by Amiee Smith
I barely stroke her clit with the tip of my index finger. She cries out, grinding her hips into my hand.
“Remind me to send her a thank you card,” I hear her say in between moans.
My mouth comes down on her clit. Unlike last night, I’m not teasing her. My tongue applying the right amount of pressure with each lick, preparing her to receive me.
“Oh, Nick.”
Lynn thrusts her hips. My mouth sucks and licks her swollen nub. French kissing her pussy, my tongue spreading over her sex again and again. Succulent. My desire, insatiable. The skirt of her lingerie brushing against my forehead. The whirl of her hips spinning in harmony with my tongue.
My cock presses against my belly, erect and ready to slip and slide into her extraordinary pussy. I’m so ready my balls ache. I break away long enough to remove my boxers. Lynn lifts the sheer top over her head. Both pieces, tossed to the floor.
“Since I'm your dude, can I forgo the condom?” I ask, my voice sheepish.
I know. I know. My rubber-wearing game has been less than optimal, but Lynn tears down all my barriers, transforming life into a vivid, alternative paradigm where right is left, and left is right. Where the thought of being inside her causes my groin to weep in anticipation, and putting on a condom is the last thing on my mind.
“Seriously? You're asking now? We've had more sex without a condom than with one.”
She’s being cheeky. With Lynn, there is always a joke. She goes from burning hot to witty, and back to burning hot. I'm so grateful for the IUD she's got. Her pussy is liquid gold, and I want to dip my bare dick deep into it again and again.
I work three fingers inside of her. She’s so wet. My hand is instantly covered in her arousal. Lynn bucks her hips, her nails clawing at my shoulders. My mouth returns to bathing her clit with praise. She rocks against my fingers and tongue. The escalating tone of her moans lets me know she’s close.
“Nick, I want your cock.”
“Soon, love.”
Without knowing it, I’ve started tallying our orgasms as if they are points on the scoreboard. If my count is correct, this will be number nine for her. I’ve never wanted to score fewer points in my life than I do when I am with Lynn. Her pleasure is all that matters. I want her to crush me, reminding me of what it’s like to live among the stars. With her, I’m free and untied by the gravity of the man the world knows me to be.
“I’m so close, Nick.”
Lynn grasps my shoulders and arches into my hand and mouth. I love the way her hips move enthusiastically and unrestrained. Sex isn’t an activity she shows up for out of obligation. No, she willingly and actively orchestrates every sensation on her way to orgasm.
“Come for me, Lynn.”
Lynn’s body trembles. Her sweet pussy clenches around my fingers. My forearm muscle burns in response to the vigorous motion of my soaking hand. Her “Don’t stop, Nick!” echoes throughout my room.
“Only me. From now on. Only me,” I whisper.
Lynn shatters into pieces. One by one I collect them, holding her pleasure in the folds of my heart. Each piece is a symbol of my complete admiration and devotion to her.
I’ve never felt this way about a woman.
I don’t give her time to recover before spreading her legs, positioning myself at her opening and sliding inside. Her smooth, toned body curls around mine. Petite legs wrap around my thighs. Her hands run down my spine, drawing me deeper into her center.
Lynn is perfect— warm, welcoming, soothing. She receives me with all she has to give. Meeting each of my thrusts, her pussy tightens around my arousal. Again and again. When my dick is nestled in this spot, nothing else exists. All I want to do is come, but my mental scoreboard keeps me in the game. There is no need to be creative tonight. I know what she wants.
“Do you want to be on top?” I ask, slowing the pace.
“Oh, yes. Please.”
It takes all my resolve to pull out of her. We change positions so my back rests against the headboard, and she straddles my thighs. In the moonlight streaming in from the windows, I catch a glimpse of Lynn’s vixen-grin. It’s her wreck sex for him face. I hold her hips in place before she can ease down on my dick. She utters a pouty sigh. I’m physically stronger than her will to sex me. Barely.
“Nick, I’m so ready.”
She places her hands on either shoulder, rubbing her tits in my face. I nip at one of her supple peaks.
“Behave, my horny girl. A few game rules.”
“Oooh. Is it that type of night? Where do you keep your ties?”
She’s halfway off my lap before I reel her in.
“Lynn, I’m going to need a good seven hours of sleep before we can have another night like that.”
“Ahhh.”
The disappointment on her face is equivalent to that of a child who just found out there is no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy, all at once.
I hold back my grin of delight. I’m one lucky man to have a woman who loves to play.
“Lynn, I want to come badly, but you have to promise me you will come first,” I say, guiding her hips over my erection.
To my surprise, this tiny brazen woman appears to be mentally debating my terms.
“Well, what if…” she says, rubbing her wet center against my tip.
“Lynn, if you can’t agree, you’ll be back on your back.”
She loves the idea of being on top. Since I’m the bigger partner, finishing on the bottom could easily be her reality.
“Fine.”
She pretends to be upset, but her moans are all pleasure as she sinks down on my dick. The fact I’m still rock hard is a testament to how sexy she is. I let her lead, setting a pace so swift my shaft would hate me if I slowed her down. I rub her clit in time with her up and down movements in the hope she will come first, but I’m on the edge.
“Horny Girl, we had a deal,” I groan.
“Superstar, you’re doing way too much talking,” Lynn says, her voice low and breathy.
Lynn circles her hips. She wraps her arms around my neck, bringing me in for an open mouth kiss. Her nipples rub against my chest. Her rose quartz crystal beats against my breastbone. Sweat drips off both of us. The sound of our bodies rocking in time with the dull scrape of my headboard against the wall fills the room.
Sex has never been this good.
As soon as I feel the slight tightening of her orgasm, I’m undone. Spilling my seed. All. Up. In. Her. This is my girl. I sag into the headboard, allowing the jerk of my orgasm to diminish. She screams (literally) and rides to the end of her release.
Lynn rests her head on my shoulder, our bodies still connected. Her heavy breath tickles my skin. Wrapping my arms around her slim back, we stay in our post-sex bubble for a bit.
She’s totally going to wreck sex for me.
Lynn sighs. “You’re going to wreck sex for me too, Superstar.”
• • •
The next morning, I awaken on my back. Lynn’s head rests on my abdomen. I forgot to set the alarm. I check the clock, 5:23. If I’m going to swim, I need to get going. I skipped yesterday to have an adult make-out sesh with Lynn. My shoulder needs a workout today.
After easing out of bed, I put on the boxers from the floor, warm-up pants, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I head to the kitchen to make coffee and cook two eggs, four strips of bacon, and toast two pieces of sprouted bread. Except for the tiny woman sleeping in the center of my bed, it’s like any other morning.
Sitting at the island, in what I’ve come to identify as Lynn’s seat, I use my tablet to swipe through my various financial accounts. My brother handles all my investments, but I like to stay up-to-date.
Team Jacob is far from poor. Between my investments and liquid savings, I have more than five and a half million dollars and no debt other than a home equity line of credit I took out when I remodeled my home. While I can’t compete with Michael Ahmed, I’m doing fine considering I’m an injured ex-athlete turned contract
or.
On a whim, I skim careerfinder.com for architecture jobs in San Francisco. After reading ten or so ads, I close the browser in frustration. Not a single job listed came close to what I’m currently earning, and most wanted five years of architecture experience. I’ve worked for my dad’s company in some capacity for the last ten years. My annual salary, with bonuses, is over a quarter of a million dollars.
Finishing breakfast, I put my dishes away and pack my lunch cooler with a sandwich made with a leftover chicken breast, a Tupperware container of the quinoa dish, a banana, and an apple. I go to the master bath to relieve myself, wash the sleep from my eyes, and brush and floss my teeth.
Visiting my closet, I retrieve a pair of faded work jeans, a white Willingham Contractors T-shirt, work boots, socks, and boxers. Everything else I need to get ready for the work day is already in my swim bag in the back of my car.
I’m scheduled to be at the Eagle Rock site for most of the day, which means I’ll be working more than overseeing my crew. My promotion to Project Executive came not because I’m the boss’s son, but because I will do whatever it takes to complete a job on time and within budget.
Before I leave the room, Lynn calls my name.
“Hey. I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say.
“The minute you got up, I was awake. The coffee smells divine,” she replies, her voice a bit groggy.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Her back is to me.
“I left you half the pot.”
“Thank you. I’ll probably drink too much of it, and be hanging from the ceiling by noon,” she says, turning around, but not opening her eyes.
In the light of dawn, her bare face is sweet. Innocent.
“I want to take you on another date tonight. Is there anywhere you’d want to eat? I’ll make a reservation on my lunch break.”
“Other than running or a quick errand, I don’t leave the house during the week. I’m totally that introverted writer. Would it be cool if we did dinner here? Sandwiched between a bath and great sex? Oh, and getting high, of course.”
This woman is perfect for me.
“Sounds great. I’ll research some vegan recipes. Is there anything you’re craving?”
“Soup would be wonderful. And a piece of vegan dark chocolate.”
“Soup and chocolate, it is. Are you good today without a car?”
“Yes. I’ll run in a little while, and spend the rest of the day writing. If I need to go anywhere, I’ll request an Uber.”
“Good. I’ll be home around 4:30. Call me if you need anything.”
“Nick?”
“Yes, Lynn?”
“Can I kiss you goodbye?”
Her eyes flutter open and meet mine.
“Of course.”
I lean forward to capture her mouth, but she retreats.
“Down there?”
A vixen-grin dances in her brown eyes.
Holy fuck. This pixie is going to be my undoing.
CHAPTER 21:
LYNN SCOTT
I have a date with Nick tonight. My boyfriend!
I’m in the kitchen slicing avocado to eat with the leftover quinoa. My phone chimes. It’s either my parents, one of the girls… or my boyfriend!
My inner fat girl has been high-fiving me all morning. After countless hook-ups, I finally have a real dude to call my own… for however long it lasts. And he’s not any man. He’s gorgeous, sexy, generous, Nick Willingham! Yay!
And his house! I’ve spent the last two hours blissfully lost in my imagination as sunshine pours from every window. Warming me. Encouraging me. Loving me. The only other place I feel this good is in my flat in San Francisco.
I read Nick’s messages and respond right away.
Tuesday, 12:18 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Boyfriend): Your mouth is better than [tree emoji]. I feel as if I’ve been high all day. I laugh easily. Work harder. Even whistle while I do it. Thank you. I know you’re writing, but when you see this: http://www.gourmetvegan.com/vegan-potato-leek-soup/. Thumbs up or down?
Tuesday, 12:19 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Boyfriend): How’s your day?
Tuesday, 12:21 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [brown thumbs up emoji] Skip the vegan cheese topping. [brown thumbs down emoji] I feel the same way about vegan cheese as I do about vegan desserts. Thank you for planning dinner. I hope your day continues to get better & better. My run was awesome. I did the ridge. The views aren’t as good, but the terrain is easier. Writing has been productive. Your home is heaven. These windows are muse elixir. Excited to be with you tonight. xoxo, Lynn
Tuesday, 12:23 p.m.
Lynn Scott: I heart pleasing you. [purple heart emoji]
Tuesday, 12:24 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Boyfriend): I don’t have the words to describe how much you please me. See you around 5:00. I have a few stops to make after work. Have a bath ready. Your dude has spent the day playing in a lot of dirt.
Okay, so I have until 5:00.
Universe, I wish I could take a few hits off a cannabis vape pen. It’s probably better that I don’t have one. I need to feel the full experience of writing this spec script, no matter how intense it seems to be right now.
I spent an hour this morning researching the mechanics. In grad school, I took a screenwriting workshop, so I understand the basics. With anything new, I always experience a rush of “I don’t know what the heck I’m doing” and triggers the part of myself that wants to sit in front of the computer screen with a pint of ice cream.
Goddess, it’s been so long since I’ve done that. My first few months of writing full time used to include a daily trip to the corner market to pick up a pint of frozen creamy crack. I was always “sweetly plump” (words of a sorority sister), but after almost a year of writing from day to night and eating lots of takeout and ice cream, I went from a cute oval to a (still cute) bubble floating through the City.
That girl still lives inside of me. She’s a wicked perfectionist who tries to pretend her brain isn’t broken. She flirts and hooks up with dudes for fun (she always comes first, of course). But she’s also a bad mama jama.
She knew when it was time to leave L.A. and head north. She knew when it was time to apply to grad school. She knew to save thirty percent of her income when she was working at Google because every writer girl needs her own pad. And she knows, all I have to do to live the life of my dreams is sit in the flippin’ chair and write. So that’s what I’m going to do today.
Selling a spec script is a pipe dream for most people, but I have Dana and she’s got a bad mama jama inside of her too. She’d never encourage me if she didn’t think it was a profitable possibility.
I finish lunch and leave my dishes on the island. Nick is a clean-kitchen freak, so I’ll deal with them before he gets home. I sit at the dining room table with my laptop. I worked on the sofa all morning, but the light streaming in from the windows around the table is majestic.
I forward all incoming calls to go directly to voicemail (a trick Marc taught me), put my phone on DND and set the alarm for 4:15. I’ll have more than enough time to do the dishes, make the bed and be ready for my date by 5:00.
I return to my writing. Light. Excited. Joyful. My fingers glide across the keyboard with ease. Ideas form on the screen. A story comes to life.
Forty-five minutes into my second writing sesh of the day, I hit a block with my plot. An issue I often encounter, but always resolve with a technology crisis. This is a tech-free rom-com. My main characters need to work together to solve a problem. Without a coding or cyber emergency, I’m stuck. My well of creativity dries up. I stare at the screen, increasing and decreasing the zoom in hopes of stimulating a drip of imaginative possibilities.
I rise and pace the living room. My heart, mind, and feet zigzag and intersect each other. Stopping mid-stride, I put on my running shoes, grab my Coach crossbody and phone, and leave the house. If Nick spends his time watching footage, I don’t want the cameras to expose
my mini breakdown.
My black crop workout pants and light blue crop tank top (courtesy of Raquel), reveal more skin than I’m used to showing… way more, but I’m just going on a short walk to clear my head.
I head down the hill. The sun is unnecessarily menacing for a late September day. Thank the Universe! I remembered to put my sunglasses in my purse after my run this morning. I swap my reading glasses for shade. I pass house after house and make turn after turn, until I reach a major street. In the distance, Downtown L.A. soars like an enchanted land.
I should head back, but like in the showtune, "Bali Ha’i," the tall buildings of the city center call to me. Big buildings always invoke a sense wonder. Curiosity. Inspiration. I walk in their direction.
When I’m tired, I’ll request an Uber. I didn’t bring the paper with Nick’s address on it, but I requested an Uber for Brit last night so it’s saved under my trip history. Easy-peasy.
I mentally outline my plot from the last kiss to the meet cute. Reviewing the story in reverse always helps me uncover the sagginess in my arc. With each step, I extract the bones of my spec script.
I walk. Stop at lights. And walk. The eclectic sounds of the L.A. streets are a direct contrast to the constant quiet of Nick’s house on the hill. Each blaring siren, squeal of tires, and the roar of the freeway, becomes a familiar soundtrack. Ah. I almost feel at home.
I cross into Downtown, and the light bulb of creative possibilities flickers on. Shipping containers of ideas show up in my mind, stacked on top of one another. I consider requesting an Uber, but I need to get some of this down… now.
The goddesses are on my side because I spy a Walgreens across the street. There are rare moments when my creativity and broken brain work in harmony without any outside manipulation. Today is one of those days. Miraculously, I pop into the store and buy the first notebook and pen I see without having to touch and look at everything. I cherish these moments. My inner world is clear, vibrant… all is well.
The cashier, an animated woman with skin the color of my mom’s, recommends a Starbucks a few blocks down. Still on the upside of my caffeine buzz from this morning, I opt for an Ethos bottle of water.