everyone around us reminisced and made inside jokes. Great.
Andrew dragged me through the chapel, slapping his friends on the back and greeting everyone with excitement. It was so loud in here and, out of nowhere, a little girl came rocketing through the guests, clearing her own path in the bodies. “Dad!” She lunged directly into Andrew’s arms and he let go of my hand to sweep her in a circle mid-air, gangly legs flying out in an arc. I dodged to avoid them and clung to my purse like it was a life preserver.
“Baby girl!” Andrew greeted her, squeezing her hard before letting her down. He grinned and his eyes fluttered over to me and he snapped his fingers, remembering that I had no idea who anyone was. “Connie, this is my new friend, Michelle.” New friend? “Michelle, this is my daughter, Connie.”
I stretched out a tentative hand, and she gave it a curious look before slanting her eyes back to her dad. “You don’t have any new friends,” she reminded Andrew. “You work too much to go out and have fun. Mom tells me all the time.”
“That’s sweet of her to keep you updated on my lack of a life,” Andrew said, “but Michelle actually is my new friend.” Just keep saying it, I thought sourly. “And I like her a lot,” he added, and a warm little firecracker went off in my chest. He likes me a lot. “Where is your mom?” he wondered, and Connie shrugged. Andrew grimaced, and I wondered if he was hoping to see Lola.
When the wedding march first began, most of the church didn’t even hear it, everyone was talking so loudly. I heard it, though, and I tugged on Andrew, trying to tell him. He was gesturing to someone through the crowd, and Connie rushed off to be with another girl her own age. Andrew settled me onto a pew and told me that he had to go join the groom’s court. I felt helpless as I watched him go.
Lisa, a Latina absolutely beaming with pride, sashayed slowly down the center aisle with her father. She wore a plain white sundress, something that probably cost less than sixty dollars, and then they were at the pulpit with all the men. Her father passed her hand to Grant’s, and my heart ached with pure envy.
That was never going to be me, though. I didn’t have a supportive, rowdy group of close, old friends like this couple did. All I had was my very own college degree. That was it. The friends I made at Moritz College were college friends, as in, we would see each other on Facebook for the rest of our lives now. It wasn’t real. Not like all this... This would never be mine. Maybe Andrew would try to pull me into his world, but it wouldn’t work. These people overflowed with warmth and confidence. He would see. He’d get it soon enough. This world wasn’t mine, and I wouldn’t be able to make it here. A part of me was happier before I even tried.
* * *
The reception was almost over, and I was picking at half a plate of slimy pasta. I sat at the main table, where Andrew had been assigned, but no one was sitting with me anymore. Everyone wanted to get barefoot and play tag football. Andrew went with them and insisted that I come, too, but I held back. I’d break my neck and rip my dress, anyway. I’ve never been much of an athlete.
I watched as Andrew, barefoot and still in his tux, tackled a blonde woman, barefoot in a green baby doll dress. They crashed onto the field and laughed. Andrew pulled her up and she returned the football to him, which he chucked to Grant. What a world these people lived in. I couldn’t imagine going to a wedding with a buffet featuring fried chicken, much less a wedding where the bride and groom both played football in a field afterward.
“Hey,” a familiar little voice chirped to my right and I glanced down.
“Hey, Connie,” I greeted, placing my fork down on the table. “Your dad is over there, playing football.”
“I know,” Connie chirped. “My mom is over there, too.” She gestured to the blonde, still laughing, raking stiff barrel curls out of her face with a muddy palm. She seemed so vivacious and earthy right now. My eyes shifted away from the football game, and I braced my plastic goblet, filling my mouth with champagne and quickly swallowing. All the bubbles burned my throat and my nose and I cringed like it was deeply-aged whiskey. I went for another drink—I don’t know why. I’m normally not much of a drinker. “So, are you my dad’s girlfriend or what?” Connie wondered, and I spat my drink back into the goblet, spluttering.
“What?” I coughed.
“Well, he never brings girls to stuff like this,” Connie explained. “He has a lot of friends. He doesn’t need more friends.” Her eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “Especially not very pretty ones.”
“Lucky for you, then,” I said with a light laugh. “This is just the mask I wear when I go to scary places.”
Connie giggled. “This isn’t scary,” she assured me. I glanced at the raucous throng of tipsy athletes in cheap evening wear and couldn’t disagree more. I’d rather navigate a silent auction full of dusty billionaires than dive into that rigmarole. Barefoot. “My dad has never shown me a new friend before. And I’m eight. That’s a long time.”
“You don’t know, you can’t remember being a baby,” I replied, reaching for the champagne bottle in the center of the table and hastily refilling my goblet. I hoped that this girl’s incessant questions would soon find their cork. “Maybe the first few years of your life were filled with introductions. In fact, they probably were.” I brought the fresh drink to my lips and chugged.
I brought it back down and felt better. A little loose, a little spacey, but better. I watched Andrew across the field, pounding down the stretch with the football stashed under his arm. Grant crashed into him out of nowhere and they went down hard.
“My dad is awesome,” Connie informed me staunchly, certainly. “You never answered my question.”
“What question?” I wondered, keeping my mouth close to the rim of the goblet, in case I needed an emergency drink. Lisa scooped up a handful of mud and tossed it at Lola, who dissolved into laughter, even though her dress was probably ruined for good now.
“Are you my dad’s girlfriend?”
I swallowed another gulp of champagne. Then an
other. Then there was only one sip left, so I killed it off. “No,” I answered simply, burping softly. My hand flew up to my lips. “Excuse me.”
Connie giggled. “Well, good. My dad has been awesome for my whole life, and I don’t want him to start dating. Love ruins people.”
The words brought my attention fully back to Connie. It was just such a dark, bitter thing for an eight-year-old to say. “Um,” I told her, frowning. I put my goblet down. “Why do you say that?”
“My mom has been in love a bajillion times. It makes her a worse person. She goes out all night. Then she’s mad and checking her phone all the time. Then she’s crying and she wants to take me to the mall and buy a ton of stuff. I don’t get it. It ruins people!”
I braced my hand on Connie’s shoulder and peered deeply into her eyes. “You don’t have to worry about me,” I promised. “There’s no way a man like your dad would ever fall in love with me. I mean, look at me.” I dropped my hand from her shoulder and shrugged, raising my eyebrows helplessly. My bookish, reclusive lifestyle left me stranded on the sidelines all the time. Someone like Andrew would never be satisfied long-term.
“I guess you’re right,” Connie allowed. “Definitely nothing like my mom.”
I glanced over at Lola, who had linked arms with Lisa to down a glass of champagne, and grimaced. Nothing like her. She was lively and intriguing and adventurous. Here I was, at the table with his daughter, shoes still on. He hadn’t even looked over here. It’s his best friend’s wedding. He doesn’t want to babysit you.
The sound of a tinkling glass brought the attention of the wedding party to focus on Andrew, whose bare, muddy feet were firmly planted in front of the microphone on the outdoor stage, next to the DJ booth. The music quieted and Andrew tapped the mic and grinned out at this sea of faces.