by Amiee Smith
“Untie me.”
Nick’s voice disrupts my orgasmic climb. With shaky legs, I circle behind him. My bare nipples caress his forearms as my wet fingers undo the entwined fabric.
I’ve only undone a bit of knot before Nick shakes his hands free. With lightning precision, he stands and lifts me over his (good) shoulder, carrying me across the space to the dining room table. I’ve never had a man carry me and the experience is both primitive and soooo arousing.
By the time he deposits me on the tabletop, I’m so horny my vision is blurred. The blond wood table is cool against my back. I close my eyes. Bending my knees, I spread my legs in anticipation of Nick filling up my now dripping pussy.
Instead of his dick, three long fingers push the thin strip of fabric aside and enter me. Shocking my senses, his tongue finds my clit. I cry out. To add more fuel to the burning desire spreading all over my body, Nick is taking his time! Like, have-all-night slow, moving his fingers in a come-hither motion inside me. His tongue loiters in circles, avoiding my orgasmic spot.
He’s doing just enough to keep me hungry, but it is as unsatisfying as a vegan dessert. Nick knows exactly what he’s doing. He holds steady at this languid pace. I thrust my hips against his mouth and fingers.
“Nick, please,” I say, desperation in my voice.
“Please what, Horny Girl?”
I feel his smile against my center.
“Fuck me.”
“How?”
“Really hard.”
Nick flicks his tongue over my clit a few more times before closing my legs and removing my thong. He rests my feet on either of his shoulders, pulling my body to the edge of the table. His handling of me is neither gentle or rough, and I’m in awe of his controlled strength.
I hear the swoosh of his pants falling to the floor and feel the pressure of his cock at my opening, but he doesn’t enter. Why is he delaying? He’s as turned on and ready as I am.
“Look at me,” his voice, quiet. Commanding.
I can’t meet his stare. Instead, I focus on my purple toenails resting on his shoulder. In just a few days, Nick and I have developed a way of relating to each other, waffling between serious (more him) and playful (more me). Right now, I’m not sure what side of the spectrum we are on. Frankly, I’m too high and turned on to pick a side.
“Look. At. Me.”
Gosh, Nick has picked a side. I give in, finding his gorgeous face. His eyes read cool, but his clenched jaw and shallow breathing reveal he’s at the cliff of his resolve. A new sense of excitement flares throughout me. And I want to play. After all, sex is supposed to be fun. This is playtime.
“Come on, Superstar. Fuck me,” I say enticingly.
Nick slides the tip of his length inside me. The sensation, so sublime, I close my eyes and lift my arms above my head, pushing into it. Yet, he doesn’t move.
“Lynn, open your eyes.”
I wriggle my hips against him, trying to gain the slightest bit of relief. Nick only steadies his hold on my legs. His grip is neither passive nor aggressive. Just incredibly strong, and I imagine the pleasure of him pounding in and out of my center.
Oh, how I want to play with him forever.
Nick groans, our eyes meet.
“Stay the week with me,” he says.
I stop trying to push against him, my mind registering his request. Staying past Tuesday is a game of emotional roulette and I’m a terrible gambler. I’ve spent the last decade learning to quell my impulsiveness into positive action— doing my best to thoroughly think through a decision until my heart and mind align with my instincts. However, in this moment, with my feet resting on Nick’s rock-hard shoulders and my body tingling with need, I can’t wait for all of myself to agree.
“Yes,” I blurt out.
“Yes, what, Lynn?”
He says my name instead of his new nickname for me. Despite the position I’m in, he doesn’t want the decision to be made solely with my pulsating sex. It’d be too easy for me to retract my agreement after I orgasm and playtime ends.
Nick runs sweet kisses over my knee as he waits, his head still hard at the threshold of my pussy. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’s patient and competitive. Since I’m just a horny romantic who believes in something bigger than myself— I surrender and go serious.
“Yes, I will stay the week with you.”
Before the words are out of my mouth, Nick pounds his cock into me. The pace, punishingly perfect. Hints of pain give way to immense pleasure. Hedonism has a whole new meaning. He closes my legs just enough to reach a place so deep, I shudder and moan. And we do what we do so well— organic, debaucherous fucking.
With nothing to hold on to, I’m at the mercy of his swift thrusts. He doesn’t relent, finding a pace so steady, it’s rhythmically willing my pussy toward gratification. The first wave of my orgasm comes so quickly I question if it’s all real. I’m high. I have a very active imagination.
Am I dreaming?
“This is very real,” Nick’s voice, raspy.
He continues penetrating my wet core. I moan as my favorite fucking feeling comes over my body. I buck upward. Nick’s strong, slightly calloused hands hold my thighs in place.
“Nick, that’s so good. Don’t stop.”
He increases the pace. My next orgasm emerges in response to his rapid thrusts. My whole body tightens— my nipples, my shut eyes, my heat surrounding his dick. This is so good. Nick climaxes, his low groans of satisfaction match my high-pitched moans of release.
He rests his head against my leg. The sweat from his brow is damp against my skin. My body, loopy and tingly. My breathing heavy, as if I sprinted the last quarter of a mile home. I can’t fathom how he’s still standing. But he’s a superstar. Mostly mortal, but with supernatural powers.
I never want to leave him.
“Then don’t, Lynn.”
He feathers soft kisses against my shin before helping me off the table. We stroll hand in hand to his bedroom. After a bathroom stop, I crawl under the soft comforter. Curled up, I fall asleep with my head resting on Nick’s hard abdomen.
CHAPTER 18:
NICK WILLINGHAM
A new text message comes in as I slide into my SUV.
I’ve spent the morning helping my crew pour concrete at the smart townhomes development in Eagle Rock. My one-hour inspection visit turned into five physically grueling hours of shoulder-aching work. My crew made it fun, cracking jokes in broken English and when directed, working hard. It’s my favorite group of dudes to manage, even if they’re not the most skilled for the high-tech project. And leaving me no choice but to jump in and pick up the slack.
I glance down at my phone to find a pic of Lynn’s smiling face covered in those monstrous sunglasses. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she is wearing a white tank top. The angle of the shot makes her tits look porn star huge. (I wish she was wearing her Patagonia jacket.) The L.A. city center skyline soars in the background of the pic.
Monday, 1:19 p.m.
Lynn Scott: From this morning. You were right. Trail #3 was killer, but the view was spectacular. Almost didn’t miss the City (almost). Hope you’re having a wonderful day. Morning kisses w/ you… so good. Sorry you missed your swim. Thx for leaving me coffee… super sweet. You’re super sweet. Both in character & taste. I put a grocery order in, but I paid. Thx for leaving your card. You’re super kind. And incredibly sexy, but you know that. [winking emoji] The sunshine in the house at noon is… glorious. You’re a gifted designer. Is there anything you’re not good at? Glad I’m on vacay. Finding it hard to concentrate. Dining room table! That I will write. So perfect. Like you. xoxo, Lynn [pink heart emoji]
My heart tap dances in my chest. I read the message three more times, trying not to miss a word. Her message soothes and eases every ache and pain in my body. If cannabis were a woman, Lynn would be cast as the lead in the movie of her life.
I want to call her, but I need to be in Pasadena in forty minutes for the weekly executiv
e meeting. I still need to jot down notes for my report and change into a dress shirt— my dad’s mandatory dress code for meetings now that he doesn’t work in the field, and spends his days in business casual attire behind an oak desk.
I get on the 110 Freeway. Thankfully, traffic is moving. Memories of last night twist in my mind with the curvy road. Lynn probably doesn’t realize how much she shared with me last night. I want to be the woman who wrecks sex for him. Damn, that woman’s mind. And her tits. And the sway of her hips when she’s turned on. And the high-pitched sound she makes right before she comes.
Siri alerts me of a text from my brother.
Monday, 1:35 p.m.
Alex Willingham: Michael Ahmed is coming to dinner. Maybe one more. Trying to close. See you tonight.
Alex is always trying to close. Lately, Monday night dinners, usually me and him, have become a business meeting for his wealth management practice. I don’t mind. It’s nice to cook for someone other than myself, but I’m forced to sit through my brother’s five-point pitch as to how he can help people “do more with their money.”
I arrive at the Willingham Contractors building. Drop by my office. Check messages. Change into one of the ten dress shirts I keep in the closet. Prep my report. Attend the meeting. And I’m out the door at 3:30. I need to stop at the market, and I want to spend some time with Lynn before she meets up with her friends.
On my way to the elevator, I cross paths with my dad.
“Leaving already?” he asks.
He looks like a dad. Balding up top. Graying strawberry blond hair. Navy khakis with a light blue dress shirt. Tall as me.
“I have a few things to take care of,” I say.
“Very good. Alex says Ahmed is having dinner at your place tonight.”
“I think so.”
“He seems to like that woman. Your mom thinks you might also like that woman. Son, I hope you will put the good of the people who work here over a girl. I know you need to win. Unless you’re in love with her, let him have what he wants.”
My dad walks away, leaving no room for a rebuttal.
• • •
Forty-five minutes later, I open the door to my house. I find Lynn sitting cross-legged on my sofa, wearing her running clothes from this morning and writing in the brown leather journal I saw in her hotel room. Her silver laptop is open and rests on the cushion next to her. She has earbuds in; her phone balanced on one of her slim thighs.
She greets me with a smile, removing her headphones.
“Hey. I totally lost track of time after lunch. Is it 4:30 already? I had planned to be showered and impossibly fresh-looking when you got home,” she says, dropping the journal on the coffee table.
“I’m early. What time are you meeting up with your friends?”
Moving into the kitchen, I put the additional chicken I bought for tonight’s dinner in the refrigerator. Lynn follows.
“Brit is picking me up at 6:30. But our dinner plans are up in the air.”
“I’ve been playing in the dirt today, so I need a shower. Wanna join me?”
“The trail kicked my ass this morning. Is a Nick’s Famous Wine-n-Weed Bath an option?”
“I’ll pour the wine and roll a joint of your strain,” I say.
“I’ll fill the tub.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m relaxing between Lynn’s legs in the tub. In just a short time, her body has become my refuge.
“So, what’s up with your dinner plans?” I ask, passing the joint.
“I don’t know. I put my phone on DND because it was information overload. But I think we’re going to have dinner in Downtown L.A. now because Dana has a last-minute meeting on this side of town,” she says, taking two drags before passing it back.
“Why don’t they come here? I’m already cooking. Between the groceries you bought and the food I have, it should be enough,” I suggest, before hitting the joint and putting it out.
“Really? You want to host my friends for dinner?”
Her voice is cheerful with a dash of trepidation.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Are you ready for the Smart Girl Mafia extravaganza?”
“Smart Girl Mafia?”
“Yeah, it’s the nickname Jon gave us.”
I laugh. “I can handle it. Plus, it will make it easier for me to deal with Michael Ahmed.”
“Ugh, Michael Ahmed will be here tonight?” Lynn asks, sipping her wine.
“In addition to the deal with my company, my brother is trying to manage his personal portfolio. I guess he’s made his own fortune.”
Lynn is drawing shapes on my back with her fingertip. A heart maybe? Her touch spreads goosebumps all over my body.
“He definitely spent a lot of money today,” Lynn mutters.
“What do you mean?”
Lynn sighs.
“I’m not sure where to start. First, I get a call from my tenant that he’s sent vegan donuts and several dozens of roses to my building in San Francisco. Later, I get a text from my social media assistant; he hit up my author’s page and two of my fan groups on Facebook trying to reach me. He also sent fruit baskets to both my publisher and my agent with a note asking for my phone number. I spent more time on the phone today talking to the people I pay to minimize my distractions so I can write, than I spent writing.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
My wine-n-weed bath tranquility has turned into a pool of rage.
Lynn scoffs. “If I had a thousand dollars for every time I said that phrase today, your brother would want to manage my wealth.”
I’m trying to calm down, but it’s difficult. Michael Ahmed is really making a play for my girl? My shoulders tense, and then collapse.
He doesn’t know she’s my girl.
Last night Lynn said she was single, making her fair game.
“I’m sorry, Lynn. I should’ve said something to him last night,” I say, sullenly.
“What would you’ve have said? Lynn and I are hooking up? There wasn’t anything to say.”
“Come on, you know this is more than hooking up.”
“Now it is. Or at least I want to believe it’s more. But last night, I was just a girl who spent the night at your house. Michael is being Michael. I’ll deal with it.”
“Did you give him your phone number?”
“No. I’m not crazy, but I did send word I’d reach out to him soon. I guess “soon” meant tonight. I really wanted to say, “go fuck yourself,” but that’s impolite. I also didn’t want to interfere your deal with him.”
“Would you have been flattered… if I weren’t in the picture?”
“If you weren’t in the picture, I wouldn’t have been in L.A. last night. So, it’s a moot point. If I had run into him in San Francisco and he did the same thing, I would have sent him a handwritten, graciously crafted ‘go fuck yourself.’ Because disrupting my life— my time, my pleasure— is the last way to impress me, and the fastest way to piss me off. Maybe I should meet the girls for dinner at a restaurant?”
(My sweet little Lynn has a sweet little temper. She’s adorable.)
“No. This is my week with you. I’m not going to let Michael steal a minute of time away from me. I’ll tell him we’re together.”
“Are we, though?”
“Yes. I was hoping to take you on another date before I asked…”
“Ask what?”
I turn so I can see as much of her face as the tub will allow.
“Lynn, will you be my girlfriend? We’ll work out the details as we go. I’ve got some contacts in the Bay Area, so when the time comes I’d be willing to make the move.”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I know I mean them.
“I want to say yes, but I need to tell you something.”
(I hope she doesn’t say she’s hooked up with Michael Ahmed.)
“What?” I ask.
“I have ADHD. While I manage it to the best of my ability, life is more chall
enging for me than… a woman without that issue.”
(Ah, thank God.)
“I knew that already,” I say.
“How?”
“I googled “cannabis and focus.” ADHD is the first thing that comes up.”
“When did you google it?”
“Yesterday morning after I watched the footage of you pacing my living room before leaving for the Westin.”
“Of course, it’s a smart home. Are there cameras everywhere?”
“Yes.”
I half-expect her to freak out, but this is Lynn…
“So, I could watch the footage from last night? On the dining room table?” she asks delightfully.
Lynn, my horny girl, is everything good about life.
• • •
“Jon is coming to dinner tonight, so Jen doesn’t have to drive.”
Lynn puts her phone on the counter before returning to her work station, where she’s cutting up vegetables.
I’m marinating defrosted chicken breasts in olive oil, lemon, fresh rosemary, thyme, and garlic. I pulled them out of the freezer after Lynn and I got out of the bath. While I’d prefer to serve fresh meat, my marinade is on point, so they’ll taste great.
“Do all the girls know how to get here?” I ask.
“I think so. Claire is riding with Jen and Jon, I left a message with Dana’s assistant with the address, and Brit is riding with Alex,” she says.
I watch her slowly and methodically chop carrots. Lynn is dressed in a plum top with an empire waist, which reveals too much cleavage (I love it), the flare jeans she wore on our first date, and tan flats. Her wavy hair is half up, half down in one of those hippy-dippy styles.
“The guest count is ten,” I say, washing my hands.
“Ten?”
“My brother invited Carlos de la Cruz. He graduated with us.”
“I know Carlos. He’s been to a few J + J parties. I read somewhere he’s the next Shepard Fairey. Is your brother trying to manage his money too?”
“Probably. Add some salt to the quinoa, love.”
She stops chopping to check the pot simmering on the stove. I take over her station. Even after my knife skills tutorial, I can tell she hates the task. I enjoy chopping, so I fly through it. (My knife cuts could win awards.)