by Sylvia Fox
My parents had called from London, the jumping off point for their European odyssey, and they sounded ecstatic. I was happy for them. My parents were good people and deserved this adventure.
I arrived home from class on Tuesday and had started packing when Alexa walked in.
She dropped her books on her bed before sitting down on mine, next to my open suitcase.
“So, I know older women who go for younger guys are cougars. What are older guys who go for younger girls? Or, better question, what are younger girls who go for older guys?” she asked, playfully.
“Whatever, Alexa. I’m going to eat Thanksgiving dinner, sleep for approximately forty hours, and enjoy the scenery. Not all of us are sex crazed, you know. What’s the deal, is Graham going with you, or what?”
“As a matter of fact, Graham will be dining on my father Larry’s world famous deep-fried turkey Thursday evening. He actually has a friend who graduated last year who lives in the next town over from mine, so he’s going to stay at his place,” Alexa replied, going through texts as we chatted.
“Introducing him to your folks, eh? That’s a big step. Do I hear wedding bells?” I asked. My turn to needle her.
“I don’t know; we’ll see how it goes. My mom excels at scaring guys away. At least in high school she did.”
“At least your parents will be on the same continent for Thanksgiving, Lex. Mine are-” Alexa cut me off with a squeal of delight, reaching into the neatly-folded stacks in my suitcase and pulling out my blue bikini.
“And what is this all about, Jo?”
“Oh, shut up, he has a hot tub. I’m not you, I’m not going to get in naked,” I yanked it from her hands and stuffed the top down between two pairs of jeans and a sweater I’d packed.
“You may as well be, Jo. That looks like it would have fit you when you were twelve.”
“It fits me fine. I wore it when we laid out together a couple months ago, you dork.” I corrected.
“Yeah, and you were spilling out of it then. Do you want to give Professor Hotness a heart attack?”
“He’s seen me in a bathing suit before. You are ridiculous. Now can I finish packing, please?” I closed my opened suitcase so she couldn’t snoop anymore.
Alexa kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet beneath her, turning her attention to her phone. “I’m just saying. Alone at his cabin in the woods, hot tub; come on, Jo.”
I wadded up a sports bra I didn’t intend to take with me and threw it at her. “Like I said. Ridiculous. Don’t you need to pack?”
“Yes. Just putting it off as long as humanly possible. I think I’ll just take a trash bag filled with dirty laundry home with me, anyway. Give my mom something to do while I’m out with Graham.”
We bickered and bantered the early afternoon away until I lugged my bag downstairs to wait for John. I immediately regretted the number of books I’d tried to bring and returned to my room to lighten my load. By the time I made it to the ground floor, John was waiting for me in a sleek black BMW.
“Josephine!”
He always seemed super-excited to see me. It had been that way ever since I could remember.
He wrapped me up in a bear hug and then popped the trunk, easily lifting the suitcase I’d struggled down the stairs and across the lobby with.
“Sorry it’s so heavy, I probably overpacked,” I offered.
“Heavy? Pfft. Is it the only one?”
“Just that and my backpack,” I replied.
“The number one fashion accessory of the season for the stylish Moultrie coed,” John joked.
He opened the door for me and I slipped inside, easing onto the most comfortable car seat I’d ever encountered. John got in and pulled away from the curb, heading toward his condo.
He glanced over at me, letting his hand come to rest on my yoga pants-clad thigh, just above the knee. Goosebumps rose on my skin.
“I know you must be disappointed that you don’t get to spend the holiday with your folks, but I think we’ll have a good time,” he said, and his hand lingered a heartbeat longer than I expected it to. Not that I minded. His car was sexy. He was sexy. I decided that while I was with him, I’d leave uptight behind and have fun. I wasn’t a child anymore; I was a college student. Practically an adult. So why not enjoy graduating to the grown-up table for the holidays? In this case, the very grown up table.
When he removed his hand, and put it back on the steering wheel, I felt more than a little disappointed. My body craved a man’s touch. John wasn’t the man, of course; he was practically family. But seeing him through Alexa’s eyes, he was Professor Hotness.
The condo was fifteen minutes from campus, a gated community filled with expensive cars and huge, old trees. He showed me inside, to a space that reminded me of a boutique hotel you’d see on TV or a movie. Someplace in New York, maybe. The whole place was filled with the heavy fragrance of something cooking, something delicious. Everything was immaculately clean and organized. He gave me the tour, showing me the master bedroom, dominated by a huge bed and a walk-in closet the size of my dorm room.
This was nothing like the bedrooms of the guys I went to college with. Their rooms consisted of movie posters as decor, empty beer cans, and the mushroomy smell of dirty underwear. No thanks.
I preferred John’s lifestyle.
The second bedroom had been converted into an office, with a large desk that looked like it belonged in the office of the president of a law firm, bookshelves circling the room, and a futon along the far wall.
“I don’t have many overnight guests. I suppose the options are the futon, which is very comfortable, despite how it may look, the leather couch in the living room, or my bed. You tell me what works for you,” he offered.
His bed was plenty big enough for the two of us, and looked like just about the comfiest I’d ever seen, but it would have been much too forward to ask for it. “I’ll take the futon. That way, I have my own space, my own bathroom, and I can sleep in while you go back over to school in the morning, right?”
“Absolutely. I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ll be bored to tears here tomorrow, but duty calls.” That smile again. Damn.
“I’ll catch up on sleep and read and who knows, maybe even study,” I joked, and he laughed. “Do you have Netflix?”
“I may be old, but I’m not totally uncool,” he claimed. “Yes, I certainly do have Netflix. So, after dinner tonight we can, how do you kids say it? Netflix and chill, right?”
“Well, honestly, ‘chill’ is kind of a versatile piece of slang, and when coupled with Netflix, it means something a little different than just hanging out,” I clarified, and he turned the color of a stop sign.
“And that is why I’m not an English professor. Or a college student!” He shook his head and slapped his massive palm against his forehead.
God he was sexy.
I’d always found him funny, and the coed version of me, Jo, laughed along with him just as easily as Jojo and Joey had.
After I’d settled in and killed an hour on social media, John told me dinner was ready to be served. What I’d smelled when I walked in was a slow cooker filled with chicken and dumplings, an “old family recipe.” It had been simmering since morning, and from the first forkful, I was blown away.
“Oh my God, this is delicious! I didn’t know you were such a great cook!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, this is nothing. The crock pot did all the work. You just have to know what to put in it, how much and for how long,” he replied. “What I’m much more proud of is my turkey. It’s been soaking in brine since this morning. By the time we carve it up on Thursday night, hopefully it’ll be the juiciest bird you’ve ever tasted.”
Everything about the way he spoke seemed to imply sex. You just have to know how much to put in and for how long. Juiciest…you’ve ever tasted.
Fuck. I imagined John knew exactly how and for how long to “put it in.” I stared at his mouth as he ate, and once I caught him staring at mine.
We both awkwardly looked back down at our plates.
We drank wine with our chicken and dumplings, although beer or sweet tea seemed more appropriate for such a country dish. Maybe even moonshine. I had half a second bowl and started a third glass of wine, and I was stuffed and walked over to his leather couch while he worked clearing the table.
In the reflection of the dim television screen, I caught him, unmistakably, checking out my ass.
My ass is something I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with. It developed early, and middle and high school boys didn’t know what to make of it. They were fans of my boobs, of course, but none of them seemed to appreciate my prominent posterior. One particularly cretin from 8th grade delighted in calling me Rudy. When I asked him where he got Rudy from Joey, he could barely get the words out between his wheezing, gasping laughter:
“You know, Rudy. Big Booty Rudy!”
The gulf between what 8th grade boys find funny and the rest of humanity finds funny is immense.
But to a clique from my school, I was forever “Rudy.” Or, to the cleverer of my classmates, well, their limited version of clever, anyway, “BBR.”
By the time I was in 10th and 11th grade, and a growth spurt flattened my tummy without changing my breasts or butt, men noticed. It was sometimes silly, pumping gas when somebody would drive by and yell, “I like big butts and I cannot lie!” or the like, and sometimes creepy, when a guy would follow me around at the mall making no attempt to hide what he was staring at, but I hadn’t embraced it until I’d arrived at Moultrie. Alexa was fascinated by it, smacking my ass the first week we roomed together, totally out of the blue.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I’ve just been dying to do that since the first day of school. I just had to get it out of my system. You’re like Serena Williams or something,” Alexa said.
“Oh, shut up. You are so weird. If Serena Williams woke up and looked like me, she’d want to kill herself,” I replied.
“Just be grateful,” Alexa countered. “I can do squats all day and night and all I have is this flat, boring white girl ass.”
“Yeah, well, this,” I palmed and lifted as much of my butt as I could, “is all natural. Ice cream and pizza. No squats required.”
Back to the present, it was undeniably intoxicating to have drawn the attention, especially as forbidden as it was, of a man like John Hardwicke. I liked the feeling of being desired, being stared at. I stood up and walked over to grab the remote for the television, pretending to drop it. I bent at the waist to pick it up, letting my eyes raise to the screen so I could see John’s reflection from the kitchen. He was mesmerized. I stayed bent over like that as long as I dared, straightening up and stretching to emphasize my curves as I turned and faced him.
Our eyes met, and for the first time in my life, I saw what a flustered John Hardwicke looked like. He pulled at the collar of his shirt and cleared his throat.
“Are you okay?” I asked, a demure lilt to my voice.
“Okay? Yeah, of course, quite alright. Yes,” he stammered.
I knew I was playing a dangerous game, but I liked it. I decided to push the envelope.
“I’m so full. Dinner was so yum. I know it’s early, but I’m going to change into my pajamas,” I walked past him and turned into his office, pulling the door only partially closed. I wanted him to be able to look inside if he was so inclined.
I pulled out a short pair of silky running shorts (in which I never ran) and a white cotton tank top. I glanced at the doorway but he never appeared. I went into the bathroom to appraise myself in the mirror, finding my nipples obscenely swollen. I tugged at one for just a moment, gasping and realizing that I was wet. It had been a few days since I’d had the opportunity to work off any stress, and I knew I’d have a hair trigger. I must have been giving off all sorts of pheromones.
I walked back out, an extra sway in my hips, to find John starting the dishwasher. He had composed himself, and although his eyes darted to my chest when he saw me, he was no longer under the spell I’d cast on him by bending over so suggestively.
He excused himself and went into his room to change, returning in a light green t-shirt stretched over his chest and biceps, and black workout pants with a white stripe down the side.
We sat on the couch, him scrolling through his phone while I surfed channels on his giant TV. I stopped on Bravo, on the Real Housewives of Atlanta, one of my guilty pleasures.
He glanced up at the screen, then over to me. “I like Cynthia and Kandi. Kenya is awful.”
“You…watch Housewives?” I asked, in disbelief.
“All academic literature and lecture and no trashy reality TV makes John a dull boy,” he replied. “I watch now and then. Only Atlanta. The rest of them, I can’t stomach. And when Kim was on, it was unwatchable. But the Atlanta women are much more… interesting than the other casts.”
“Interesting?” I asked, genuinely curious. “In what way?”
“Maybe ‘interesting’ isn’t an entirely accurate or truthful description. Okay, I’ll just admit it. If you aren’t going to judge me.”
“Judgement-free zone, right here,” I said, waving a conspiratorial hand between the two of us.
John chuckled, stared at the ceiling, and exhaled. “Two words. To keep it completely germane to the show. Great. Asses.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What happened to the judgement-free zone, Josephine?” he asked, playfully tossing a pillow at me.
“You’re telling me you watch RHOA because of their butts?”
“No, what I’m getting at is we’ve both had too much wine tonight and I should get to bed, is what I’m telling you,” he stood up, clearly embarrassed.
I rose to my feet and walked over, wrapping my arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m not one to talk, anyway. I have my own big booty problems.”
His arms had returned my hug, and one of them slipped down to the small of my back. He made an exaggerated show of leaning across my body to look down my back at my ass. “Indeed you do,” he said, letting his hand linger just above my posterior.
As we separated from our hug, I did a slow pirouette. “But they make millions of dollars from theirs, and all I get is made fun of.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” he replied, making no secret of the fact that he was checking me out.
I told him about the whole Big Booty Rudy thing from school, and his mouth twisted into a frown.
“I hope you realize that those boys just wanted you, but that they realized you were too scared to ever dream of asking out, right?” John asked. “You intimidated the hell out of them. Boys are idiots.”
“No, I just sort of assumed I was some sort of freak,” I replied. I was standing close to him, close enough to touch. There was something in the air between us, something electric. Our tones had turned serious, and everything seemed to have grown quiet except our voices.
“I’m totally out of line for saying this, for even noticing, really, but Josephine, you’re the most beautiful girl at Moultrie. I mean that. From head to toe.”
If he’d have pursed his lips to blow out a candle atop my head, he’d have knocked me right over at that moment.
“Me?” I asked, incredulous.
“Absolutely, you,” John raised a hand to touch my face, to push the hair from my cheek back behind my ear, and his knuckle grazed my nipple. Intentional or not, the effect was immediate and overwhelming. I gasped and looked down at the erect tip through my shirt. His hand found my cheek, and his eyes traveled from my face to follow my gaze to my nipple. We stood silently, staring at it. I was frozen.
He reached down and let the tip of his finger trace a circle around it as I held my breath and trembled. He went back around it in the opposite direction, and it becam
e painfully hard. Just when I thought I’d die if he didn’t touch it, he placed his hand on the small of my back again, pulling me tight against him.
His mouth was an inch from now, and he studied my face, hesitating like a small boy reaching the end of a diving board for the first time.
He wanted it. I needed it. But we both knew nothing could ever be the same again if we went through with it.
We were on the edge of a cliff we were both desperate to jump off of, but also terrified to. Because there’d be no going back. Once you jumped, there was no un-jumping.
Our defenses crumbled simultaneously, and we kissed wildly. Phaedra babbled about something in the background, and he fumbled past me for the remote, muting the set.
We fell onto his couch, me on my back, never breaking our kiss. He used no tongue, just a hungry, consuming mouth. It was nothing like the sloppy high school kisses I’d experienced before. John’s kissing was slow and purposeful, and his hands roamed my body, mauling my breasts and reaching around to cup the bottom of my ass. I was like wet clay, his to mold or sculpt in any way he desired.
The passion and the heat was unbearable.
I tugged at his shirt, and he lifted himself long enough to allow me to remove it. I wanted so badly to feel his chest against mine. When I started to pull my own off, he took hold of my wrist and locked eyes with me.
“Josephine, I want this. Desperately. But I must know that you want it, too. We can stop if you’re in any way uncomfortable,” he said. “I should stop it, but I’m not strong enough to. Even if it’s wrong. If the brakes have to be put on, it’ll have to be by you. Because I want you. More than anything.”
I could feel from the way he was throbbing that he was every bit as aroused as I was.
Between kisses, I reached down and yanked my shorts down, kicking them away. “Make love to me. I’ve never wanted anything more. Please.”
There would be no brakes. Not tonight.
His cock sprung from his pants when he lowered them landing with a thud on my mound. He reached down to position himself, and with one searing thrust, he buried himself inside me.