by Mimi Strong
“Um.” I was having a difficult time staying on topic with our pillow talk.
“Is that dress what you’re wearing out today?” he asked.
“Why? Is there something wrong with it? Don’t tell me you want to go hiking. I don’t mind a walk in the woods, but I don’t own proper hiking boots, or the appropriate hiking body.”
“I can see why that dress is your favorite,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “The blue matches your beautiful eyes.”
I broke his gaze long enough to peer over his shoulder at my door. It was nearly closed, but not clicked shut. Shayla was probably going to sleep for a few more hours, but the things I wanted to do with Dalton were closed-door things.
He continued, “If you want to wear that dress today, you should take it off right now.”
“Off?”
“Yes. It’s probably getting all wrinkled right now with you laying on it.”
He inched his hand up to a more sensitive location. Tingling sensations radiated through my lower body, focusing mainly in the area I sometimes jokingly refer to as Brazil.*
*A leg wax is for removing hair from your leg; therefore, a Brazilian is for removing the hair around Brazil.**
**With apologies to my friends from Brazil, who are probably dismayed by the whole thing. On behalf of every waxing salon who understandably doesn’t want to write the words “pudenda waxing” on their sandwich boards, I apologize.
“What about your shirt?” I whispered. “You’re getting all disheveled right now.”
“You think?”
“Your shirt would look great tossed over a stack of books.”
“I like the way you think.”
CHAPTER 17
“So, about that shirt,” I said.
“Your desire is my pleasure,” Dalton Deangelo replied.
As he spoke, he gently pinched the rolling hills of Brazil and probed for a hot spring.
I moaned, helpless with pleasure and urgency, limp from his touch and his warm breath on my face.
He leaned closer and caught my lips in his, stealing my breath and making me quiver for him. His tongue danced with mine, and in an instant we were rolling together, entwined and struggling to free ourselves from our clothes.
I got his shirt off and immediately got to work kissing his tanned, muscle-bound chest. Hey lay back, and as I licked around his nipple and gave him a sidelong look, he gestured up with his chin in a go-for-it move.
“Suck my nipples like they’re Skittles,” he said.
“You remembered.”
I had difficulty forming suction between his flesh and my mouth, because I couldn’t stop laughing over the Skittles comment.
Finally I latched on like a clever baby, and he groaned with pleasure as his manly nip hardened in my mouth. I was on my knees at the side of his torso, folded down with my butt on my heels. I walked my free hand down his bare torso and on to his belt. My fingers traipsed down over the buckle and across the denim plains, stopping over a swelling feature. I gave his hardening mountain a squeeze.
With his eyes closed, he whispered, “You do everything just right, don’t you?”
I let go of his nipple and licked the cut line between his pectoral muscles. Salty. I licked my lips, then went in for more, licking all the way up his neck and over his Adam’s apple.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
Carefully, I looked down at my body and raised one leg so I could straddle him. With my knee down on the other side, his body felt solid and good between my legs. I leaned in again and kissed the side of his neck, where it was smooth shaven but the stubble could be felt just under the surface using my tongue. His pulse ebbed under my lips, and I found myself sucking hungrily on his flesh.
He groaned. “You’re going to give me a hicky.”
“No, don’t be silly.” I flicked my tongue against his pulse point and went in for another bite and suck. His neck was yummy.
As I enjoyed his neck, he raised his hips beneath me, grinding against my growing-damp panties.
I moved from his neck to his lips, kissing him eagerly, as he matched my every greedy move. Our bodies moved, and we were grinding together like teenagers, him rock-hard and still in his jeans and me in my underwear and dress.
He grabbed hold of my dress and pulled it up over my head, then tossed it aside without pause or ceremony.
In my underwear only now, I pressed my palms into his chest and arched my body, throwing my head back and exposing my neck.
He curled up, his abdominal muscles rippling, and kissed my neck as he pulled me back down with him. I felt his tongue, his lips, and even the bright pain of sharp teeth, the pleasure like the setting sun flashing through trees while you’re driving fast on the highway.
With one hand, I blindly reached for the drawer next to the bed and grabbed one of the packets.
He clutched my hips and pulled me up long enough to unfasten his belt and wriggle his jeans and boxers down.
I eased back down, his bare cock hot against my inner thigh, now slick with perspiration. We slipped back and forth, rocking with him nestled in my hipbone, and my nub grinding down against his pubic bone.
“C’mere,” he said, calling me to his lips with a tilt of the chin.
I cinched up and kissed him, leaning forward enough for his fingers to get to me, pressing at first and then pulling the thin cotton thong I was wearing to the side. His fingers stroked my wetness, making me quiver again. He thrust his tongue inside my mouth, and I could barely think, barely breathe, barely do anything but exist with his beautiful body under mine.
Something round nudged against my pussy, and I ground down eagerly. He felt so good sliding inside me, that first smooth stroke.
It only lasted an instant, though, because my eyes flew open. Eyes open! Eyes open, Petra!
Panting, I looked down between my legs, relieved to see that the condom was already in place. With a contented sigh, I slipped back down again, engulfing him hungrily.
“Yes,” he said, raising his hips as I lowered mine, filling me with his length, his width, his desire.
With my palms on his chest, I adjusted my body position, distributing my weight on my knees so I could move freely.
“Yes,” he repeated, his eyes closed.
I was on top.
My body took over, moving with its own mind. My gaze roved over the beautiful body beneath me, and mine, catching sight of the tops of my breasts, milky white in the morning light next to Dalton’s tanned body. If I didn’t have my pretty bra on, holding the girls at attention, there was no way I would have moved as freely as this.
I didn’t have time to think about that, though. Or anything. My orgasm was coming, and it was my master. I rocked my hips obediently, my insides gripping tightly.
“Call me Braveheart,” Dalton urged.
“You mean Lionheart. So help me, do not make me think about Mel Gibson when I’m in this state,” I breathed.
“I am your pony. I am Lionheart. Ride me hard.”
I whispered, “Lionheart.”
A feeling zapped through me, like I was doing something very naughty.
“Lionheart,” I growled, letting myself land a little harder.
“You’re so beautiful right now. You’re my princess. You’re my girl, now ride me. Ride me all the way home.”
I growled again.
“Call my name,” he said.
His chest glistened with sweat, and I could feel his pulse against mine, his skin sticking then sliding against mine.
My ass started to slap against his skin on each down-thrust, a naughty, spanking sound.
My toes curled and my heart jumped up as I started to climax. “Lionheart,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Lionheart!” I dug my fingertips into his chest.
“Yes!” He was already coming himself, his cock shaking and pulsating inside me.
“Oh, Lionheart!”
I fell apart, my orgasm blossoming everyw
here at once, from my bones to my skin, especially my skin.
My hands slipped on his chest, sliding off the sides and to the bed below as my arms weakened and collapsed with sweet relief.
He thrust once more, his body strong and compact beneath me. Dalton Deangelo was no pony; he was a stallion.
I whimpered as a second, smaller detonation leveled me completely. My head found a resting spot on his shoulder, my lips nearly touching his neck.
We both stopped moving, and I stared at his ear with newfound curiosity.
He had the handsomest ears. The way the cartilage curled around, it was like that Golden Mean perfect swirl thing you can find in all the most famous works of art.
My bra was soaked through, and our chests were stuck together as readily as two sides of a licked envelope. I didn’t dare move and feel the grossness. Normally, I wouldn’t have rested my body weight on top of a guy, but this time, it was the furthest thing from my mind. I just stared at the swirling contours of his ear, my mind blank.
His chest rose with a deeper breath, and then rumbled with the tremor of his voice as he said, “What are you thinking about?”
“You have a really cute ear.”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Yes, that’s my good ear. The other one isn’t quite as nice.”
I started to chuckle, which made him gasp and groan, because a certain part of his anatomy was losing its rigid structure and being squeezed out of a very satisfied Miss Kitty.
He rolled us to the side and I pulled away, the room’s air cool on my glistening front. The sensation of the side of my stomach touching the sheets made me aware of my floppiness, so I kept rolling, onto my back. With my bra on, my breasts weren’t headed for my armpits, so this was the most flattering pose.
Even though I was still self-conscious, I felt more comfortable in the nude around Dalton than I ever had with another guy. Not that there had been many guys, but I’d done a thing or two, some of them with ice cream.
He grabbed my robe and excused himself to the washroom for a moment, then came back and stretched out alongside me. His panther-like body made everything he was touching look better. Even me.
He took my hand in his and raised it to kiss my knuckles, a sweet smile on his face. He tugged me toward him, and I rolled back onto my side, floppiness be damned.
This is what mornings are like in heaven, I thought.
“This is nice,” I said.
“I feel so relaxed, but I don’t dare fall asleep or you’ll make like Cinderella and disappear on me.”
“This is my house. Where would I go?”
I reached over and traced the contours of his hipbone with my fingertip. He twitched, like he couldn’t decide if he was ticklish in that spot or not. I kept tracing along the hollow, then looped up around his navel. His skin was so smooth and firm, his body breathtaking in its beauty.
As I was admiring him, he reached around my shoulder and unhooked my bra, then pulled it away. My girls slipped down without the support. Usually, being naked with a guy in a room full of sunshine, I would have reached for a sheet to provide some cover, but this time I didn’t.
He reached over and palmed the bottom of one breast, lifting as though curious about the heft. My nipple hardened at his touch, sending a pulse of desire down the core of me.
“You’re so feminine,” he whispered. “Like the pure embodiment of femininity.”
I ran my finger up the valley of his chest, enjoying how perfectly suited to my fingertip the shape was.
“And you’re so masculine,” I said.
“Thanks, but I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. I meant what I said.”
His words gave me one of those smiles you feel all the way to the back of your head, like an ultra-tight bun.
Maybe his god-like body was why I didn’t feel more self-conscious. Even if he slept with really attractive women, if they were mere mortals, they couldn’t compare to Dalton’s beauty. So what if my thigh was the same circumference as his waist? He and I were simply not in competition with each other. We were in beautiful contrast.
~
We lay in bed together for a while, neither asleep nor awake, but somewhere in the middle.
I woke up with a start when the bathroom door slammed and the shower turned on. Shayla was awake. It was still Saturday, right?
A handsome man was snuggled up next to me, a streak of sunshine across his muscular calf, turning the dark brown hair golden. It was nearly one o’clock.
He stirred next to me and groggily threw one tanned arm over me.
I whispered, “You can stay sleeping for a bit, but I’m going to get started making some lunch.”
He grumbled, “Breakfast.”
“It’s after one.”
“Scrambled eggs and ketchup?”
I told him I would do my best, though I suspected we had neither item in the kitchen. Had he asked for tofu hot dogs and chipotle-infused mayonnaise, that I could have provided. I quickly pulled on my clothes and headed downstairs.
Nope, no eggs in the kitchen.*
*Except for chocolate ones.
Off I went on a quick jaunt to the corner store, three blocks away, on Spider Avenue.
On my way into Moody’s News & Milk, I spotted a headline on a copy of The Beaver Daily that caught my eye: Hollywood Loots Local Treasures.
A lady with a toddler was coming in behind me, so I held the door open for her. She thanked me, and scooped the one and only copy of The Beaver Daily left on the newsstand. I quickly assessed my need for local news and decided not to fight her for it, since I had my own inside scoop, naked in my bed.
The woman gasped audibly.
I turned to see what the fuss was about. “What does it say?”
She covered her mouth with her hand and laughed, the newspaper shaking in her hand. Her toddler wandered off to rearrange the gum and candy on the toddler-height shelf near the checkout.
“I get it now,” she said. “Beaver-Daily. Not Beaverdale Daily. It’s like Beaverdale-y.”
Ah, so she was just cottoning onto the pun-like name of our local paper.
“All part of the charm. We’re a charming town. Chock full of charm,” I said.
“I’ve lived here for five years. I even wrote a big article about the town a year ago for Small Town Life in America, but I missed that detail.”
I nodded politely and went off to locate the items I’d come there for: ketchup and farm-fresh local eggs. Even though Dalton would probably frown at the carbohydrates, I picked up a loaf of bread as well.
As I paid for my things, I got the sense the woman was peeking at me over the newspaper she was reading. Her kid was running amok, two fists full of candy. I paid for my stuff and got out of there, eager to share my first breakfast with a certain sexy actor.
The woman watched me all the way to the door, and I didn’t think much of it, until…
… I turned the last corner before my house and nearly ran into a film crew, swarming around a big-haired woman with too much makeup.
With horror, I realized the woman with the snooty expression was the same one who had chased Dalton into Peachtree Books exactly one week earlier. We. Hate. Her.
Something crashed and there was the sound of terra cotta breaking. Not my fucking geraniums.
I wasn’t wearing any sleeves, but I pushed them up anyway and prepared to kick some serious ass.
“This is private property!” I yelled into the teeming mass of them.
Nobody paid me any attention.
I cleared my throat, set down my grocery bag, and yelled, “GET OFF MY LAWN!”
A couple heads turned, but nobody got off my lawn. The guy with the camera who was standing on my steps took another step up and rang the doorbell. My doorbell.
Well, I sure showed them, because I wasn’t in my house. Hah!
I picked up my grocery bag and was about to back away and sneak around to the alley, to go in the back door, when I realized the door of my house was
opening.
It opened slowly. So slowly.
My eyes widened and my mouth dropped.
Shayla stood in the doorway, wearing the tiniest little tank top, and the pair of men’s boxer shorts she usually slept in.
OH MY GOD we’re doing a Notting Hill.
The crewmen who were back by the van, close to me, let out some appreciative chuckles and other noises at the sight of Shayla, generally giving their approval.
Shayla didn’t back away from the open door, but stood her ground. She also raised one toned arm and ran it back through her raven-black hair like a professional swimsuit model on a cover shoot.
The big-haired reporter woman jumped up the steps and stood next to her, a microphone held between them.
The woman said, “How long have you been dating Dalton Deangelo?”
Shayla gave the woman a coy look. “Who?”
“He’s here right now, isn’t he?”
Shayla looked down over the crew and made eye contact with me. I shook my head, no. He’d been trying to avoid them for a reason. Furthermore, and I cannot stress this too much, we hate that reporter woman. Hate her!
“Nope, he’s not here,” Shayla said.
Now, if you play poker, you know many people have a tell, a physical sign that reveals they’re bluffing. Some people rub their nose, while others might give too much eye contact, giggle, or sweat. Shayla does all of the aforementioned things.
Sweating profusely, she giggled and made aggressive eye contact with the reporter, then stared blankly at the camera.
Spoiler alert: the reporter lady didn’t believe a word.
“Would you say you’re friends?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Keeping things casual?”
“Um…” Shayla’s forehead glistened as she rubbed her nose, coughed, and gave me a wild-eyed, pleading look.
I elbowed my way through the crowd, saying, “Shay, get in the house and put a shirt on.”
The reporter turned and stopped me on my own steps, microphone waggling in my face and tapping against my lips and chin in her excitement.