by Amiee Smith
My lips cover hers, our tongues meeting. I brace myself on my arms, resting them on either side of her body. Lynn takes my face into both of her hands. Her fingertips tease my ears and jawline. I break away from her luscious mouth.
“Tell me what you want?” I ask.
“Me on top.”
Lynn embraces my shoulders and sucks and nibbles at my earlobe before dropping open-mouth kisses down the column of my neck. Her tongue sends pulses of pleasure to my groin. I pull away from her caress to nip the pointy tips formed under her blouse. Lynn lifts her arms above her head.
“I want to feel your mouth. Let’s take this off,” she says.
I remove her top, exposing voluptuous tits covered in a black, sheer, polka-dot bra.
“Lynn, you’re adorably sexy.”
I lower one of the cups, capturing her brown nipple with my mouth. My tongue, encircling and flicking. Lynn’s sultry cries are the approval I need to move to the next nipple. Lowering the cup, my tongue bathes it in adoration. Lust. As I full-hand massage her other breast, my teeth twist the sweet peak. Lynn arches into my mouth and moans.
“Oh. You’re so good.”
With her legs wrapped around me, her center wickedly thrusts against my torso. I know what she wants, but I’m not quite ready to let her have it.
“Nick, please. I’m so ready. The entire night has been foreplay.”
“In a minute, Horny Girl.”
There is no reason to rush. There is no cake duty or party. I will savor every minute.
I stop worshipping her breasts to unbutton my dress shirt and pull my undershirt over my head. Lynn unclasps her bra, letting it fall on the slate tiles on the ground. I’m hypnotized. The light of the fire dances around her breasts and the necklace hanging between. I can’t wait to feel her tits bounce against my chest while I move in and out of her.
“Nick, you’ve been so good to me tonight. It’s my turn to be good to you.”
“What do you have in mind, Horny Girl?” I ask.
Lynn rises and stands in front of me, her gorgeous chest at eye level. I plant messy kisses in the valley between, my lips grazing her pale pink crystal.
“I want you. In my mouth.”
She nudges me back against the sectional before dropping to her knees and unzipping my pants.
She is the gold medal of women.
CHAPTER 11:
LYNN SCOTT
I giggle inwardly. Nick is thinking out loud. Gosh, he’s so cute stoned. I’m excited to hear what he thinks while I work over his cock with my mouth.
I spread Nick’s long legs and kneel in between. Freeing his dick from his boxer briefs, my body trembles with exhilaration. He’s already hard. Ready. I want to straddle him now, but more so, I want to please him. I’ve never wanted to satisfy a lover as much as I do tonight.
I wrap my palm around his girthy shaft. He’s bigger than average, and so I’m tentative as to how to begin. I want to overthink it, mentally plot it out as I would a story. But this is real life, I dive in… tongue first.
I start at the base, running my tongue over the top of his balls. The skin is soft against my mouth. Nick’s groans are the green light I need to continue. I lick his cock from the bottom to the top. Each ridge becomes more and more pronounced. Stroking him with my hands, I take his head between my lips and suck him off. Nick lifts his pelvis just enough to tip-fuck my mouth.
I’m the luckiest man on the planet.
Oh, Superstar, I’m just getting started.
My hands leave him. I shift the chain of my crystal necklace around. Raising onto my knees, I nestle his dick between my breasts and slide my them up and down his length. My tongue loops his head. The wetness from my mouth drips down over my chest. Sexy. Dirty. Oh, so good.
What is she doing to me?
Nick groans. He’s so close. I should pull away so he can cover himself in a condom before I plunge down on his cock. But I don’t want to stop. His moans are like cheers, willing me across the finish line. I squeeze my tits tighter around his length. My tongue picks up speed, looping his head over and over at a frenzied pace. I want to see his face as he comes apart all over my chest. I’m stoned, so it’s easy for me to get carried away in the sexual friction between my mouth, breasts, hands, and his dick. I could almost orgasm, my hips gyrating in time with this epic blow job. I’m lost in the moment.
Nick stops moving against my mouth and chest. Glimpsing up, I find hazel green eyes bearing down on me. His stare, dark. Lustful.
“Lynn, jeans and panties off. Lie on your back,” his voice, low. Commanding.
I reluctantly disconnect from him, standing. The cool evening air causes my wet nipples to pebble.
“Going all Christian Grey on me,” I mutter, stripping off my jeans and underwear.
I lie on the sectional. In the dim light of the fire pit, Nick removes a condom from his pocket before stepping out of his underwear and pants. He rolls it over his shaft, positioning himself between my legs. I spread to receive him, bending my knees.
“Who’s Christian? Some douche you hooked up with?”
His serious eyes search mine.
“Do you really want to talk numbers while you’re between my legs?” I ask.
To lighten the mood, I lift my hips to shorten the distance between my pussy and his erection.
“Stop moving. Answer the question.”
“Christian Grey is a character from a novel. He’s very… demanding.”
Nick’s gaze softens a bit. But he doesn’t enter me.
I give him my truth.
“While I’m clearly no virgin, I’ve never done the titty-fuck-blow-job with anyone else. Until tonight, it’s just been a fantasy.”
“Why tonight?”
I feel the tension leaving his body as I nibble his chin, but Nick still wants to play twenty questions. I close my eyes and sigh. It’s difficult to concentrate with his brawny body on top of me. I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I don’t know. Maybe I was too fat before.”
“Lynn.”
“Fine. I wanted to please you,” I say, making eye contact.
“Good. From now on you’ll only please me,” he says.
Nick thrusts inside of me so deeply I feel him in my toes. This is good. So good. I cry out, loudly. His neighbors could mistake the sound for a coyote walking the night streets of his hilly neighborhood.
“Only me, Lynn.”
He says again and again, pounding my sex. His words elicit my surrender. Our bodies take over. Closing my eyes, I give into the sensation building inside of me. I’m no longer trying to please him or entertain myself. For now, it’s just he and I, fully opening ourselves up to this thing between us.
Nick’s physical strength intertwines with my softness. His thrusts match the pace of my circling hips. Intense. Incessant. We rock in time with our breath, exalting us high above the trees.
Above socializing. Above professional success. Above L.A. and San Francisco. Above cannabis highs. Above lifelong friendships. After three years of small talk and sharing a smoke, it’s finally just us.
I lift my legs higher on his hips. Each thrust, meets and grinds my clit. I moan, drawing him closer. My fingertips press into the muscles of his back, his chest stroking my nipples.
This is real sex. Two people fucking under the rustling of leaves and the brightest stars in the night sky. Togetherness. We’re one in the cocoon of yearning moans, heavy breathing, sweat, lavender and musk, and exerted limbs.
I’m not sure who orgasms first, or where his shuddering body ends and mine begins. Nick collapses on me. On the other side of climax, we lie together. Still connected. Breath returning to normal.
I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t. I lift my hands to run them through his hair, but I can’t. For the first time, there is no need to fidget or ramble. I just lie with this gorgeous, powerful man.
Nick moves first. A tiny whimper escapes my mouth as he pulls out and rises. M
y legs fall closed; I’m so exposed. I cover my breasts with my arms before turning my face into the crevice of the sectional. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. Just taking a little moment to reclaim myself. With my eyes shut, I breathe. Full inhalations and exhalations.
The French doors open and close. I know this part of the hook-up routine; Nick is going to the bathroom. And it’s my cue to move on.
I sit up and drink my water in one continuous gulp before collecting my clothes. Getting dressed seems so unexciting. I untangle my underwear from my jeans and put them on. They’re still damp. I pick up Nick’s white undershirt and slip it over my head. It’s the first time I’ve ever worn a lover’s clothes. Even though it is a bit snug in the chest, the length of the shirt falls loosely below my thigh line. I turn my necklace around so the rose quartz crystal falls in the deep V of the shirt.
I neatly fold my jeans, blouse, and bra. I’ll inevitably have to do the walk of shame in the morning and I’d rather not look a hot wrinkled mess while I do it. I pick up the blue throw blanket and my water glass before putting on my flip-flops and leaving the backyard.
Inside the house, I hear Nick upstairs in the kitchen. I stop by the downstairs bathroom to pee and peek in the mirror. Thank Goddess for waterproof mascara. Using a tissue, I dab the shine from my nose and brow line. Amazingly, my hair has held up through all the physical activity.
I hear KCRW’s overnight DJ talking upstairs, so it’s after midnight. I ascend the steep stairwell, shifting everything to one arm so I can grip the wood banister. Bright lights, all those windows, and the smell of toast greet me.
Arriving in the kitchen, my inner fat girl is conflicted between my immodest attire and the need to eat. Food matters more. I approach the island where Nick has assembled a spread of snacks on a wooden platter. All the weed paraphernalia has been put away.
I put the glass on the counter. Dropping my folded pile on the cushion of one of the barstools, I sit at the island. I cross my bare legs, balancing myself in the tall stool— a feat I couldn’t imagine doing five months ago. I’m in awe of the transformative power of the human body.
“I was going to bring this downstairs, but we can eat up here,” Nick says, cutting a sandwich in half.
He’s focused on what he’s doing, so I admire the view. And what a view. He is wearing his slacks with the top button undone exposing his boxer briefs and dark happy trail. His white shirt is unbuttoned, and his hair is a little flatter than usual. He’s more relaxed and laid back than I’ve ever seen him before.
Whose life am I in right now? A super-hot man is making me food in this editorial-worthy kitchen with a view of L.A. Coltrane streams on the speakers. And all while I leisurely sit in nothing but a T-shirt, panties, and flip-flops. This is such a departure from my normal Saturday night in San Francisco.
If I were home, I’d probably be in some new bar in the Mission hanging with some friend I’ve made since moving to the City, rocking the layered look while using my best pick-up lines on some two-thrusts-and-done tech dude before going home to my Pax vaporizer and laptop.
Even as I compare my life in L.A. to my life in San Francisco, I know my home is in the Bay Area. There, I thrive. There, my ADHD is less of a hindrance. And the City… my playground.
Nick gathers plates and cloth napkins (like, for real). A jab of sadness creeps into my heart chakra. Being with him is magical— I feel more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.
But he lives here. And I live there.
Oh, Holy Unicorn. What game is the Universe playing with my life?
CHAPTER 12:
NICK WILLINGHAM
“This spread is amazing. Are these kale chips?” Lynn asks from behind me.
“Yep.”
I pull my sandwich from the panini press after cutting hers in half. Between the vegan dinner, the weed, and the sex— the munchies are hitting hard tonight.
I return to the island and place the sandwiches on the platter. My breath catches. She’s dressed in nothing but my T-shirt and her crystal necklace. Dark nipples push against the white, cotton fabric.
“Hell no, Lynn. I need to eat. If I have to stand across from you looking like that… I won’t be able to concentrate.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I was being lazy. Totally inappropriate. I’ll put clothes on.”
If her skin were fair, she’d be flushed with embarrassment. I forget underneath her wit and enthusiasm is a woman who still doesn’t know how very sexy she is to me.
I choose my words carefully.
“No. I meant I will be thinking about your incredible tits in my mouth instead of this sandwich. If I must choose between you and food, you will always win.”
She smiles, sending a rush of energy throughout my body.
“I’m super hungry, so right now I’d choose food. If you had a TV in the living room we could totally veg out and eat… without distraction. When I was buying my place, I would go to all these open houses and they would be staged without a TV. I’d think, ‘who would have a living room without a TV?’ Is it a designer thing?”
A new piece of information. Lynn owns her place in San Francisco. Probably making the chances of her relocating to L.A. slim. I fight the urge to ask if moving is an option. This thing between us is new. While I’m in it to win her, I fear the conversation would seem as if I’m moving too fast.
“I don’t know. I watch TV when I’m in bed, so I never bothered to purchase one for the living room. I’m down for some TV time, let’s take this to my bedroom,” I say.
“Oooh. I love a good bed picnic,” Lynn says.
I gather the tray and she jumps up, taking the glasses and tucking the blanket under her arm.
“I poured you water. Did you want the green thing?” I ask.
“No. There is more than enough food on this platter. I’ll have the juice in the morning.”
I want to inform her juice is not food, but I’ll give her a pass. We leave the kitchen and go to my bedroom. After putting the glasses down, Lynn spreads the blanket over my king-sized bed. We settle in, resting our backs against the black wood headboard with the tray and plates between us.
“What makes a bed picnic good?” I ask.
“Good snacks. Good TV. Good company. Is this sandwich for me?”
I try not to think about some dude in bed with her, and instead focus on the food.
“Yeah. I still need to learn vegan sandwich-making, so it’s nothing special. Just crunchy peanut butter with smashed blackberries on sprouted bread. I popped it in the panini press to give it a little more texture.”
“This is going to be my new favorite snack. It’s fantastic,” Lynn says.
I watch her eat. Her perfect black hair shapes her slim face. It’s nice to see her enjoy food I made, even if it’s a thrown together PB&J. Taking a bite of my sandwich, I turn on the TV.
“Did you do a vegan sandwich too?” Lynn asks.
“With all due respect, hell no. I made a roast on Thursday, so I sliced some of it with jack cheese, tomato and avocado.”
“Do you cook every day?” she asks before eating apple slices.
“Yeah, except for nights out. I make enough so I have leftovers to take for lunch. Which saves me from having to stop when I’m traveling between job sites.”
“Very efficient.”
“You said in your video you’ve been cooking more. Do you cook every day?”
“Yes and no. I assemble more than cook. I do try to make a new dish every week so I don’t get bored with the plant-based diet.”
“Your body is incredible, by the way. Do you think you’ll ever eat animal products again?” I ask with hopefulness.
I’d love to cook food for her, but my best dishes include meat, eggs, and butter.
“Thank you. No. It works for me. Because I spend a lot of time at home, in front of the computer, it’s easier to manage my caloric and nutritional intake than other diets.”
“You’re clearly an athlete now. Are you getting en
ough protein?”
“I’m in bed with an athlete. I’m not one. But it’s kind of you to say. I’m reading a book now on a dude who does ultra-marathons and he’s a vegan. So, I’ve been monitoring how I feel to ensure I’m eating enough protein to fuel my workouts.”
“How much are you running?”
“Daily. Five miles. I could probably do more, but I prefer to run in certain areas. After the two-and-a-half-mile mark the neighborhoods are either too hilly or less familiar. I tend to zone out when I run, so I can easily get lost or turned around. I couldn’t imagine running around here all the time. I’d probably never get home.”
“So, city running is your thing?”
“Oh, yes. It is by far the best way to take in the sights. I probably wouldn’t have started running if I still lived in L.A. Which would suck because I’m the fittest I’ve ever been in my life,” Lynn says, finishing the little bowl of assorted kale chips.
Another nail in the move-to-L.A. coffin. I eat a slice of apple and focus on appreciating the time I have left with her.
“Okay. TV time. What are you in the mood for?” I ask, scrolling the guide.
“How synchronistic. ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ is on HBO. It’s the movie based on the Christian Grey book... from earlier.”
Lynn’s voice trails off. Damn. I was a little pushy earlier.
“Let’s watch it. Since I remind you of him.”
“Believe me, you’re not Christian. Are you sure? It’s romantic and… a bit erotic?”
“I read your book and enjoyed it. I’ll be fine.”
“Umm… point made. If you hate it, we can change the channel. I’ve seen this movie way more times than I’d like to admit.”
I play the movie from the beginning and finish my sandwich. I’m not sure how much of it I’ll be able to get through. The lack of sleep is catching up to me.
Two hours later, the credits roll and I’m wide awake. Chick porn can run circles around the shit dudes watch. I’ve spent the last hour with a semi hard-on while going up and down the emotional roller coaster.
I turn off the TV and pack up the picnic. I’m ready to use my bed for another activity, preferably with Lynn minus a T-shirt.