“Okay, babygirl. I like that you’re playing it smart and having a good time.” Vi gets me. She sweeps my hair back tenderly. “I’m psyched you’re getting back out there. And you’re absolutely right, there’s no reason to set yourself up for later hurt. Have fun, Emelie—that’s why you’re here.”
“When do you see him again?” Raph asks. “Or more importantly, when do we get to see him?”
“He’s coming by to pick me up tonight so I can watch him rehearse.”
“I would love to watch him rehearse,” Raph muses, gazing up at the ceiling.
Vi reaches over and smacks him then says, “Hopefully we’ll be here. It’d be cool to see him in a less awkward circumstance than our first meeting.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you back.”
“Now we…”—she pokes Raph—“need to leave for work or we’ll be late.”
“See ya later, Emelie.” Raph pecks my other cheek, and they’re both off.
All too soon, I’m left to my own devices—literally—I got back too late, or early, depending on how one tells time, and I fell asleep with my vibrator in my hand. Fortunately, I woke up to get a drink and stashed it before the roomies came in.
I roll over, peek into my bedside drawer, and check out my limited tools. I have a small pink plastic “dick” and a bullet massager that’s a delicate but handy clit-stim. Aghast that I hadn’t packed any toys for my stay, Violet dared me to buy them one late night at a pharmacy. She was picking out new mascara and wouldn’t stop ranting about the connection between happy moods and orgasms. To shut her up, I got the only ones the small store had in stock.
Of course, nothing could compare to Stone’s beautiful, skin covered, vein rippled, real-BIG-dick-behemoth, but by foregoing his advances and my own pleasure last night, I have become miserably frustrated imagining said real life behemoth.
It will be a long day—and an even more impossible night—if I don’t take care of it.
I figure the bullet will tide me over for now.
It is sort of wimpy, but I always get wigged out when I go online and try to buy some kind of sex-gizmo—I don’t know what size and whose reviews to believe or even take seriously. Some devices look painful; others look plain ridiculous. The ex never wanted to use toys, so I really never invested in any.
I think back to Stone telling me to never apologize for experiencing pleasure.
That gives me an idea. Before I flip the switch, I reach for my phone and find the photo of Stone and me kissing. He’s unbelievably perfect, like a dream, and I know that’s where I have to keep him somehow, in my happy dreams. He’s wearing his street dance clothes—loose jeans held by a belt, a wallet with a pocket chain that drapes over his outer thigh, his black tank top allowing for the best view of the bulging muscles in his arm as he holds me in the air.
He’s got a rugged outer shell with a soft gooey center. Dirty, hot, and sexy, plus charming, romantic, and thoughtful, with the equipment to play and win the game. Stone Wright is the real deal and the whole package—au natural.
I sigh, keep the photo up, and find the song he danced with at the beach—“Candy Shop”—on Spotify. That’s all it takes, and a few minutes later, I am in the best groove for tilling in my flower pot ever!
Soooooo fucking close! Imagining Stone’s hand squeezing my ass as his tongue pumps magical rainbows into my vadge makes everything all better.
“Dun dun… dun dun… dun dun dun.” The Jaws theme song interrupts my candyland fantasies and turns them into an approaching shark fin in a sport’s jersey dad nightmare.
OH GOD, NOOOOOO!!!! Anytime but now!
This has never happened to me before, but I now know without any shadow of doubt, that there is nothing—I mean nothing—worse than seeing your father’s face right before riding off on the enchanted pony.
The moment is gone.
My big, beautiful, budding O has perished by hellish tragedy.
Somewhere fairies are weeping.
And a unicorn has died.
“Dad…”
“I can hardly believe you answered your phone! I’ve been calling for days. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I rasp out. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, just checking up on my girl. Are you jogging? You sound winded.”
“YES!” I blurt out loud and fast. “Jogging… great weather here in LA.”
“So I’ll forgive you for not calling back. Glad the sunshine is treating you good.”
Sunshine… one of Stone’s many nicknames for me.
“I’m liking it more and more, Dad.”
“Don’t be liking it too much, now. I want my baby back home next month,” he tells me. “The company is doing their special summer production of La Bayadère.”
When I don’t say anything in response, he fills in the silence. “Hasn’t Viktor gotten ahold of you? Or are you not answering his calls either? He wants to discuss some of the dances.”
“Dad, about—”
“Look, I know the two of you had a falling out, but guys don’t stay in touch unless they’re still in love—he obviously hasn’t moved on, Emilie. You should give him a chance to make up.”
I huff in frustration. “I’m not—”
“Oh, yeah—your mother’s driving me crazy too. Because you aren’t answering your phone, I’m getting all of her follow-up calls. ‘Have you heard from Emmy? I’m worried about Emmy!’” He employs a silly, high-pitched voice that he thinks sounds like my mom. “‘Maybe you need to take a flight to LA and check up on her, Frank…’”
“NO! No… you don’t need to do that. I’m fine and well. All is good.” I know that last suggestion was all him! My mom would never have said that!
“You really need to check your messages and follow through,” he scolds, disappointment obvious in his tone.
“Yes, Dad. You’re right. Sorry,” I say. “I promise, as soon as I hang up on you—I mean, with you—I’ll call her right away.”
“What could you possibly be doing there that’s kept you too busy to call anybody back?”
I groan. “Dad…”
Just then, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Stone: You never said you knew how to swing dance. I thought you said you didn’t dance any style other than ballet. It was hot.
“Emelie, are you paying attention to me?”
“No… YES! I’m sorry. I um… have been…”
Stone: You’re hot.
“I think Viktor wants to…” My dad keeps talking, but how can I listen with what Stone sends next.
Stone: I’m hot. Burning up since you wouldn’t come home with me last night.
Dad continues, “Sounds like they got rid of…”
Stone: Not even two cold showers and a romp with the rubber-maid have been able to quench the flames.
A rubber what?
Stone: Now I’m hiding in my office with my mobile and the photo of the two of us nearly going at it on the hood of my Jeep at the gas station.
I take a sharp breath in. What does he mean by that?
Stone: So if my spelling gets mucked up, it’s because I’m thinking of you with both hands. Sexting with the left, and stroking myself with the right.
Hot air presses from my lungs. A vision of Stone takes over my mind. Him: leaning back in his office chair wearing a sexy designer suit. His tie unknotted, the worn leather belt and cold metal buckle undone and hanging loosely to the sides of the v that the separated zipper of his pants has made, revealing his silk trunks. I wonder what color they are today. I imagine blue.
“It could be a big opportunity for you, Emelie. Get you back in the game.” My dad is actually still talking, but he might as well be on Mars. Or better yet, Pluto.
Stone: My cock is in my hand now, baby, and as I work my fingers towards the head, all I can think about is your fuckhot body wrapped around mine as I fuck you hard against the wall.
I’m starting to per
spire—my buried, lifeless O suddenly resurrecting from the dead.
“Dad, I’ve got to—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘go’! I just finally got to talk to you!”
Stone: Mmm, my mouth suckoing in yoiur sweet and jiucxy nipple.
Oh Christ!
Stone: And since thius is my fantassy, Im not wearing a condom. That’s rifght baby—I’m riding you bareback—and I can feel everty bit of your velvety heat.
I’m desperate! “But if I stay on the phone with you, Dad, I can’t call Mom to tell her I’m okay.” Please, please, please, please, please!
Super slowly, he says, “If… I hang up, do you promise to call her right away?”
“YES!”
“Well you don’t have to shout, Emelie. I suppose I can go choose my fantasy football teams while I wait for you to call back,” he decides.
Oh man, he’s going to wait?!
Stone: Oh fuck, Em! I can imagibne you moaning, pleading for more. Begging in yourt sweet sexy pouty tone
“OkayDadI’llcallyoubacklaterthenbye!”
I disconnect like I’m the Flash, snatch up the bullet and work to finish what was started and interrupted earlier.
Stone: I can’t hold out much longer Em. I get that long mane all up arounbd my fingers. Ilick up yuour neck to your cherry flavored lips then stick my tonguye in your mouth toi swalloiw your moans!
“I can feel it Stone…” I pant. “I can feel you.”
Stone: Now I lean back, hold your deliciuous thighs open with my hansds and watch between us as my cock nmoves slowy in and out of your hot pretty pussy.
“Oh shit!”
Stone: Oh Em my cock is covered in uour sweet juices! Youre so fucking wet!
“I’m gonna, I’m… going to come!”
Stone: Come for me Emm, come all over nme! Zewroprdtfhyjuk
“OH FUCK!” My orgasm hits me so hard—after having been built up and denied as long as it was—that it takes over my entire body in an uncontrollable seizure-like frenzy! My phone is flung from my hand, and I follow after it. Tangled in my blanket, my body pitches off the bed and lands with a thud to the floor below in spasms of ecstasy.
I hear the buzz of the incoming text. My hand gropes around me until it feels the hunk of plastic.
Stone: Aaahhh. Thank you for that, luv. Maybe I’ll be able to think rationally for at least a few more hours before thoughts of me licking your pussy take over again. Btw, I’m going to make you so sexually frustrated and desperate that you’ll have no choice but to break your self-imposed rules and jump my favorite bone. I promise I won’t say I told you so. You know I’ll give it to you right, baby.
My body flutters with aftershock.
Stone: And you know one night could never be enough.
He’s right. Of course he’s right! But I have to keep some power… um, right?!? I think before my pillow falls over the edge of the bed and smacks me in the face.
Chapter Fourteen
Stone
Making love on the dance floor
(Because she’s obviously not going to give it up to me anytime soon in the bedroom!)
Who made up surnames like Woodcock and Johnson anyway? I mean no disrespect—Drew Johnson is a great mate and a smart bloke—but it seems like those original forefather guys were pretty hard up to go naming themselves and their future generations after their schlongs.
Or maybe I’m just thinking this way because I rode the sext rodeo—sans partner—and now all I can think about is her hand down the front of my pants.
And as important as it is that we’re talking about building a new housing complex on the other side of the city, potentially improving hundreds of lives, I just want to get out of here and spend time with Em.
Even if it means she won’t put her in hand in my pants.
I keep glancing at my wristwatch—I feel like a teenager biting at the bit for the fucking school bell to ring!
“Stone?” Drew asks. He’s standing in the front of the room with a slide presentation going. “Do you have any input?”
Oh, do I have input—just not for here.
“I think the overall plan is a hit. Once we get the kinks sorted, we’ll be able to pass it back to Woodcock and his crew to begin building.”
Drew smiles like I just gave him a birthday cake. Or a stripper of the female variety.
I try to focus on work the rest of the day. Five o’clock finally gets here and I hop in my Jeep to pick up Em at her place.
The apartment building is nicely situated close to the university. A small patch of grass in the front of the three story apartment complex welcomes visitors. Many of the personal balconies are strewn with drying clothes, barbies (or grills, as I’ve learnt Americans like to call them), bicycles, plants, and other stuff. I park and knock.
“Be right there!” Emelie’s voice calls out.
There’s a Welcome Home, Emelie sign on the door, created on canvas and written in colorful, highly stylized, graffiti art. It’s cool.
Home, I think. That’s one of her dilemmas.
The door swings open. “Hey.” Emilie greets me with a wide, happy smile.
It’s a great smile. Full of delicious excitement and anticipation.
“You look fantastic.”
“Thanks.” She looks me over, almost without meaning to, and blushes when she meets back up with my eyes. As if she was caught doing something naughty.
“You too.” She bites that lip, notices, stops, and quickly turns away—I’m going to guess to hide her reddening face. “Come on in.”
Now I can’t help but wonder if she read my texts. I’m thinking… yes.
I follow her. “Nice place.”
It’s colorfully decorated with hippie and whimsical style: mandala and Indian print throws hang from the walls next to pieces of art that look like original creations in a variety of mediums—small statues and sculptures, oil paintings and sketches—the apartment is like a small arts gallery.
“I love the work.”
“It’s all Violet and Raphael—they’re both art students. They make the place very colorful.”
“Where do you sleep?”
“It’s a three-bedroom apartment. They each have their own room and I have the guestroom.”
She leads me down the hallway and shuts the doors as we walk by each of her messy roommates’ rooms, as if to spare me from the disaster. We get to hers, and she’s not kidding—it’s a guestroom alright.
The walls are utterly bare. There’s nothing homey. It’s worse than a hotel room. All that’s in here is a bed, tall boy—or chest of drawers—and a bedside drawer with a lamp. In contrast to the rest of the place, it’s a deserted island.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few weeks now.”
“And you don’t liven up the room, why?”
“You sound like Vi,” she answers. “I don’t know why. I guess I don’t want to decorate a place if I’m not going to stay.”
“If?”
“Vi is begging me to move in and goes into utter denial at the mere mention of my returning to New York. My dad wants me to come back home—like yesterday. My mom is being Switzerland and keeps spouting off momisms like, ‘Follow your heart and the universe will show you the way.’” She shakes it off and starts back out of the room. “I need something to drink. How about you? Want something to drink?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.” She hurries out.
Even though I don’t think we know each other well enough for me to walk out on that thin layer of ice, the idea of her not staying sends a heavy twinge through my gut and a bad copper taste into my mouth.
I call out to her, “Whatever you decide, you really should at the very least make the room comfortable—give it more of a you kind of vibe.” I start snooping about, the caring friend I am. “What have you got in here that could add some charm to the room?” I mutter quietly to myself, considering she’s in the kitchen, as pul
l my suit coat off and set it on the bed.
The top of the chest of drawers is like a clean shelf with nothing on it. The loo adjacent to the room has nothing but some necessary toiletries and a few cosmetics. A tiny bottle of Jasmine Intoxication essential oil fragrance sits next to a small travel jewelry box. After unscrewing the top, I flit it under my nose.
I exhale in ecstasy. This is the divine scent that, when mixed with Emelie Cartier’s natural essence, is the most sensual aroma I’ve ever experienced. Shit, I’m growing in the pants department.
Moving on quickly, I notice only the bedside drawer is seeing any real action. There’s a Kindle reader and a crumpled American Ballet Magazine next to an empty cup with a dried and wilted tea bag. Those three items, at least, say something about Emelie’s personality.
I sit there on the bed and let my fingers skim down the glossy cover of the mag, wondering if it would really be a stretch for her to dance another style with the same passion as she has for ballet.
She’ll never know until she tries.
Skimming my fingers over the e-reader, I hope to see what books she’s reads—but it’s switched off.
“What else is in here?” I wonder and pull open the top drawer.
Holy fuuuuuuuuuck! I hit the jackpot.
Evil-brain dick immediately possesses me. I didn’t even stand a chance.
“Hey, Em?” I call to her.
I hear cups clink on the countertop. “Yeah?”
“Did you get my texts today?”
Utter silence.
“Is that a no?”
“Um… yeah. No.”
She’s so lying. This is going to be fun.
A moment later, she comes back into the room carrying a couple mugs. “I made a pot of coffee right before you came.”
“Oh, I definitely came,” I say and watch as she gets flustered. “How about you?”
“What are you… what are you talking about?” She won’t look at me; she’s got her back turned, and she’s fucking around with the coffee on top of the empty shelf of the tall boy even though the coffee’s already made.
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