Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  I move over to where he’s standing. I kicked my shoes off the moment I stepped onto the plush carpet on his bedroom floor. I stand facing him, our bodies inches apart, our eyes locked and searching one another’s for something.

  I am lost in Weston’s eyes always. Grey eyes that can turn as turbulent as a winter storm, or can warm to nearly a grey-blue when he’s happy or content.

  “Hold your hair up, babe,” he instructs, as he turns me around and lowers the zipper of my black dress. I pull my arms from it and let it pool at my feet, stepping out of it. My black slip follows, and I can hear his intake of breath as he sees that my nylons are held up with a lacy, black garter.

  “Oh baby,” he growls, his warm breath tickling the bare skin of my shoulder, “I definitely am loving your lingerie tonight.” I feel his warm, full lips as they touch my skin, blazing a path of peppered kisses along my shoulder. His hand pushes my hair back so that he has access to the sensitive skin on the back of my neck. His tongue gently traces a path, gliding slowly up to that very sensitive spot just below my earlobe. He stops there, and his lips work their magic, until I can’t help but moan my pleasure, my head tilted back against him, and my eyes closed.

  He relieves me of my black, lace bra, and his strong arms immediately encircle me. His hands each cup a breast, and his thumbs quickly bring my nipples to attention. I arch my back instinctively as his lips continue their sweet assault along the column of my neck, while his hands massage my soft mounds expertly.

  I could stand against him like this forever.

  Maybe not.

  My sex is wet and as his hand slips beneath the waistband of my black silk thong, I feel his breath hitch with the realization that he affects me so quickly and so significantly.

  His fingers part the sensitive folds, and he dips one inside of me drawing a moan from me. I shiver with pleasure---no, more than pleasure; a mixture of pleasure and sweet anticipation. Right now, I can think of no better thing in the world than the feeling I have when Weston is deep inside of me. Though I am the first to admit my lack of experience, my instincts tell me that we are a perfect fit; that he has, in fact, spoiled me for any other man though I’m not ready to admit that to him just yet. He pulls out of me so that his hands are free to continue with the task at hand.

  He manages to unclip the clasps of my garter, and I finally help with my undressing, my hands rolling my nylons down so that I can step out of them.

  I now turn to face him, and my arms automatically wrap themselves around his strong neck as I tilt my face up to meet his. He watches me through shuttered lashes, and his mouth finally crashes down upon my lips with a hunger that matches my own. His one arm encircles my waist, while his other hand rips my thong from me.

  My lips smile against his mouth, and I nip playfully at his bottom lip.

  “What?” he asks huskily.

  “For all of your patience with everything else, Weston, you sure love to ruin my panties.”

  He pulls back for a moment, and whispers against my lips. “That’s because I want you to go commando for me, baby. I figure you’ll have to soon or a later.”

  “Bad boy,” I chide, playfully.

  He pulls me roughly against him, his lips leaving mine as he hoists me up into his arms and lays me across his bed on my back.

  His hands spread my legs a bit, and he takes his place between them. His calloused fingers are exploring every bit of me from the inside of my thighs to the pulsing between my legs. I can feel my wetness building even more with each touch.

  He lowers his mouth to my belly; and his tongue circles my naval, and then burns a hot trail south. My hands have found their place in his mass of thick, dark hair. My fingers tangle in his locks as soft whimpers escape my lips.

  His tongue finds my wetness, and I feel each stroke as he laps up my juices as if some sweet nectar. “Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs huskily. “You’ve got one sweet pussy, baby.”

  Weston continues French kissing my sex, as my hips instinctively roll against him, wanting him deeper. He obliges my unspoken desire, his tongue plunging inside of me, and his fingers right there beside it.

  “Oh God,” I cry out. “Shit!”

  And I come in his mouth and on his fingers. With each pulsating release of my orgasm, he is right there sucking my pussy, drinking it in, and moaning his own pleasure, which makes it even hotter. My hands are gripping the sheets, as my climax rocks through every muscle and nerve ending in my body, rendering me totally mindless other than moaning his name over and over again.

  As it ebbs, I feel my heart rate start to slow a bit, and I can finally catch my breath. My hand releases the bottom sheet and I feel my muscles relax.

  “Holy hell,” I rasp, “I’m sorry I came so fast,” I apologize. “I wanted to wait until you were…”

  He rests back on his haunches and gives me a sexy, lazy grin, “Inside of you,” he finishes.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Don’t worry, babe. The night is young. You will.”

  Thirty minutes, and one blowjob later, Weston is rocking into me with deep, hard thrusts. My feet are braced flat against each of his shoulders. His hands are cupping my ass, pulling me up firmly against him each time he plunges back inside of me. The slick sounds of our mixed juices, damp skin slapping against damp skin is such a turn-on that I don’t care that my moans are getting louder with each thrust. This is sexual perfection and I will revel in every second of it.

  “That’s it, baby,” he says, his hair now damp from our exertion. “Fuck me back, just like that.”

  And then we’re both on the cusp, because by now, I know the signs as does he.

  “Let’s do this together, Peyton.”

  As soon as his words reach my ears I am gone. I am his. He is mine in this moment and it’s pure ecstasy like I’ve never known. Weston is wrecking me with every touch, every word, and every shudder as he moans the last of his release.

  My legs relax as his hands lower them back down on the bed, and he presses his weight against me, his mouth finding mine again with a passionate kiss.

  “Oh, baby,” he growls, rolling off of me and to the side.

  And those two words from him tell me that he is pleasured by me every bit as much as I am by him.

  He pulls me into him, and we fall asleep tangled up together, fully spent, fully satiated, and totally content.

  Chapter 54

  Eva and I spent New Year’s Day at the apartment. She spent the better part of the afternoon complaining about how horny she was, and I reminded her multiple times that it was of her own doing which simply earned me some nasty scowls and glares from my BFF.

  “Oh,” she said, jumping up from the sofa, “this was stuck in our mailbox when I got home last night after NOT having sex all night like you did. No name on the front, but it makes no sense to me so I figure it might be for you.”

  She tossed a red envelope that had already been opened onto the sofa next to me. I pulled the card from inside. It was simply a computer generated card that read, “Happy New Year,” in bold red lettering on the front, and inside were the words, “This is the Year of the Rat.”

  I looked up at her, puzzled, “I don’t get it.”

  She had shrugged, “Me either, but then I got to thinking, you know how every year is supposed to represent some animal or something? Like I’ve heard about the ‘Year of the Goat,’ or the horse, or the monkey---I think it’s some Chinese zodiac thing. There are twelve in all. I guess it’s the rat’s turn.”

  “Hmm,” I replied, “Still kind of weird.”

  It’s the second week of January and the New England winter wonderland is evident with the blanket of whiteness that is draped over the horizon. I don’t actually mind the snow, as long as I don’t have to drive in it, which is only possible if I don’t go to classes or to work.

  Fat chance.

  Classes are back in session and I’ve re-outlined my senior project so that it can be salvaged to some degree. A
fter all, my notes and results of the control points can still be used with a new graph that reflects my new hypothesis. And then I simply change my thesis statement to reflect the actual outcome.

  Biases continue to exist within the institutions of higher learning in America with respect to handsome and athletically gifted males having less intelligence and a lack of motivation in achieving academic recognition.

  There.

  Easy peasy.

  Now I simply have to get approval from my sponsoring professor, which shouldn’t present a problem. A load has definitely been taken off my mind on this one. My plans for UC Berkley are back on track!

  Weston invited me to Saturday’s last home game. Eva grudgingly said she would go. She and Marcus continue to see one another, although not nearly as much as they were before the holidays. She said they had a pleasant New Year’s Eve.

  True to her word, she put the ixnay on the sex. I guess so far, Marcus has respected her stand on it, but I wonder how long that will last.

  Weston and I have agreed it’s best if we stay neutral. He thinks Marcus just got scared; and I think Eva overreacted.

  I’m finished with my Wednesday shift at Big Daddy’s. I’ve arranged it that I only work two shifts a week. No weekends.

  I picked up a tutoring job at Hardwick. Professor Lindquist called me the first week back after break. He said I did such a good job with Weston, he asked if I would take on another one of his students. This one is female and we meet Tuesday afternoons. The money is good so I could hardly turn the opportunity down.

  Pop has been sending me some money each week, for the last several, but I’m not sure what has propelled him to do so. We talked on the phone on New Year’s Day, but only for a few minutes. I got the impression that things were tense between him and Louise. He told me not to worry, that he had laid the law down with her concerning Phil. He had even been tucking some money away over the past couple of months, and wanted to send some to me when he could to help with college expenses.

  “Pop, I’m doing okay,” I had told him. “I have a job, you know?”

  “I know, Princess, but I discovered that Louise has been subsidizing Phil’s lazy ass over the years. I’m taking care of the money now and I intend to help with your college as much as I can. You are my daughter, and you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. I’m only sorry I didn’t see the light sooner so that I could’ve helped out more.”

  “Please," I said, “quit beating yourself up, okay?”

  I could tell over the phone he was starting to get emotional. I told him I loved him and thanked him for the check I’d received.

  I hurry home to get showered and changed before Weston comes over. Wednesday is our study together evening. Don’t laugh. It has its perks as well.

  Eva is out when I get home. She left a note that she drove to Cambridge to party with Cassie at After Five. The note said it’s Lady’s Night with two smiley faces drawn in succession.

  Jeez.

  I shake my head. I truly hope Eva knows what she’s doing.

  After my shower, I shrug on some pajama pants and one of Weston’s practice jerseys that I absconded with during my sleepover last weekend.

  I’m getting my books organized on my bed, and the popcorn is in the microwave popping away when there’s a knock on the door.

  Right on time.

  I open the door with a smile that quickly fades as I see Weston, his gloved hand holding what looks to be a dead rodent by the tail upside down.

  I shriek and back away. “That’s not fucking funny!” I say, forgetting that I don’t curse.

  “I’m not laughing,” he replies, staying out on the concrete stoop. “Where’s your trash can?”

  “There’s a dumpster at the end of the parking lot,” I reply, pointing down to the end of the parking lot.

  “Let me get rid of this. You might want to pour some water on the blood here.”

  I look down on the concrete stoop to our apartment and see the pool of blood. “You mean?”

  “Yeah, it was here when I came to the door.”

  But…I just came in no more than thirty minutes ago. It wasn’t there then. Probably got into some poison. I hear that causes them to bleed internally.”

  Weston furrows a brow. “No babe, this wasn’t an internal bleeding thing. This isn’t a barn rat. It’s a rat from a pet store. Someone cut its damn throat. I saw it. You get inside. I’ll be right back.”

  I scurry back inside and get a pitcher of hot water, taking it outside and pouring it on the pooled blood, watching it dissipate. What the hell?

  A rat.

  Throat slit?

  A shiver crosses my body as I go back inside my warm apartment and wait for Weston.

  When he comes in he’s careful to leave his gloves out on the front porch. I can tell he is concerned.

  He pulls his jacket off, tossing it over the back of a chair. “Who would play this kind of a fucked up prank on you?”

  “On me? You presume it was left for me? Eva lives here too, you know?”

  “Yeah, well Eva doesn’t have a psycho ex-boyfriend. I mean hell, Marcus on his worst day would never even consider pulling shit like that. Besides, they’re on good terms.”

  I arch an eyebrow, “Well, I’m not sure about that,” I reply. “She’s been doing a lot of partying with the girls lately.”

  “Even so,” he says, “that’s not anything Marcus would be pissed about and seriously, I’m telling you even if was pissed as hell at her this is just not his style.”

  I go over to Weston and wrap my arms around his strong body, taking in the faint scent of his aftershave. I want nothing more than to forget about that damn bloody rat. “You smell good,” I whisper.

  “Don’t change the subject. This is some sort of a message. Want me to phone Stewie and put the fear in him?”

  “He wouldn’t do this. I’m sure of it.”

  He cocks a brow studying me. “Have you heard from him since Christmas Eve?”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You mean you’re not sure?” he asks, his tone getting a bit strict.

  I pause, thinking back to the weird phone call on Christmas. I had nearly forgotten about it since nothing more had happened since then.

  Until now.

  Were they connected?

  “I…uh, I got a weird phone call on Christmas. I don’t think it was Stuart, but the caller only said one word.”

  “Which was?” he asks, now clearly impatient with me.

  “Cunt.”

  Weston runs a hand through his hair. “What did Caller ID show?”

  “A bunch of sixes---no real number.”

  “Have you had anymore weird calls?”

  “Nope.” Then I remember the card left in our mailbox on New Year’s. “But…”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Well, Eva found a card in our mailbox on New Year’s. It wasn’t addressed to either of us---just a random card that said Happy New Year and that it’s the ‘Year of the Rat.’”

  “Shit, Peyton. Why didn’t you say something to me before about this?”

  “Weston,” I reply, “it wasn’t like I made a connection between the two. Besides, you’re not my protector. For all I know it was just a prank call meant for someone else, and maybe everyone in the complex received that generic card. Nothing has happened since then, I swear.”

  “Until now,” he replies. “I still think it’s your ex.”

  “Well, I don’t. Let’s forget it, okay? We’ve got studying to do and our popcorn is getting cold.” I’m trying my best to make light of it. The fact that Weston is acting freaked about it is doing nothing but making me nervous.

  “Let’s take a break,” I suggest an hour and a half later as I’m curled against Weston, fighting off sleep. “This crap is so boring.”

  “Hah,” he remarks, sitting up and pulling me with him. “Now you know how I felt reading all that chick-lit you assigned me la
st semester.”

  “Bull,” I laugh, stretching. “There’s no comparison between Early American Lit and Scientific Theory.”

  I launch myself from the bed and grab the half-empty bowl of popcorn from my dresser. I toss Weston a bottle of water, and grab one for myself.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I say, uncapping my water as I sit cross-legged in front of him on the bed. I feel a devilish grin spreading across my lips.

  His legs are outstretched and his back is against the headboard as he tosses popcorn into his mouth and rolls his eyes. “Oh God, do I even want to know what it is?”

  I giggle and give him a playful swat. “Come on, it’ll be fun. It’s a couple’s game. Similar to ‘Truth or Dare,’ it’s called ‘First.’ We each take turns asking the other a question about the first time we did this or that, or the first person that did this or that to us. There is nothing off limits, but it all has to pertain to a “first.” It’s a good way to cut through the crap and really get to know one another.”

  “No doubt invented by a chick,” he teases. “Okay, so what’s the out mechanism?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said it’s similar to Truth or Dare. So, if one of us chooses not to answer a specific question, what’s the alternative?”

  “There isn’t one,” I reply. “You have to answer.”

  “Fuck me,” Weston says. “This isn’t a game. Sounds more like an interrogation to me.”

  “Oh stop it,” I laugh. “You can always lie I suppose, if you’re ashamed of the truth. “I’ll even let you go first.”

  “Who’s ashamed of the truth? Me? No fucking way. Okay, let’s see…Okay, name the first guy that gave you an orgasm?”

  I roll my eyes. “You realize you’re wasting a perfectly good question to assuage your male ego, right?”

  His foot gives me a nudge. “Just ansa the question, sista.”

  I giggle at his attempt to sound like some ghetto gangster. “Okay, Okay,” I reply, “that would be Weston Matthews, aka, stud extraordinaire.”