by Elle Kennedy
“We? As in you and your penis?”
“Yup,” he says cheerfully.
I snuggle deeper under the covers. “You have a name for your penis?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Guys put a name on everything that’s important to them—cars, dicks. One of my teammates in junior hockey named his stick, which was dumb because sticks break all the time. He’d gone through twelve of them by the end of the season.”
“What were the names?”
“That’s the thing. He just kept adding a number to the end, like iPhone 6, iPhone 7, except in his case it was Henrietta 1, Henrietta 2, et cetera.”
I snicker. “He should’ve used the hurricane naming convention.”
“Darlin’, he wasn’t smart enough to come up with two names, let alone twelve.”
Darlin’. My heart trips at the endearment. When he used it before, it seemed like a throwaway. But now? After he just said guys name things that are important to them?
I quell my fantastical interpretations before they lead me to a dangerous end. We’re flirting. Keep the tone light. “What’s your dick’s name?”
“Uh-uh,” he scolds. “That’s wife knowledge. I can’t tell you until the honeymoon.”
I wait for the inevitable sense of discomfort to start tickling my neck, but it doesn’t come. Apparently the offhand jokes about marriage no longer bother me.
“So what makes a good dick pic?” he asks. “Not that I’m sending you one.”
“Is that also wife knowledge?” I tease.
“I’d consider it engagement stuff.”
I put that thought aside and consider his question. “Completely graphic doesn’t do it for me. I need context, like I said before. Your fist around it would be hot. You have good hands.”
There’s a rustling sound, footsteps, and then a door latch clicking shut. He’s gone somewhere private, and that knowledge makes certain parts of my body pulse excitedly.
“I had to leave the living room. We’ve got people over, and you thinking about my dick is hot as fuck. I’m too hard to be in public.”
My breasts feel so heavy that I’m finding it hard to breathe. As I shift underneath the blankets, I hear his breath catch.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmurs.
I drag in some air to fill my suddenly depleted lungs. I know where this is going. If I stay on the phone, we’re going to end up turning each other on to the point that I’m going to have to masturbate once I’m done. Tucker remains silent, leaving the decision up to me. I dip my hand between my legs as if the pressure could make the ache go away, but the contact only intensifies my desire.
My voice is hoarse when I start speaking. “I’m fixated on you holding your dick. Only now you’re moving your hand, stroking yourself.”
When there’s no immediate response, I blush, thinking I’ve gone too far for him. But his next words tell me he’s right with me.
“You’re killing me.”
I bite my lip and rub harder. “I’m getting worked up too.”
“That doesn’t help, because now I’m picturing you all flushed and needy. You wet, Sabrina?”
My fingers slip across my pussy. “Very.”
“Fuck. What would I be doing if I was there?”
“Licking me,” I say instantly. He has a great tongue.
On his end, there’s more rustling and then a husky, “You need a toy?”
“Yeah, give me a sec.” I fumble in my desk drawer and find the box of tampons where I hide stuff from Ray—some cash rolled up in an empty tampon cartridge and my vibe. I fish the latter out and flick it on.
“Ready,” I tell him as I place the quivering toy against my clit. My hips arch up and a small cry escapes me.
“Goddamn,” he groans. “Slide it inside, slow and steady. It’s my hand on that vibrator and my tongue is on your clit.”
As he issues his commands and paints an erotic picture, I work the toy in and out. It’s such a relief not to have to think, to give myself completely over to him. I don’t say anything more. I can’t, really. I’m too focused on listening, letting his southern drawl pour over me like warm syrup, listening to the hoarse, dirty instructions telling me to pump the vibe harder, imagine him licking my pussy, telling me how gorgeous and sexy I am, and how he’s never been harder in his life.
I come as the sounds of him working his own flesh mix with my gasps of pleasure. His voice fills my world.
“Night, darlin’,” he says when my breathing slows.
“Night,” I manage. And then I fall asleep, deep and long and utterly satisfied.
14
Sabrina
“Naked painting?” Suspicion floats through me as I pull open the door to Wine and Brush. The sign cheekily displays a pair of art dolls arranged in a sordid embrace. Fitting for a college town wine bar, I guess. “You took that blurry picture on purpose,” I accuse my friend.
“Of course I did,” Carin says smugly. “I didn’t want you to have an excuse to say no.” She strolls in and then stops about two steps from the threshold, her gaze glued to the bar across the room. “Nice.” She whistles under her breath. “You did good, B.”
I grin. “I’ll happily take credit were none is due.”
We each snag a wine glass from a tray by the table before moving forward. Our dates are leaning against the bar talking to each other. Even slouching, they’re about a head taller than almost any other person in the room. I notice other girls eyeing their dates and then casting covetous glances toward Tucker and Fitzy.
It’s those glances that propel me across the room and onto my tiptoes to give Tucker a kiss on the lips.
The corners of his sexy mouth curve up as if he knows exactly what I’m doing. “Good to see you, darlin’. Sleep well last night?”
“I did. You?”
“Like a baby.”
Carin doesn’t miss a thing. “Did you sleep in Boston last night?” she teases.
He shakes his head. “Just heard a good story.”
I use the wine glass to smother a smile while Tucker introduces our friends. “Carin, this is Colin, but everyone calls him Fitzy.”
“I like that better,” she announces. “Carin and Colin sounds too cutesy together.”
The six-foot-plus guy smiles shyly and takes Carin’s hand in his, carefully shaking it as if he’s afraid he’s going to hurt her. He doesn’t have to worry, though. She’s small, but tough.
“Are you roommates?” Carin asks, and she’s not at all covert as she admires him from head to toe.
I can’t deny that I’m kinda doing the same thing. Fitzy is incredibly appealing. He’s got messy dark hair that you just want to run your fingers through. And those tats…yum. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reveals two full sleeves of intricate designs and a lot of fantasy-type imagery—I make out several dragons and at least one sword. And there’s ink peeking out of the collar of his shirt too. Carin’s not usually into tattooed guys, but her eyes are glued to this one.
“Nope. I live alone,” Fitzy tells her. “Tuck lives with the glory boys.”
“The glory boys?” I echo, but I suspect I know the answer.
Tucker’s expression grows amused. “Garrett and Logan are the stars. Both guys are going pro. And you know Dean.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mention of his name.
“Don’t get her started,” Carin warns.
Fitzy gives a lopsided grin. “A girl who doesn’t love Dean? I didn’t know they existed.”
“He got an A because he was sleeping with the TA!” I grouse.
Carin places her hand over my mouth. “I warned you. Come on, Fitzy.” She drops her hand and crooks her finger toward the big hockey player. “Let’s find a place to sit. I’ve heard this story before and it’s not a good one.” She hums a few bars from Frozen as she leads him away.
I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat, but since half my audience is gone, I turn to the only person who’s left. “Are you going to tell
me to let it go too?”
“Naah, you hold on to that as long as you want. It’s not my place to dictate what you get mad about.” He cups the back of my neck with one large palm and leans down to whisper in my ear. “But I’ll be happy to tell you what to do later on tonight.”
My body tightens immediately. Sex with Tucker is about the least stressful, most enjoyable thing in my life, and as I lean into his solid grip, I realize I’m no longer interested in fighting the attraction between us. My friends are right—I do need this. Not only the sex, but the company. Hanging out with a smart, cute guy who wants nothing more than to be with me, any way he can.
I think I’m just going to roll with this and see what happens.
“It’s a deal.”
He winks. “I’ve got ideas now.”
“As if you didn’t have them before,” I scoff.
“I’ve got more ideas. You’re very inspirational.”
His hot gaze has me stepping forward and lifting my hand to his chest—his very ripped, very lickable, very gorgeous chest. Under my palm, his muscles flex and his heart beats quickly. I rise up on my tiptoes to—
A loud cough behind us has me dropping down.
“Yeah?” Tucker says to Fitzy without taking his eyes off mine.
“You might want to grab a seat. Everyone’s waiting on you.”
I shift around to see that most of the room is turned in their chairs, either waiting for us to sit down or hoping we start mauling each other in front of them. The long tables are set up in a C-shape, and there’s a small riser in the center where I assume the model will stand. We each get our own easel, canvas, and an array of brushes and acrylic paints. It’s pretty cool.
“Unless you’re stripping and going to serve as our models, come and sit,” Carin orders.
Tucker’s hand drifts downward, managing to raise a thousand goose bumps on the way to my hand. I clasp it and lead him to the chairs next to Carin.
“You’re supposed to wait until after the date to jump his bones,” she whispers as I sit down.
I set the wine glass aside and pick up a paintbrush. “Rules are for suckers and boring people, Careful.”
She runs a brush over my nose in mock disgust, but then the instructor starts speaking and we shut up out of habit.
“Hey everyone! I’m Aria and I’ll be your instructor for the night! I’m so pumped by the turn-out!”
Oh boy. Our teacher is one big ball of energy, bouncing on her feet as she addresses the room. On her head is a crazy swirl of Medusa-like dreadlocks that swing around like snakes as she bounce-talks.
“First thing I’m going to do is introduce our model! This is Spector—”
Spector?
Tucker sways in his chair, and I turn to find him fighting waves of laughter. I plant a hand on his knee to still him.
“Be nice,” I hiss.
“Trying to.” He chuckles while muttering “Spector” to himself.
A tall guy in a white bathrobe steps forward and waves at the group. His black hair is longer than mine, and he has those squinty James Franco eyes that make him look perpetually stoned.
“Hi,” is all he says.
Then he takes off the robe.
I choke on a gasp, because oh my God, his penis is right there. And it’s impressive.
Beside me, Carin is also quick to examine the goods. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Well, hello there, Manaconda!” she calls to the model before sweeping her gaze over the other females in attendance. “Ladies, I think Spector deserves a slow clap right now, no?”
Now I’m the one fighting laughter, because damned if the ladies don’t all break out in a slow, slow clap that leads to a burst of applause followed by whistles and catcalls. The shade of poor Spector’s face is so red it belongs on the palette in front of me.
Tucker snorts loudly in the chair next to mine, while Fitzy leans around Carin’s and asks me, “Is she always like this?”
“Usually she’s worse,” I say cheerfully.
He doesn’t seem put off by that. Our instructor, meanwhile, is starting to get annoyed.
“Guys!” She claps her hands together. “Focus! There’s beautiful art to be made!” Her stern expression cracks, replaced with a grin. “Which, of course, will absolutely include Spector’s equipment.”
This is the weirdest fucking date I’ve ever been on.
Aria gives us a rundown of how it all works. It’s not very complicated. We drink wine and paint Spector’s penis. Surprisingly, Tuck, Fitz and the other men in the room are instantly on board. Paint tubes are opened, brushes are raised, and then we’re making beautiful art.
Sort of.
I awkwardly drag my brush over the canvas. I tried to mix yellow, white and brown to create a peachy skin tone for my canvas Spector, but it looks like he has an awful spray tan.
Tucker runs one of his dry brushes across a knuckle that’s sporting a bruise. “I can think of a dozen good uses for one of these. Might take it home.”
I roll my eyes. “Paintbrushes aren’t sex toys.”
“Says who?”
We work steadily for the next hour. Carin is awesome at this. So is Fitzy, who, according to Tuck, designs his own video games. Tucker is surprisingly decent, though he seems to be avoiding the dick region on his canvas.
“You’re gonna have to paint his junk eventually,” I taunt.
He winks. “I’m saving the best for last.”
From the other section of the tables, a guy with floppy blond hair and a Red Sox T-shirt raises his hand. “Teach, I can’t do the pubes! They look like little ants!”
A burst of laughter roars through the room. I think Red Sox is on a double date too, because he and his date are sitting next to another couple, who are in hysterics.
“Seriously, Spec,” Red Sox’s friend calls out. “You couldn’t have done a little manscaping before you came here tonight?”
“Can’t,” Spector replies from his perch, sounding bored. “My contract doesn’t allow it.”
He has a contract? To pose naked at a college bar paint night?
“The pubic hair adds texture to the painting,” Aria explains to the group. “But art is about interpretation, remember? Paint what you see in here—” She taps a hand over her heart, “not what you see here—” She points to her eyes.
“What the hell does that even mean?” I whisper to Tucker, whose entire face is flushed from laughing so hard.
“Like this!” Aria declares suddenly. “This is interpretation!”
I glance over to find her swiping Fitzy’s canvas off his easel. The big guy rumbles in protest, but she ignores him and holds up the painting with a grand flourish.
My jaw drops when I see what Tucker’s friend has painted. It’s Spector, but a badass version of him in a helmet and wielding a shield. Instead of the much talked about penis, Fitzy painted an elaborate-looking sword jutting from the guy’s crotch. Like, a sword worthy of Game of Thrones.
“Dude,” Tucker exclaims, suitably impressed.
“That’s amazing!” a wide-eyed Carin gushes to her date.
He shrugs. “It’s all right.”
His modesty makes me smile. I only grin harder when Aria gives him back the canvas and then begs him to leave it with her instead of taking it home with him.
We resume our painting, cracking jokes and sipping our wine. Every so often, Tucker leans toward the elderly gentleman beside him and helps the poor guy out.
“Naw, man, you want to shade under here,” he advises. “Imagine that the light is hitting his arm from up there. So the shadow would be down here.”
The old man harrumphs loudly. “This whole thing is a waste of time.”
“Hiram!” his wife scolds.
“What? It’s true,” he says in a crabby voice, then gives Tucker and me a surly look. “This was her idea.”
“Because I thought you would enjoy it,” the gray-haired woman protests. “You’ve always told me how much you envy my art
istic skills.”
The couple appears to be in their late sixties. Or hell, maybe their late seventies. I’ve never been a good judge of age. Besides, seniors look so young these days. Nana could pass for my older sister.
“Gee, I’m sorry, Doris, but I never learned how to draw naked folks when I was getting shot at in ’Nam!”
Doris slams her brush on the table. “We talked about this! Dr. Phillips said you weren’t allowed to discuss Vietnam anymore. It’s destructive to our relationship.”
“It was the most taxing time of my life,” he says stubbornly.
“And you think it was easy for me?” she challenges. “Being at home and raising two children in diapers while you were off hunting Charlie?”
He squawks in outrage. “You were wiping bottoms! I was killing human beings!”
I bite my lip to stop from laughing, even though this isn’t a particularly funny conversation. Maybe the wine has gone to my head.
“Now, now,” Tucker drawls. “Hiram, my man, your wife is gorgeous and obviously devoted to you. And Doris, Hiram here fought for his country to keep you and your children safe—think of how much he must love you for him to have done that. So let’s not fight, huh? Why don’t we just focus on painting this nice fellow over there and doing justice to his equipment?”
Fitzy snorts from the other side of Carin.
So does Hiram, whose voice becomes gruff as he addresses his wife. “I’m sorry, Dorrie. You’re right—this was a lovely idea.”
“And you were very brave in the war,” she says magnanimously.
Hiram leans over and pats Tucker on the shoulder. “All right. Show me that shadow trick.”
My heart melts as I watch Tucker help the older man. Doris, meanwhile, is blushing prettily, probably thinking about how he called her gorgeous before.
“I like you, kid,” Hiram tells my date.
Yeah. I like him too.
*
Tucker
We’re all feeling stupid and giddy when we troop out of the bar with our wrapped-up canvases tucked under our arms. Well, except for Fitzy—our instructor made him leave his masterpiece behind so she could show it to future classes.