The Cocktail Collection

by Alice Clayton

  “Yeah.”

  The water beat down around us. I was in the arms of my Simon, and it couldn’t get any better.

  He pulled back a little, a question on his face. “Caroline?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is any of that bread I threw on the floor . . . well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Is any of it zucchini?”

  “Yes, Simon, there’s zucchini bread.”

  Silence once again, but for the water.

  “Caroline?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I didn’t think I could love you more, but I really kind of do.”

  “I’m glad, Simon. Now gimme some sugar.”

  chapter twenty-two

  The same day, 4:37 p.m.

  “Is that the soap? Don’t slip on the soap.”

  “I won’t slip on the soap.”

  “I don’t want you to slip. Be careful.”

  “I won’t slip on the soap. Now turn back around and be quiet.”

  “Quiet? Not possible, not when you . . . mmm . . . and then when you . . . ooohhh . . . and then when you—ow, that hurt, Simon. You okay back there?”

  “I slipped on the soap.”

  I started to turn around to see if he was indeed okay when he suddenly pressed me up against the shower wall, holding my hands flat against the tile. Lips tickled and water sprinkled down my skin and across my shoulders as his body flexed against mine. Thoughts of runaway soap slipped from my mind as he slipped inside me, hard and thick and delicious. My breath left me in a gasp, amplified by the tile walls, made sexy by the water falling, and quickly followed by another gasp as he proceeded to thrust into me, achingly, slowly, and purposefully, his hands now gripping my hips.

  I threw my head backward, turning my face to find the sight of Simon, naked and wet. His brow was furrowed, mouth open as he invaded completely and without apology. I spiraled fast, awareness and clear thought narrowing down to a pinpoint before exploding, wordless words falling out of my mouth and down to the water, circling the drain.

  Now that O was back, she didn’t dally. So far, at least, she arrived promptly and without question, shattering the memory of days and weeks and months of waiting and crying, begging and pleading. She’d rewarded me with a steady, constant parade that left me scrambled and silly, boneless and ready for more.

  Groaning into my ear, shivering and pulsing, Simon failed to slow his roll. He knew inherently, as I knew, that his girl was good for a few more. And so, with agonizing dexterity, he planted a wet kiss on my neck, left my body, spun me quickly, and was back inside before I could say, “Hey, where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere, Nightie Girl, not anytime soon,” he muttered, roughly grabbing my bottom and lifting me against the wall, using his weight to crush me against the tile, holding me to him and holding me inside. His body flexed while mine flattened, our slippery skin feeling indescribable against each other. How had I stayed away from this man as long as I had? No matter. He was here, inside me, and about to deliver another O parade throughout. I pressed back against him, opening the space between us just enough to gaze down, lust clouding my vision but not so much that I couldn’t see him entering me, over and over again, filling me up like no man ever had.

  Now glancing down himself to see what had me so transfixed, he was captivated as well, and a sound rather like Mmph left his mouth. His movements sped up, chasing it down, that feeling, that tipping point that felt so close to pain and so close to perfection. Those blue eyes, now filled with lust and fire, flew back up to mine as we both threw ourselves off that cliff again together.

  Seizing. Freezing. Locked and unloaded. We came together with a roar and a grunt and a groan that left my throat raw and my hoohah thrilled.

  Thrilled hoohah . . . what a great name for a . . . mmm . . .

  6:41 p.m.

  Walking around my apartment in only a towel, dodging flour piles and raisin clumps, Simon was a sight to behold. When he skidded on a patch of marmalade and bumped into the counter, I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the couch. He now stood in front of me with a slice of zucchini bread as I laughed, an amused look on his face. I continued to laugh, and my towel slipped down, revealing more than a little of my assets. At the sight of boobs, two things happened. His eyes popped, and something else popped. Popped out. I raised an eyebrow at this latest development.

  “You realize you are turning me into some kind of machine?” he noted, nodding down at his hi-there poking through the towel. Simon took the time to place his zucchini bread safely on the coffee table.

  “How cute is that? It’s like he’s poking his head out from behind a curtain!” I clapped my hands.

  “You may not be aware, but as a general rule, no man likes the word cute in the same sentence as his junk.”

  “But he is cute—uh-oh, where’d he go?”

  “He’s shy now. Still not cute, but shy.”

  “Shy, my ass. He wasn’t so shy in the shower a little while ago.”

  “He needs his ego stroked.”

  “Wow.”

  “No, really. I think you’ll find he is quite receptive to stroking.”

  “Now see, I was thinking maybe he just needed a good tongue-lashing, but if you think stroking will suffice. . . .”

  “No, no, I think a tongue-lashing is quite in order. He—Goddamn, Caroline!”

  I leaned in, brought the shy one forth, and immediately surrounded him with my mouth. Feeling him grow harder still, I settled myself on the edge of the couch, wrapped my arms around him and dropped the towel. Pulling him closer, and therefore deeper into me, I hummed in satisfaction as I felt his hands come up into my hair and trace my face. Reverently, he placed his fingers on my eyelids, cheeks, temples, finally burying one hand in my hair and the other, well, wow. He held himself. As I concentrated all my attention on the tip of him, he stroked himself at the base, something that was quite possibly the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. Seeing his hand, wrapped around himself as he moved in and out of my mouth . . . oh my.

  Sexy isn’t the right word for it. It is inadequate in the face of the pure erotica playing out in front of me. And speaking of in front of me, I hummed again in appreciation, feeling myself getting worked up just at the play my mouth was getting. Lucky mouth.

  I fell back against the couch and pulled Simon with me. He responded by using both hands to brace against the back of the couch, thrusting in and out of my mouth with conviction. The angle allowed him to penetrate more deeply, and made it easier for me to take more of him in. I grabbed his backside, feeling the thrill of attending to him, knowing it was me, only me, who got to have him in this way.

  I could feel him getting close. I was already beginning to know his tells intimately. I wanted him again. I was selfish this way. Releasing him with a final strong pull, I pushed him down on to the couch and straddled him. Feeling me against him, he thrust upward as I sank down, and there was that moment—you know that moment? When everything feels stretched and pulled in the most delicious way? Your body reacts: something that shouldn’t be inside is now inside and for a split second, it’s alien, unknown. And then your skin senses a returning champion, your muscle memory takes over, and then it’s so good, that feeling of fullness, of wonder and awe.

  And then you begin to move.

  Grabbing his shoulders for leverage, I rolled my hips into his, noticing not for the first time that he’d been intelligently designed with my exact measurements in mind. He fit inside me perfectly, two halves of a whole, some kind of sexual Lego. He sensed it too, I could tell.

  He placed his hand flat against my chest, directly on top of my heart. “Stunning,” he whispered as I rode him, sweet and hot. He kept my heart in his hand as I rocked into him, his other hand on my hip, guiding me, positioning me, feeling me attend to us both. He struggled to stay with me, to keep his eyes open as his release rushed in. I took his hand from my heart and placed it further down, where he began to trace those damnable perfect circles.r />
  “Jesus, Simon . . . oh, God . . . so . . . soooo good . . . I . . . mmm . . .”

  “I love watching you fall apart,” he groaned, and I did. And he did. And we did.

  I collapsed into him, watching until the room stopped spinning and the feeling returned to my fingers and toes, warmth snaking through my body as he held me to him.

  “Tongue-lashing. What an idea,” he snorted, and I giggled.

  8:17 p.m.

  “Ever think about changing the paint color in here?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What? Maybe a lighter shade of green? Or even a blue? Blue might be nice. I’d love to see you surrounded by blue.”

  “Do I tell you how to take pictures?”

  “Well, no. . . .”

  “Then don’t tell me how to pick paint colors. And as it happens, I’m planning to change the palette in here, but it’s going darker. Deeper, you might say.”

  “Deeper, you say? How’s this?”

  “That’s pretty good. Mmm, that’s really good. Anyhow, as I was saying, I’m thinking of maybe a deep slate gray, with a new creamy sugar marble countertop, deepening the cupboards to a rich, dark mahogany. Holy shit, that feels good.”

  “Noted. Deeper is good, and very deep is even better. Can you put your foot on my shoulder?”

  “Like that?”

  “Christ, Caroline, yes, like that. So . . . new countertop, you say? Marble might be a little cold, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! What? I mean, what? Cold? Well, since I’m not usually laid out like a jelly roll on the counter, the cold won’t bother me. Besides, marble countertops are the best for rolling out dough.”

  “Don’t,” he warned, turning his face to kiss the inside of my ankle.

  “Don’t what, Simon?” I purred, my breath hitching as I felt his pace begin to quicken slightly, unnoticeable to anyone but me, the one he was currently inside of.

  “Don’t try to distract me with dough talk. It won’t work,” he instructed, letting go of the countertop with his left hand and running it lightly over my breasts, back and forth, teasing my nipples into hard peaks with his fingertips.

  A frantic energy began to settle low, low in my hips and in my thighs, the pit of my stomach and points in between. “No dough talk? No dirty dough talk for Simon? Mmm, but don’t you think a little distraction is good from time to time? I mean, can’t you just imagine me, bent over the countertop, working so hard for you. . . .” I trailed off, running my fingers through his hair, bending him to me to kiss him with a wet mouth, tongue and lips and teeth intent on bringing him deeper into me.

  I was perched on the edge of my kitchen island, very much naked, as was our fair Mr. Parker, buried inside and determined to make this last as long as possible. We wanted to see how long we could carry on a conversation while . . . well . . . doing it. So far seventeen of the most intense, sensual, fantastic minutes of my life, and that wasn’t counting the foreplay. O was dancing in the periphery, wondering why she wasn’t being granted immediate access. But now I had control of the bitch, and this sweet torture was incredible. Worth enduring.

  That is, until Simon asked me to place my foot on his shoulder. Holy hell, he was wrecking me. One leg on his shoulder, the other leg he held open to one side, his hips rotating in maddeningly tiny circles, increasing in the smallest of increments. He was the one who insisted on the conversation, and I’d been able to keep up, until the foot on shoulder. Suddenly, parts that hadn’t really been a part of it before were now being stimulated, and it was getting harder and harder to keep my wits about me. But really, who needed wits? I could be witless. As long as I could be under Simon, I was okay being witless.

  But I could still play this game right now, while a few lingering wits remained.

  “Don’t test me, Naughty Girl. I will dirty talk you right off this island.”

  “Mmm, Simon, can’t you just see me? Bent over, little apron with nothing underneath, rolling pin in hand, and a bowl full of apples?”

  “Apples? Oh boy, I love apples,” he groaned, picking up my other foot and placing it on the opposite shoulder, his hands roughly pulling me even farther toward the edge, his pace picking up again just a bit.

  “I know you do, with cinnamon? I could bake you a pie, Simon. Your very own apple pie, even a homemade crust . . . all for you, big guy. You know all you have to do is ask me. . . .” I smirked, trying to keep my eyes from crossing as he sped up again, the sound of skin slapping not even funny at all. There went another wit.

  “How does that feel, Caroline. Good?” he asked, surprising me.

  “Good? It feels amazing.”

  “Amazing? Really?” He pulled out almost all the way before sliding back into me all at once, making me feel every single inch.

  And the wit stands alone. “You know, it does, but back to the apples. Would you like your pie served hot with vanilla ice cream? Warm and melty with . . . oh my God—”

  “You really want to talk about this right now? Because if you keep this up, I’m going to be forced to get really dirty myself.”

  “Dirtier than apple pie talk?” I asked, stretching and pointing my toes toward the ceiling, creating a new sensation.

  “How about this: if you don’t stop all this apple pie talk,” he started, leaning down to place his mouth against my ear, making me shiver. One hand grasped my breast, roughly turning and tweaking my nipple. The other snuck down, feeling against me until he found the spot that made me tense and cry out. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to stop fucking you, and believe me when I say I haven’t even begun to ravage you in all the ways I’ve dreamed about.”

  He stood back up and thrust. Hard.

  Last wit? Bye-bye. I ain’t too proud to beg. “God, Simon, I give. Just fuck me.”

  “Apple pie for me?”

  “Yes, yes! Apple pie for you! Oh, God. . . .”

  “That’s right, apple pie for me, apple pie for—God, you’re tight this way.” He groaned, switching both of my legs to one side, holding them up as he pounded into me, again and again, never retreating, only advancing, looking down at me, watching as my back arched and my skin flushed, heat creeping as my climax broke over me, stunning me silent in its intensity as I was shaken to the very core of my being.

  “I love you, Caroline, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chanted, thrusting erratically now as he sped toward his own release, sweat breaking over his brow as he clutched at my hips as I clutched him from the inside, holding him as long as I could, feeling his solid weight on me as he laid his head on my breast. How could his warm weight feel so good? It should have made it hard to breathe, constriction of the lungs and all that, but it didn’t. Holding him, cradling his face as I swept his hair back, it felt the opposite of heavy.

  “You’re going to kill me, sure as I’m lying here,” he moaned, kissing everywhere he could.

  “I love you too,” I sighed, gazing at my kitchen ceiling. I could feel a smile as big as the bay across my face. The O was going to be around for a very long time.

  No way am I painting my kitchen blue.

  9:32 p.m.

  “I can’t believe this is the second time we’re cleaning flour and sugar off each other. What’s wrong with us?”

  “The sugar is good for exfoliation,” I explained. “Not sure what good the flour is doing us, though.”

  “Exfoliation?”

  “Yeah, I figure every time we sex it up out there, all that sugar helps us remove dead skin cells.”

  “Really, Caroline? Dead skin cells? That’s hardly sexy.”

  “You weren’t complaining earlier.”

  “Well no, how could I? You promised to bake me an apple pie. Don’t forget that part.”

  “I won’t forget, but I was somewhat under duress.”

  “You were under me, not under duress, under me.”

  “Yes, Simon, I was under you.”

  “Wash your back?”

  “Yes, please.”<
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  We lay on opposite sides of the tub, relaxing and soaking off yet another round of kitchen goo. At some point, I was going to have to clean all that mess up, but right now the only thing I could concentrate on was this man in front of me. This man, up to almost his neck in fragrant bubbles, strong arms snaking out now to bring me closer. I spun in the tub like a buoy, bobbing back and forth and arranging myself in front of him. He used a washcloth to gently remove the last of the sticky that covered me. Then he pulled me to his chest, leaning back against the edge of the tub. Arms encircled me, tucking me in, surrounding me with warm water and warmer Simon. I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of it all. The safety, the sweetness, the sexiness. I shifted, trying to get impossibly closer, and then I felt him against my bum. Growing.

  “Why, hello there, friend,” I murmured, sneaking my hand through the bubbles to find him, wanting and wanton.

  “Caroline . . .” he warned, laying his head back on the edge of the tub.

  “What?” I asked innocently, trailing my fingers along the sides of him, feeling him react.

  “I’m not seventeen, you know.” He chuckled, his voice growing husky and needy in spite of his words.

  “Thank goodness, or I would have to answer for my actions—corrupting a minor and all that,” I whispered, slowly turning over to rub myself along the length of him, soap and bubbles and water making me slippery.

  He hissed slightly and smiled. “You’re going to break me, you know this, right? I swear on all that’s holy, I’m not a machine—Christ, don’t stop doing that,” he groaned, thrusting into my hand without thought.

  “Ah, break schmake. I just want to fuck you until you can’t see straight,” I purred, tightening my fist as he splashed water over the side a bit.

  “I can barely see as it is. There seem to be three of you,” he moaned, pulling my legs apart and positioning me above him.

  “Aim for the one in the middle, Simon,” I instructed and slid down.

  Yeah, we had some water to clean up.

  11:09 p.m.

  “I’m just going to get the food. I need sustenance, woman.”