Our little dance ends in his bedroom with his bed hitting the back of my legs, preventing me from taking another step.
I gulp, like the big twenty-ounce gulp.
Run!
Yes, I want to run, fast like Wonder Woman or even leap out the window. But part of me wants to stay because Eli smells like those familiar herbs, one of the rare scents that I like. And he looks sexy, not like he can save the world or anything spectacular like that, but definitely like he can bring his A game in bed.
“I look … um …” My eyes close when he ghosts his lips along my cheek to my mouth.
“Fucking spectacular.” He kisses my top lip before teasing his tongue along the seam of my mouth.
I have no bra on under my tank top. My nipples are usually well-behaved. Eli manages to bring out their wild side, and this is a little embarrassing to me. And I don’t like the way my shirt rubs against them in their erect state. Too itchy.
Then there’s the underwear situation. Yes, it’s a situation. Wonder Woman underwear that looks like boys briefs, but they’re not for boys. Really. I bought them online, and it specifically said youth girls’. (Petite peeps like me can wear some youth-sized clothing.)
If he sees them, he might be offended. Wondering if I’d planned on showing Romeo my undies.
I had no such plans. But it could look that way.
I only wore them because I have them. And for my own personal feeling of awesomeness, I wanted to feel as much like Wonder Woman as I could.
Turning my head, I break the kiss. “This shirt is scratching my nipples.”
He studies me for a few seconds and grins, grabbing the hem to my shirt.
“No.” I hug myself to keep him from removing my top. “I need to change my underwear first.”
His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Did you have an accident?”
“No.” I jerk my head back.
“Well, no underwear is required for what I have planned.”
I roll my eyes. “I just don’t want you to see mine.”
“Streaks?”
“What? No!”
“Holes?”
“Ugh … no!”
“Now you have to show me.” He slides his thumbs under the waistband of my shorts. I bat them away.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Eli! They’re Wonder Woman briefs. I was not going to show them to Roman. I’m not a child molester. I wore them because I had them, and they go with the rest of my outfit.”
Eli’s smile swells to his ears. “Jesus … I am one lucky guy tonight. We’ll get to those special undies in a sec. I’m more concerned about your nipples.” His hands return to the hem of my shirt.
I reach for my tiara.
“Is that itchy too?” He focuses on my head.
“No.”
“Then leave it on.” His mouth twists into a wicked grin as he slides my shirt up, easing it over my head without disturbing the tiara. “Sit.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling quite agreeable at this point because my nipples are so happy to be freed from the itchy cotton shirt. He palms one of my tiny (yes, tiny) breasts and strokes my nipple with the pad of his thumb as he kisses along my neck to my mouth.
Fact: If done properly, a woman can have an orgasm just from nipple stimulation. Our nipples are a minefield of nerves that send sensations to the same parts of our brains as the clitoris and uterus. Years ago, I read a study about it published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine. I immediately conducted my own experiment and confirmed the accuracy of the published results.
As Eli moves his mouth to my chest, giving Tiny Breasts some expert attention with his tongue, I feel confident that he, too, has read that same article because before long … I have my first orgasm of the night, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He looks quite pleased with himself. I’m pleased with myself too, but not for the orgasm. I manage to not ruin the moment by informing him that I’m very responsive like that, which means it doesn’t take much to pleasure me, and it also doesn’t take much to over stimulate me to the point where I want to crawl out of my skin.
Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.
“Niiice …” I say with a labored breath and heat trapped in my cheeks while we grin at each other. “Enough with my nipples. Now move along to something else.”
Eli chuckles while standing. He shrugs off his shirt and unfastens his jeans. That’s when it hits me … we are seconds and mere inches from his exposed cock hanging or probably bouncing at eye level (mouth level) with me. I jump to my feet which makes his eyes widen with surprise.
Is it hypocritical or maybe just really unfair of me to want him—ask him—to go down on me, when I have no desire or intention of ever reciprocating? Probably.
It’s not that I haven’t studied blowjobs. I have. And if I can turn off my brain, my taste buds, my sense of smell, and numb my gag reflex, I know I can give as good a blowjob as the next person. But that switch doesn’t exist yet—maybe with future medical and pharmaceutical advancements. So Eli is stuck with the woman who has a hypersensitivity to everything. And while I have no actual data to back it up, I feel certain that a lot of Aspies probably get an F in oral sex.
Before Eli can question my quick move to my feet, I kiss him. That I can do. That I actually really like doing.
And to ease the sting of the blowjob ban, I slide my hand down the front of his briefs and wrap it around his cock. My hand can’t smell it, taste it, or gag on it. So I know I can and will stroke it all night if that’s what it takes to keep that thing out of my mouth.
“Goddamn …” he seethes, breaking our kiss and resting his forehead on mine just below my tiara, watching me stroke him. I don’t mind watching either. I’m pretty good at it.
Eli grabs the back of my head and smashes his mouth to mine, moaning into our kiss, rocking his pelvis into my hand. “Take off my pants,” he mumbles against my lips.
Shit!
That’s classic code for getting a woman to squat to pull said pants down, only to stab her in the throat with a cock.
I tear my mouth from his and remove my hand from his pants. He watches me with hooded eyes while wetting his lips. Eli looks drugged. And hot. He looks really hot. But not even the sun is hot enough for me to fall for the take-my-pants-off trap. And the tight-lipped smile I give him should clue him in about that. He has to know I’m on to him and his amateur tactics.
I kiss his chest and his arm, slowly moving to his back where I kiss between his shoulder blades while wrapping my arms around him, scraping my nubbins for nails along his chest. And then … I squat into the safe zone. My hands curl round the waistband of his jeans and briefs, pulling both down in one moderately smooth motion. As I kiss the backside of his legs and over his firm ass, he steps out of his jeans and turns toward me.
A tiny smile pulls at his lips as he grabs my ass, jerking me closer to him. “Why the grin?”
I removed your pants without swallowing your dick! I’m pretty fucking proud of myself.
And that’s exactly what will come out of my mouth if I’m forced to give an answer. So I raise onto my toes and kiss him instead. Hugging me tighter, he lifts me off the floor and lays me in the middle of his bed.
Kneeling between my spread knees, he peels off my socks and tosses them over his shoulder, wearing a cocky grin. “I fear I’ve wasted my whole life setting the bar too low for my fantasies because you’re the ultimate wet dream right now.” He kisses along my calf, making a slow ascent up my leg while sliding my shorts down a few inches, just enough to reveal my girl-boy briefs. “Perfect.” He grins, completely removing my shorts and sending them to collect on the floor with the rest of my clothes.
“What?” I ask as he rakes his gaze over my body without moving another muscle.
“You’re beautiful, Dorothy. And I just want to look at you. Just for a few seconds, I want to commit this to memory.”
It sounds sweet. It really does. But I’m sprawled out on his bed wearing nothing
more than Wonder Woman briefs and a tiara. Kinky? Fetish-like even? Maybe. But beautiful is hard to believe, probably because I see parts more than the whole of things. Beautiful what? Eyes? Skin? Hair?
“Are you a little kinky, Eli?”
His lips twitch, eyes filled with unspoken words. I need those words. Forcing me to guess shit usually ends in disaster.
“Define kinky.” He leans forward and kisses my abs, teasing his tongue along the top of my Wonder Woman briefs.
I close my eyes as my fingers curl into his hair, urging him a bit lower. He runs his nose along the crotch of my briefs, driving me mad with the warmth of his breath.
“Eli …” I lift my hips from the bed. Yes, I realize it’s the equivalent of him stabbing at my mouth with his cock. I never claimed my reasoning was fair.
“Not yet …” His mouth denies my request as it kisses its way up my body. “If I give you that now…” he brushes his lips over mine “…I’ll have to wash my mouth out with soap and water, and brush and floss my teeth before I can kiss you. And right now … I want to kiss you.”
I grin. “Solid point.”
Eli kisses me, it feels different than his other kisses—a weird clash of patience and desperation. Maybe it’s his naked body hovering over mine. Maybe it’s that we’re on the verge of having sex totally naked in a bed that doesn’t belong to his mom.
His hands explore my body. Mine rest on his arms. Eli lets things build slowly as if he wants to draw out the moment. The journey seems to matter to him. I, on the other hand, have laser focus on the destination.
I hate that I have two modes: Don’t touch me. Or … Give me an orgasm now!
Foreplay is simply an overabundance of touching.
“Put on a condom.”
“I will.” He takes his sweet time working his mouth back down my body.
I grimace, clenching my hands to prevent myself from reaching between my legs and getting myself off. Yes, something I would have done and often did do years earlier. The look of shock guys would get on their faces after I’d pleasure myself and hop out of bed before they wrapped it up and made an attempt to stick it inside of me was truly priceless.
But Eli is not just a random guy I plan on using for a quick orgasm. And I want him to think I’m good at sex—not just with myself, but with him too.
Again, he lets his mouth hover between my legs as he slides a finger under my briefs, teasing my clit. My hand covers his as I jerk my pelvis, guiding his finger inside of me.
Yes!
He’s slow. My hips rock against his hand at a much faster pace. His thumb finds my clit as he kisses my inner thigh, teasing it with his tongue.
Are we done kissing? I feel like we are. If he can add his long middle finger and move his tongue up two inches, including it in the mix, I will see stars.
“Let me get the condom.”
What?!
He sits on the edge of the bed, retrieves a condom from the drawer, and rolls it on.
I shimmy out of my superhero briefs. “Hurry up.”
His body vibrates. “We have all night.”
No. We most certainly do not have all night. There’s pizza downstairs. I have my meds to take. Face to wash. Teeth to brush and floss. And if he can work on his efficiency, we might have it one more time, but there’s no way we’re dragging out this one time. All. Night. Long.
No fucking way.
So … I attack him. That’s really the best description. I push him back on the bed and kiss him hard while lining up his cock. Then I sink down as we seethe in unison.
“Find it, Eli.” I grin, holding up my wrist and setting my sexual activity function on my watch.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not a race.”
“I disagree.” I start moving at a brisk pace.
He grabs my hips to slow me down, but I keep pace, chasing that orgasm, angling forward to keep my clit rubbing against his pelvis. And as I approach the coveted finish line, he lifts me from him, as if he knows.
“What are you doing?” I protest.
He flips me onto my back—pinning my arms to the bed beside my head—and settles his hips between my legs, sliding back inside of me. “I’m finding it, Mayhem. Better keep up.” He smirks before kissing me and seriously pounding into me.
Game on!
Until … it’s not.
Eli manages to find the perfect angle that denies me the friction I need, and he has my hands pinned to the bed so I can’t help myself.
“You’re terrible at sex.” I scowl at him as sweat beads along his brow while moving above me, clearly burning more calories and approaching the damn finish line that I can no longer see.
“I’m really not.” He grins, releasing my arms.
My hands fly straight to his hair. Balling them into fists, I jerk it as hard as possible. “Fucker …”
He cuts me off with his lips covering mine and his tongue filling my mouth as he slides his hand between our pelvises and delivers a spectacular orgasm just seconds after he climaxes. Eli just has to win.
Chapter Twenty
Dorothy Defined
Elijah
Well, that was a first.
Even the times I had angry sex with Julie, it wasn’t all that angry. More like make-up sex with a bit of attitude.
Dorothy Mayhem sex involves a playing field—maybe a battlefield—a time clock, and placement medals.
Before I can hook an arm around her and pull her next to me, she’s out of bed and back into her superhero pajamas, minus the tiara that fell off while she rode me like a true immortal.
“Wow …” She bends down and cocks her head to look at the stack of books on the side table by the chair in the corner of my bedroom. “You have a lot of books on autism. Do you think Roman is on the spectrum?”
I sit up and reach for a tissue, my briefs, and jeans. “No.”
Dorothy eases into the chair and inspects the books one at a time. “Autism in Heels. Sounds like something for a woman.”
I wait on the edge of the bed, jeans pulled on, hands folded between my legs.
She glances over at me, eyebrows peaked in question. “Are you reading these because of me?”
I nod, wondering what’s going through her mind. Do I need to apologize? Fish for some pathetic excuse?
Dorothy tosses them onto the ottoman and rubs her lips together. “What do you want to know? You don’t need a book. All you have to do is ask me.”
Dropping my head, I massage the back of my neck. “I wasn’t looking for answers. I was looking for insight. I was looking for the questions I never would have thought to ask until after I screwed up. Until it was too late.”
She nods slowly, forehead wrinkled. “I bet it was frustrating reading these. Because for every three things that you could relate directly to me, there had to be at least one … maybe two that don’t quite fit. I know this because I’ve read all the books. I think even this one.” She picks one of the books up and glances at the back of it.
I look up at her and whisper, “Yes.”
“If I picked up a book about men, would all the stereotypes apply to you?”
I shake my head.
“If I figure you out, will that mean I know everything that makes Dr. Warren act the way he does?”
I shake my head.
“The spectrum is human. It’s not autism. Doesn’t matter what the so-called experts say. But I owned the label years ago anyway.” She giggles. “Imagine being my parents … sitting around a table with your ten-year-old kid (after years of being told girls don’t get autism), and the doctor finally says, ‘Yes. The diagnosis is Asperger’s.’ And your kid yells out, ‘Oh great … now I have ASS BURGERS.’”
I bite my lips together, until my face turns blue.
Dorothy smirks. “It’s okay. You can laugh. It’s pretty funny.”
I fist my hand at my mouth and laugh until my stomach hurts, just like I did in the back of her Audi when she said “snacking on Dorothy.” It’s not m
e laughing at her in a mean way. It’s her making me laugh in the most refreshing way. After Julie left, I wondered if I would ever laugh like this again.
Roman makes me laugh, and it’s real. And it feels good. But it’s bittersweet because every time he does something cute or funny, I want to call Julie’s name and tell her to come watch him or listen to him repeat it. But Julie isn’t here. We are no longer a family unit. And that always steals a tiny piece of joy from the moment.
“My parents tell that story all the time. It took me years to see the humor in it. But now it makes me laugh. Humor can be difficult for me. Laughing at myself never came naturally. I can do it now, but only because I learned to do it. Through many meltdowns and tears, I forced myself to laugh it off. And journal. I work things out that way. And sometimes I talk stuff through with my parents. They aren’t board-certified talk doctors like your mom, but they suffice. They help me put things into perspective. Tell me when I’ve overreacted in a situation or underestimated the importance of doing or saying more.”
I make my way to her, removing the books from the ottoman and sitting on it, resting my hands on her legs, hoping it’s okay. She places her hands on top of mine. I need this. I need to know that I can touch her—at least sometimes—and that it’s okay. Some things in these books worry me. They make me think she will never want to be touched. Never truly want to have sex.
“I don’t read those books to figure you out. I read them to learn more about a part of the human spectrum.”
She glances up at me and smiles.
“It never hurts to study different perspectives. Right?” I ask.
“Right.”
“Think it’s too late for pizza?”
Dorothy’s jaw drops as she gasps. “It’s never too late for pizza.”
“Okay, Wonder Woman. Let’s eat.” I stand, taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen.
She piles half the pizza onto her plate.
I chuckle. “Worried I’m going to eat more than my share?”
“It happens a lot to me.” She grabs her bag and fishes out a pill container.
Keep This Promise Page 185