“Brody,” she whispers, a warning, her eyes closing, her lips parting, her moans gaining in resonance and frequency.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxes, “cum to me.”
Seemingly on demand, she clenches tighter around him, her insides, much like her abdomen, flutter uncontrollably in successive waves. The warm flood of her creamy nectar consumes him, pushing him to the limit of his own refrain. Brody’s thrusts now fluid and powerful, duly met by Savannah’s as she presses him on to his own glorious release. And out it comes, one satisfying, guttural, red-blooded growl.
Savannah looks up at him, biting her bottom lip, holding back a giggle as her curiosity has been served. His body trembles accompanied by a few more penetrating strokes, fully emptying himself inside her. She welcomes his commanding frame as his chest falls to hers, his arms tucked around her like a cocoon, supporting his weight.
“Mmh,” he groans, planting a soft, gratified caress on her lips, the heart-shaped kissers slightly swollen from his previous affection. A wry grin forming on his own full mouth as he retreats taking note of the pleasurable affection displayed in her smiling eyes, still contemplating his triumphant, virile growl. “I guess we answered your question.” Clearing his throat, he continues self-consciously, “Kinda caveman-ish, huh?”
Savannah notices a flash of doubt in his earnest eyes. Quick to comfort him, she strokes the side of his deliciously rugged face. “I loved it,” she purrs. “Makes me feel like I did something right. Pleased you,” her words fall off, feeling herself growing bashful with the sentiment. The euphoria slowly wearing off, returning to reality as she becomes cognizant that she lays totally naked with a stranger really, a one-night stand.
Very much in tune with her, nearly as though he can read her thoughts, Brody jostles her form, securely meeting her eye to eye. “You did please me, Savannah. You did everything right.” He pauses. “You don’t think it was wrong? You don’t regret it, do you?”
She shakes her head, aiming to convince herself. “I just don’t want you to think this is what I do…with everyone.” Her eyes flit about the room, meeting his intermittently. “I mean, I hardly know you. Last week you were gym boy, and now I’m here…in your bed.”
He nods, understanding her quandary. “Well, so we’re clear…I don’t do this with just anyone. I haven’t done this in quite some time.” He raises his eyebrows conscientiously. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had such a problem…” He groans uncomfortably. “Maintaining my stroke,” he references the rather short duration of their intimacy.
“I don’t care so much about the time it takes. No one does, really,” Savannah consoles. “It’s the outcome we’re all after.” Growing mindful of the outcome, she pats him affectionately on the cheek, cuing him to remove himself from inside her. An anguished sigh escapes her lungs as he slowly pulls out, leaving her void of the pleasurable feeling. Pushing her way out from beneath him, “Bathroom?” she inquires.
“Across the hall.” He lies on his side, propped up on his elbow, his eyes unable to pull their gaze from her attractive, unclothed frame.
Savannah modestly covers her breasts with her arm, her other hand camouflaging her nether region. A sheepish grin on her face, she backs out of his room to the bathroom.
Brody hops up off of the bed. Searching through his dresser drawer, he pulls out a pair of briefs, promptly stepping into them. Recalling Savannah’s absence of an overnight bag, he grabs a comfortable, worn-in nightshirt for her. Laying it out on the bed, he sits down beside it, his elbows resting on his knees, the palms of his hands wringing together restlessly.
Savannah’s steps are quick and light as she makes her way back into his room. Her hair purposely disheveled covering the sides of her face, she avoids eye contact with him, gathering up her tank top and pajama bottoms.
“Where are you going?” Brody asks, concerned as she kneels self-consciously beside her clothes, an attempt to hide her naked frame.
“Home…I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders, assuming that is what one does after a one-night stand.
“Stay,” he says, reaching out his hand, offering up the nightshirt.
“You don’t have to do that,” Savannah replies. “It’s okay. I mean, I know what this was. I’m okay with going home.”
“I’m not okay with it.” His warm eyes grow troubled. “You’re welcome to stay. I want you to stay.” He pushes his arm further toward her, the cozy garment extended from his hand.
Savannah accepts the nightshirt, quickly slipping into its cottony smooth texture, still perched on the floor aside her clothing. “Sorry,” she says through a smile. “I’m not used to this. Guess I don’t fully understand the rules.”
“There are no rules.” He smiles back. “Just go with your feeling.” She looks down at the oversized baby blue shirt swallowing her frame, the hem and the sleeves tattered and worn, carrying with it his clean, becoming scent. “We used to call those shag shirts, in my college days.” Brody chuckles with the memory.
“Huh?” Savannah asks, requiring further explanation.
“You know…a shag shirt. After you spend the night with a girl. You send her home in your shirt. It was a fraternity thing.” Brody grows uncomfortable with the admission, the premise much cooler in his adolescence.
“Oh,” she expels, now fully understanding the concept. Her sharp mind kicking in, she pulls the shirt away from her skin, fully prepared to disrobe dependent on his next reply. “Just how many girls have you sent home in this shirt?” She eyes him with a twisted grin. “One thing you should know about me, gym boy, I’m not fond of seconds.”
“You’re the first…and only,” he charms with a swaggering upturned mouth. “You see, that’s the thing about a shag shirt, once you give it to a girl, you don’t get it back.”
“Ah,” she chuckles. “It’s their trophy, should they so choose to display it.”
“Yep.” He pulls the covers back on his bed, settling into its center, patting the empty space in front of him, a beckon for her company. “So, what of it, gym girl? You going to proudly display my mark?” His eyes scan the baby blue material, although oversized, still providing a shapely silhouette over her sensuous form.
“Maybe.” Savannah grips her lower lip between her teeth, joining him in bed.
Brody pulls her to him, nestling her back tightly against his brawny chest, his premium, long frame fully spooning around her. Savannah giggles, settling in, feeling emotionally fulfilled for the first time in a long time. Amazing how an orgasm can do that, she thinks to herself.
A few moments of silence pass by, both of them simply enjoying the comfort of another body, another being, another heart to comrade with. “Now, isn’t this better than going home, alone,” Brody whispers, planting an affectionate kiss through her hair and onto the back of her head.
“Yeah,” she whispers back, her tone a mixture of apprehension and wonder.
The sound of her voice soothing, the curves of her body inviting, Brody internally reprimands the reactivity of his maleness below as it yearns to rise to the occasion yet again, effectively spurred by the fine ass it nestles against. Determined to simply hold her, proof that his interest is more than just the physical, his mind wins out.
Another time, Thor, Brody consoles his dutiful member, aptly using its superhero moniker. “Goodnight, Sweet Savannah.”
“Goodnight, Gym Boy.” She giggles, her eyelashes meeting together, the sleepy rhythm of his heartbeat at her back providing a most melodic dreamscape.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Savannah sits at her desk at the Savannah Sun Times. She exudes a most revitalized energy, particularly for a Monday. Busily working away at her weekly column, she is joined by her less than enthused cubicle mate, Tami Lynn.
“Morning!” Savannah greets her.
“Yeah,” Tami Lynn mutters, flopping herself into her chair, reluctantly starting up her computer.
“Here. This will help.” Savannah slides a latte
in Tami Lynn’s direction.
Tami Lynn’s eyes light up. “Oh, pumpkin spice latte, how I love thee.” She presses the beverage to her lips, only to be disappointed. “Uh…it’s cold.”
“Pop it in the microwave. It’ll heat up in a jiff.” Savannah affirms, busily typing away. “I got here a little early this morning,” she further elaborates, explaining the cold beverage.
“Early?” Tami Lynn investigates. “Nobody shows up to work early, on Monday…unless!” Her index finger shoots up on the air. Spinning Savannah’s chair around, Tami Lynn looks her over. “OMG…spill,” she pleads in a whisper, ducking her head as the office stirs with activity, their co-workers arriving one after the other.
A pleasurable laugh escapes Savannah, surprising herself, quickly camouflaging her face with her hands, apparently the euphoria from last night still lingers.
Tami Lynn grabs at the ill-fitting baby blue shirt Savannah sports. “Is this a shag shirt?” she squeals, her feet jumping up and down off the floor as she sits in her chair.
Savannah eyes her curiously, her spontaneous merriment quelling. “How do you know about shag shirts?”
“I was in a sorority in college. Everybody knows about shag shirts.” Tami Lynn waves her hands wildly. “That’s not the point. Who? Where? Was it gym boy?” Deciphering the confirmation in Savannah’s smile, her eyes grow wild with anticipation. “Oh…my…gawd! How’d he do it? Was it sooo good, Savannah?” Tami Lynn pulls her closer in proximity, whispering, “Tell me he was BIG,” her whisper unparalleled to her expressive body language. “I had this guy one time. He was big…it was big. Tell me it was big…” She shakes Savannah. “Tell me something!”
“Shh,” Savannah quiets her. “If you’d shut it, maybe I could tell you.” She pulls away, straightening out the baby blue material after being wrangled by Tami Lynn’s paws. Giving in to a wide grin, she speaks in bullet points, knowing that’s the only way to get a word in edgewise. “Gym boy…his house…BIG,” Savannah motions with her hands for emphasis, “satisfying…perfect…ready for round two.”
Sam McDonald, their associate editor, rounds the cubicle on his way into the office, eavesdropping on their conversation. “Sounds like someone decided to throw Fido a bone,” he chuckles in a high-pitched, approving voice.
“Bone?” Tami Lynn spouts. “More like the whole damn ham!” She high-fives Sam, proud of her comeback.
Sam gives Tami Lynn a snooty, apologetic look, finding her wit a far cry from his. Straightening the necktie peeking out from under his form-fitting v-neck sweater, Sam eyeballs Savannah’s uncanny choice of attire. “Proudly displaying the shag shirt, I see. You like this guy.” He raises his eyebrows speculatively.
Savannah looks at him, taken aback. “How is it that everyone knows about the shag shirt?” She contemplates how she became privy to its infamous stature just last night.
“Bogey inbound,” Sam’s assistant alerts in passing, a warning that Willodean is in the building.
Sam nods, understood. Turning back to Savannah, he further inquires, “So, are you going to see him again?”
Savannah shrugs. “I don’t know. Just enjoying the moment, Sam.” She grins flirtatiously.
“Atta girl!” Sam affirms. “It’s a proud day here at Savannah Sun Times.” He dramatically makes a fist over his heart, feeling as though her one-night stand is partially his accomplishment. “Stick with me kid, I won’t lead you astray.” And he’s off, having smelled Willodean’s pleasant, yet exorbitant, perfume enter the office.
Tami Lynn swiftly turns away from Savannah toward her computer, busying her hands with its keyboard, having spotted Willodean, her trajectory their cubicle. Savannah follows suit, her nose poked in her computer screen.
“Ms. Bondurant,” Willow calls, approaching the cubicle.
“Yes Ma’am,” Savannah answers attentively.
“You’ll be pleased to know the feedback from your Taking Out The Trash bit was quite favorable.” Willow reports reluctantly, looking over Savannah’s shoulder, skimming over her latest entry.
“Sweet!” Savannah exclaims, her initial guttural response. Clearing her throat, she follows up, challenging her vocabulary as usual in her well-versed superior’s presence. “That’s superlative news. Thank you, Willow.”
“Willow,” Tami Lynn mouths to herself, wondering how Savannah rates, establishing a first-name basis with their seemingly uptight head honcho.
“Stop Defending Yourself,” Willow reads the working title of her column from the computer screen. “I’m not fond of that title.” Willow perches herself aside Savannah atop her desk, the end piece of her classic full-rimmed black bifocals thoughtfully pressed to her lip.
“You and I, both,” Savannah concurs, hoping she got the pronouns correct, the tricky little you and I or you and me verbiage tripping her up. “I’m contemplating the double standard…for men and women…post-divorce.” Communicating with her hands, she continues, “You know, how men are expected, encouraged, to dive right back into the deep end. And women, we’re expected to wait, given an appropriate amount of time before dipping our toe into the dating pool. Having to explain…defend our every move.”
“The painful process of explaining and defending one’s emotional and sexual recovery,” Willow confirms, having been through a few high-profile divorces in her lifetime. “This would be so much easier if we still burned our bras and proclaimed free love,” she reminisces about her college experience.
Savannah looks at her, slightly awestruck, her reverence for the face of the Savannah Sun Times deepening.
“What?” Willow challenges. “You assume I’m too pretentious to have burned my bra?”
“Not at all,” Savannah replies. “Just wish I could have been there to see it.”
“Surely your mother is my age,” Willow deduces. “It was a fine time to be alive.” A rare smile forms on her lips as she recalls her generation. “Research assignment for you. Ask your mother about the sixties.”
Savannah raises her eyebrows, the action calling the lines in her forehead to prominence. “I highly doubt there was any bra burning in my mother’s history.” She considers her mother’s prudence.
“You know what they say, the prim ones are the wildest,” Willow advises. “And refrain from scrunching up your forehead. It’s unbecoming.”
Suddenly feeling as though she is in the presence of her prim mother, Savannah relaxes her forehead, running her fingertips over it as if to smooth out the lines.
“Why dip when you can dive,” Willow says, standing up from Savannah’s desk and exiting the cubicle.
“Pardon me?” Savannah inquires.
“That’s your title. Why Dip When You Can Dive,” Willow repeats.
“Oh!” Savannah quickly changes her column heading, frustrated she hadn’t already considered such.
Willow stops at the outer edge of the cubicle. “I surmise this will be the first and only time you sport a shag shirt in this office.” Willow peers at her knowingly over the tops of her bifocals.
Tami Lynn, steadily typing away at her keyboard, swallows an emerging chuckle at the hip verbiage rolling off Willodean’s nearly archaic tongue.
Savannah blushes, her hand subconsciously winding itself into the baby blue material. “Yes Ma’am,” she whispers sheepishly. Willow flits her a shrewd smirk before walking away.
Once the pungent aroma of Willow’s perfume exits their work area, Tami Lynn spins around in her chair, letting loose a bottled-up cackle. “No way in Helvetica,” Tami Lynn speaks in her expertise, typography, “Willodean Abernathy knows about shag shirts!”
“Uh, yes way,” Savannah argues, slightly mortified. “You just heard it straight from the canary’s mouth.” Further contemplating, she continues, “Am I that uncool? I didn’t know what a shag shirt was but Willow does.”
Tami Lynn looks at her, finally quieting her laughter, “Speaking of…how is it that you get to call her Willow?”
Savannah shrugs. �
�I didn’t know we weren’t supposed to.”
“It’s the blonde hair, isn’t it?” Tami Lynn jousts.
Savannah shoots her a pressing glance. “There’s nothing bashful about Willodean,” she emphasizes her official handle. “If she didn’t like it, she’d be the first to let me know.”
“You writers. Editors think you’re Cinderella.” Tami Lynn rolls her eyes. “Typographers…we’re the spinster stepsisters.”
“If the shoe fits,” Savannah spars playfully.
“Shoes…feet…big feet…big hands…big stick,” Tami Lynn talks herself circularly back to their conversation prior to Willodean’s interruption. “So are you going to see him again?”
“Huh?” Savannah is lost in her work.
“Gym boy,” Tami Lynn exasperates.
“Oh. Yeah. Maybe,” Savannah dismisses, continuing with her work.
“See. This is why you’re uncool. All you do is focus on work.” Tami Lynn throws her hands up in the air. “If you’d slow down and smell the roses, you’d become more in tune with pop culture, Savannah.”
“When pop culture pays my bills and advances my career, I will pay more attention to it,” Savannah partakes of their daily repartee.
“How did you end things? Is he going to call you? Or are you calling him?” Tami Lynn continues. “That has to be substantiated you know, or else you’re both left hanging.”
“Tami Lynn,” Savannah whirls around in her chair, facing her cubicle mate, “you’re giving me a headache. It’s not that deep. It was just sex. Very good sex.”
“Well, did you talk afterward?”
Savannah laughs frustratingly. “I think we let our bodies do the talking.” She taps her pencil against her chin. “Maybe there’s something to that…having sex just to have it…quite liberating, actually.”
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