“Okay,” he says. “And, Zoe?”
“Yeah?”
“Say yes. Please. I really dig this girl.”
“Call you tomorrow, Billy.”
I hang up and wait for the little daggers to poke at my heart, for their sharp ends to sink into the sensitive skin, but nothing happens. In fact, there’s a kind of glee, a hopefulness. I want Billy to be happy, I always have. If this girl can give him that, without taking away from us … Although having her there would change everything, wouldn’t it? Of course it would. Good? Bad? I can’t even begin to imagine.
Early the next morning, Billy sends me a text.
Red head. Did I say smart? Did I say likes girls? Did I say this won’t change anything between us?
It’s the longest text he’s ever sent me. I send him one back. A simple word that answers both the text questions and the one he’d asked yesterday.
Yes.
I’m not saying yes because of the girl. Not really. I’ve never fucked a girl, never so much as kissed one but I’m not averse to it. I’m interested, actually. But I’m saying yes because I trust Billy. Because one of the reasons we fuck so well is that he pushes me beyond everything I think I want or can handle. Because he knows my boundaries better than I do, and he is expert at nudging me just beyond them. He’s the first man I had pleasurable anal sex with, the first man I fucked in a public place, the first man who tied my wrists and ankles to the bed and then spent a whole night teasing and teasing, never once letting me come.
The Stanford, he texts. Room 1215. Six o’clock.
I’m surprised that he picked a hotel, and then I realize it’s a smart choice. With as much as we’re going to have going on, a simple, clean place that’s close to home seems like the perfect place.
I don’t have to text him back that I’ll be there. I know he knows.
I get nervous. I am nervous. It’s been a long time since I was this wound up about fucking, or getting fucked. Not just with Billy, but with anyone. In some ways, I’ve missed it. That rush, the ping-ping-ping of my heart against my breastbone, the way my clit echoes and murmurs along with it.
Nervous in vinyl is bad though, and I wipe my palms discreetly – or not so discreetly – on my car’s fabric seats before I get out. The dress fits like a dream, especially since I know I can get out of it eventually. My black leather boots click-click across the hotel lobby, a sound that’s always turned me on, even if they’re on my own feet. I’ve pinned my hair up, loose and wavy, so that Billy can pull it out and fist his hands into it the way he likes.
As I head toward the elevator, the guy behind the check-in counter gives me one of those almost subtle “I don’t want to get fired, but I can’t help it” once-overs which, okay, I’m not ashamed to admit, does a whole lot for my confidence right now.
The hotel is busy, being a romantic holiday, which means there are too many people and too many pheromones crammed into too small an elevator. I try to see if one of the girls is Billy’s, but there’s no redhead. Nothing that fits his type. Which, truly, is usually a lot like me – curvy in the ass, no top to speak of, natural in the makeup.
No one gets off with me on the twelfth floor, and it’s just me and my nerves standing in front of room 1215. I stand outside for a moment, imagining them, imagining her riding him, or his nails trailing down the curves of her breasts, making her shiver. I’ve imagined women fucking Billy before – we’ve talked about current lovers, past lovers, future lovers. This is wholly different. I wait to see if there’s a pang of something like remorse or jealousy. Nothing. Nothing except the way the image of them is making me wet. I haven’t worn anything beneath the dress and just standing there, my thighs are damp.
I knock.
The girl who answers the door is just a little shorter than me, but she’s barefoot and I’ve got three-inch heels sunk into the hotel carpet. She’s also naked. Skinnier than I would have expected, but with a bit of swell at the hips, a bit at the chest. Her nipples are small and pink, already extended. Long red hair waves around her shoulders and a pair of dark green eyes study me intently as she tilts her head. She’s not my age, maybe five years younger, old enough to have a few fine lines around her mouth when she gives me a wide, big-toothed smile.
“Oh, yum,” she says. “You’re as gorgeous as Billy said. Fantastic dress. Come in, come in.” She takes my wrist in her fingers when she says this, and pulls me into the room.
I like her instantly. How can I not?
“Thanks,” I say, but it’s belated. The room is gorgeous. Simple but comfortable. A little sitting area is split off from the bed by a white paper screen. Nice lighting. Unobtrusive decor. My red dress and her red hair are the brightest things in the room.
“I’m Katy,” she says. Her hand is still on my wrist. She seems so reactive, so excitable, that I have an odd temptation to pull her against me, to see how she sounds.
“Zoe,” I say.
She smiles again, a bit of heat in her expression. “Oh, I know,” she says. “I’ve heard all about you.”
“Oh, great,” I say, and I laugh as I say it. She leads me to the couch, and lets go of my wrist. From here I can see into the bedroom, the wide bed, the empty room.
“Where’s Billy?” I ask.
“He thought … “ She sits on the couch, her legs closed at the knees, cute little feet splayed. “He thought we might want a bit of time, to you, know, say hello. As it were.”
“Drink?” She reaches for the iced champagne bottle near the coffee table then sits back without picking it up. Her demeanour changes slightly, and she lowers her gaze to her hands. “I’m kind of nervous, I have to admit. Okay, I’m a lot nervous. Really. Really nervous.”
I almost have to laugh – she talks just like I do when I’m uncomfortable. Jesus, Billy really is in trouble this time. And she really is nervous; she’s rubbing her hands together like she might start a fire if she does it long enough. I thought I’d be the one who felt out of place, skulking around like the old flame that I am. But somehow knowing she’s come here, for Billy, despite her fear, it makes me feel more secure. It makes me like her more.
I take a second to consider. I could sit on the other couch, watch her nervousness, echo it with my own. Or I could move forward, make this easier on us both.
I choose the latter, even though it’s not my norm – I’m the passive one with Billy, always – sliding the coffee table away from where she’s sitting. I go down on my knees in front of her carefully, a hand on each of her knees, moving slow so I don’t fall down in this tight dress, so I don’t startle her or me.
“Then let’s get to know each other, shall we?” I watch her eyes while I draw a finger along the inside of her pale thighs. Her eyes are so big I can see the whites around them, but she doesn’t flinch or pull away.
I dip my head, drawing my tongue over the path that my finger just traced, tasting her skin. She shivers instantly, a small sound of surprise rising from her mouth.
“I thought …” she starts.
“What?” I say as I touch the closely shorn hair between her thighs, the reddish-brown curls soft beneath my fingertips.
“Well, I just assumed … Billy said you were … submissive.”
“Oh, I usually am.” My laugh has fallen down into my throat, making the sound low and husked, aroused. And then I lean down and dip my tongue into her curls, splitting them with a sweep of the tip, opening her up so that I can taste her. She’s sweet and carameled, like maple syrup candy, and she rises up, pushing into my touch.
“Oh,” she says, like she understands. I wonder if she does. No one understands Billy and me. But maybe this one will. Maybe she will be the one for him, the one that lets him have the past while moving into the future.
She rises her hips off the couch, her hands finding my head, fingers weaving loosely
in my hair. I brush my tongue between the cleft of her, feel her grow wetter against my touch. She is so responsive, bucking and groaning, the muscles in her thighs pulling tight.
The door opens, a soft click and close that makes something drop through my stomach. I can tell without even looking that it’s Billy. The air smells faintly of him, a spiced musk that matches his gravelled voice. “I leave you alone for two minutes and look what happens.” But I can hear that he’s glad.
At the sound of his voice, I suck from her, wanton and hard, letting the taste of her fill my mouth. She tries to hold back, uncertain, torn between the two of us, but Billy takes two steps across the room and stands behind her, dipping his fingers into her hair, holding her still with his fists around his curls.
“Make her come, Zoe,” he says.
I hardly have to do anything. Her clit’s already a beating pulse against my mouth at his words, and I flick my tongue across her again and again, the movements growing harder until she’s bucking and groaning and calling his name in her heated voice.
“Fuck,” she says as she falls back to the couch, breathing hard.
I raise my head, meet Billy’s questioning, heated gaze over her head. The arousal in his eyes is obvious and intense, and I have a funny feeling it mirrors my own. He lets his gaze travel down the length of my body where I’m crouched, taking in the curves beneath the red dress. It burns me in the way that makes my body feel molten, alive. This, I think, is why we get together every Valentine’s day, why our bodies come together in a way that is ever-changing, ever heated. Can I predict what comes after? No. But I never could. I can only close my eyes and hope.
“Yes,” I say to Billy’s unanswered question.
It’s all he needs to hear. He walks around the couch, pulls me up, and slides his hands beneath the dress, giving a soft groan of appreciation when his fingers find my bare curves.
“You too, Katy,” he says. His voice is command built from lust, impossible to resist.
From her spot on the couch, Katy leans forward, the soft press of her lips against my thigh, her fingers following Billy’s upward, until I can’t tell whose touch is where. All I know is that there are two sets of hands caressing my skin beneath the dress, two sets of lips sliding against my skin, three quiet groans of pleasure beginning to fill the room.
No Stopping
by Landon Dixon
She had her thumb out just past the junction of Highways 395 and 190. I was hauling ass – making good time – barrelling down out of the cool Sierra Nevadas and roaring across the harsh, hot flats below. I shot her a quick glance as I motored by, did a double-take; she was a looker. I pumped the brakes, hesitating, then stomped down on the pedal, slewing over to the shoulder of the shimmering asphalt.
I was hell-bent for LA, things to do and people to see, miles to go before I slept with anyone. I didn’t have time to stop and smell the hitchhikers. But, I thought, what the hell? It’d been a long, hard, lonely drive from Chicago and a little innocent conversation wouldn’t slow me down any.
I drummed the steering wheel of the rumbling car, watching in the rearview mirror as she ran towards me – twin, reddish-brown ponytails flopping, breasts bouncing free and easy beneath a green tank top, legs flashing brown and smooth in a pair of khaki shorts and black boots. She had a big, Army-style pack strapped to her back, a beaded choker around her neck. And as she pulled even with the rear bumper, I noticed that she wasn’t any flighty teen queen thumbing a summer away; she was a woman, a woman in her mid-to-late-forties.
She yanked the door open, shrugged off the backpack and stowed it in the back seat, slid inside. The dust and dry, oven-hot air of the road came with her. She slammed the door shut and said, “Hi. Thanks.”
I stared into the brightest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen. They were shining pools in a sun-browned, pretty face. I pulled away from her eyes, gave the rest of her the once-over, taking in her freckled chest, the warm, inviting depth of her cleavage, the twin points indenting the thin material of her top, her slim, supple arms and legs. There were crow’s feet spreading out from the corners of her eyes and laugh lines around her mouth, and her chest hung a little low, but, somehow, all that only enhanced her seasoned good looks. She smelled surprisingly fresh, clean.
“No problem,” I said, glancing at my watch. Time was a-wasting. It stopped for no man, or woman. I punched the accelerator, fishtailed back onto the highway in a spray of gravel. “Where’re you headed?”
“Anywhere.”
I shot her another look. She was staring straight ahead, hands in her lap, smile tugging on the edges of her lips.
The car ate up the road, like there was no stopping it.
The last thing I wanted, or needed right then, was to get mixed up with some mixed-up broad fumbling her way through a mid-life crisis, looking to drag down the first thing in pants that drove by, ride him for the thrills and the food money. But I’d picked her up for conversation, so ten miles down that melting ribbon of black tar, I started some.
“What’s your story?” I said.
She told me. Man, did she tell me. But I guess I asked for it.
She’d gotten hitched when she was only eighteen – to her high school history teacher sweetheart – and long story short, three kids and twenty-seven years of marriage later, the cradle-robbing educator had died, leaving her the emptiest of nests. So she’d flown the coop, the little house on the Nebraskan prairie, and ventured out into the big, bad world – to see what she could see, experience new and different things.
“A second childhood, huh?” I grunted, reaching over and cranking up the A/C, brushing her knee.
Her brilliant blue eyes went icy. “No. Not a second childhood. I just want to see … what I’ve been missing. I don’t believe you’re ever too old to explore new possibilities.”
I watched her nipples harden even further in the stream of cold air, beginning to believe myself.
“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled, grabbing the steering wheel and jerking it hard to the right.
The car leapt out of the path of an oncoming semi, just in time.
That should’ve taught me to keep my eyes on the road.
We stopped at a rest area just before Randsburg. Barbara had to use the can, and I was thirsty, among other things. Three hours cooped up with the good-looking lady had left me harder than Mount Whitney. I was thinking maybe I had time to get me some – quick and dirty, in and out and gone. No stopping.
I chugged a Red Bull and caught up with Barbara, from behind. She was staring off to the west, where somewhere in the parched, breathless distance lay the City of Angels, and a big, blue, beautiful ocean. I slid my hands around her narrow waist and pressed my hard-on up against her taut ass. “What say we grab us some exercise?” I breathed in her ear.
She went rigid, not looking back. I moved my sweaty hands over her stomach, up to her tits, gripping and squeezing the fleshy, low-slung pair. I kissed her neck, her funky choker, licked in behind her ear, my cock pressing hard and needy in between her rounded cheeks, my hands working her tits. She was hot, and I was on fire.
She spun around in my arms. “I don’t want any … commitments, Jay,” she said, those blue eyes of hers blazing. “I’m free – for the first time in my life – and I want to stay that way. I’m going to see things, do things. I can’t be tied down. I’ve got to keep moving.”
“We’ll do things, baby,” I growled. “Hey, we’re thinkin’ along the same lines. I just want to fu– … have some fun, is all. Not get married.” I crushed her slim body against mine and kissed her. And she clutched my shoulders, kissed back.
There wasn’t a soul around, just the crickets chirping away in the scrub, the sun glaring down, the dust kicking up every now and then. I pushed my tongue into Barbara’s mouth and she pushed back. We swirled our slippery tongues together, m
y damp hands glued to her back.
She caught my tongue between her white teeth and sucked on it, pulled on it with her lips like she was sucking my cock. It drove me wild, and I grabbed onto her ponytails and ground my cock into her belly.
After flailing away with our tongues for a while longer, I gripped Barbara’s bare legs and lifted her up, light as a feather. She coiled her legs around my waist and I carried her over to a picnic table, our mouths never breaking contact, her hot, sweet breath steaming into my face. I set her down on the end of the table, and we finally did untangle our tongues, so she could pull her top out of her shorts and up over her head.
She was a rich, smooth, dark brown all over, and I held her by the shoulders and admired her for a moment – her full, hanging breasts, her fat, burnt-sugar nipples. She was twice as sexy as any girl half her age.
I grasped her bare breasts and squeezed, and her eyelids fluttered and she shivered. I bent my head down and licked at one of her swollen nipples, and she cried, “Yes!”
I thoroughly tongue-lashed her nipples, feeling the rubbery appendages stiffen, lengthen still more. I kneaded her hot tit-flesh as I licked at her buds, then sealed my lips around one thick nipple and sucked hard on it.
“Yes, baby! Yes!” Barbara groaned, leaning back, planting her hands on the sun-bleached wooden slats and urging me to feed on her chest.
I hungrily inhaled as much of her left tit as I could, tugged on it, then let it slide dripping wet out of my mouth. I devoured her other tit, pulled on it. Then I pushed her overripe melons together and bobbed my head back and forth between them, sucking and licking and biting her nipples, leaving them shining with my lust, achingly hard with hers.
She tore my T-shirt out of my jeans and pulled it over my head. I fumbled my belt and my fly open, shoved my jeans and shorts down, my cock springing up hard and yearning, vibrating in the buzzing air.
Barbara arched her body so that I could slide her shorts off, leaving her breathtakingly naked except for her boots. Her pussy was covered with springy, reddish-brown fur that glistened in the sunlight. I could smell her desire. I pushed her down onto the table and gripped her legs, felt up her firm thighs, kissed and licked her muscled calves, my straining prick sniffing her downy pussy.
Sex, Love & Valentines Page 4