Innuendos (It Had 2 B U Book 1)

by V. Kelly

  “Oh god,” I hear her say, “Mmmmm,” she moans.

  Holy crap, I think she’s playing with herself! No way. That means I win the bet, and I get my damn kiss.

  She whimpers and moans again, “Oh Max,” I think I hear her say.

  Mother of god! She’s playing with herself and talking about me. If I wasn’t so turned on by her plundering her lady bits like a pirate searching for treasure, I’d probably be marching over to her room and demanding my winnings. Instead, I listen and lightly give myself a stroke. Hey if she can cheat, so can I!

  Every little whimper and moan sounds so amazing. I close my eyes and picture being the one causing each sexually aroused sound. Even though there is a wall separating us, it feels like I’m in the bed with her; my fingers are doing all of the things her fingers are doing right now.

  There is another loud moan that comes from behind the wall. I almost finish right there. I know she must be reaching her climax, and the thought that I might be the reason she did, makes me the happiest guy on the planet right now.

  When silence follows, I know she’s finally fallen asleep. It’s probably best to do the same, but I plan on giving her a ration of shit when she gets up in the morning for her little self-pleasure session.

  As usual I’m up before Breezy is. I make my way into the kitchen and pull out the griddle. Today I’m going to make her pancakes. She’s partial to blueberries, but since we are out, I’m making plain buttermilk ones.

  She must smell breakfast, because she wobbles out of her room, bed head, eye boogers, and rubbing at her eyes all sleepy-like.

  “Pancakes?” She asks with a huge smile on her face. I notice she’s looking at me sort of strangely, with a glazed, almost hungry, look in her eyes. When she catches me staring at her, she glances away and watches me as I flip the pancakes.

  “Sorry, we’re out of blueberries, so we’re having regular old pancakes.” I notice she’s only wearing a t-shirt, so when she sits at our table, it inches up and shows me a little peek of her ass cheek. I do my best to ignore it, but I can feel the boner from last night returning. Time to win this damn bet and get my kiss.

  “So, I heard you clicking your mouse last night,” I pretend to flip a pancake. She looks at me with a sideways glance and shrugs her shoulders.

  “I wasn’t on my computer last night.”

  “Oh, I know. I heard you moaning. You were rubbing your pearl like there was no tomorrow. That’s a clear disqualification in our bet guidelines. I’ll be collecting my kiss now.”

  She looks absolutely mortified, and it’s the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I know she’s trying to figure out the best way to answer me without incriminating herself. Too bad sweetie, I already heard you moaning my name last night. The thought makes my dick hard—again.

  “I was so not clicking my mouse or polishing any pearls. What does that even mean?”

  “Pleasing your clam, landing your plane, polishing your fine china—frankly, it all means the same thing. I win. You lose. Now give me my damn kiss.” I look at her with a serious facial expression.

  She blinks up at me as if she’s having an internal debate about it. “Do you have proof I was clicking my mouse?”

  “I heard you moaning and saying my name.”

  She blushes.

  “But did you actually walk in on me clicking my mouse? Did you actually see it with your own two eyes—two fingers on the button, clicking away?”

  Damn it. I adjust myself. Then I flip a pancake that’s getting a little too hot. Sorry pancake, I know the feeling. Breezy looks amused. She must realize what talking like this does to me.

  “No, I didn’t actually walk in and see your two fingers deep-clicking your button,” I answer. She seductively runs her hand down her front, making sure to touch every inch of herself over her t-shirt. Her nipples bud from the brief contact. She spreads her legs, revealing a white set of cotton panties. Holy fuck! How did I miss that pair?

  “Max, don’t you think if I was polishing my pearl, I would’ve been more vocal about it? When a girl gets up close and personal with her clam, you’ll definitely hear it. The pearl is the most sensitive part of the clam. It needs to be tenderly caressed and rubbed gently. It needs extra attention and to be worked slowly.” She starts making these breathy sounds as her hands massage her thighs getting close, but not too close, to her “clam”.

  “I heard you moaning. I heard you say my name. They’re thin walls, Breezy. You’ve told me numerous times about how you can hear everything going on in my room.”

  She gets up from the table and walks straight up to me. I drop the last pancake onto a plate, switch off the burner, and turn towards her.

  “You need proof, Max, some kind of visual confirmation that I was landing my plane. It’s a short runway, Max. It’s impossible to get it into that sweet sensitive spot on your first try. You have to come in slowly, and then pull back just as you touch the landing strip.” She tickles her fingers up my bare chest. The seductive look in her eye tells me that she’s messing with me again. My dick salutes her in aroused disapproval. Her fingers are slow and methodical, making sure to brush me in a way I picture she brushes herself. “Do you have proof, Max?”

  I take a giant gulp of air as her fingers begin playing with the hem of my shorts. “No,” I squeak. “Only what I heard.”

  “Sometimes the china needs to be polished, Max. It sits up on that shelf for far too long, collecting dust and losing its appeal. You don’t want my china to get dusty, do you, Max?”

  “N . . . no,” I stammer. Her fingers briefly dip below my waistband; she runs her fingers over the hair covering my crotch. Holy shit, just the thought of her fingers being that close to my dick has me practically coming in my pants.

  “So, what you’re saying is that you have no idea what was going on in my room last night.” Her lips briefly touch to my ear lobe as she speaks. Having her close, talking about sex but not talking about it, breathing in the fresh scent of her bed sheets, all of it, has my cock ready to burst.

  “You . . . you . . . were . . . fuck, I don’t know,” I finally say.

  “So do you still think you won the bet? Do you think you can prove that I loved on my nub?”

  “Loved your nub?”

  “You know, muffin buffin’, airing my orchid, flickin’ the bean, going for that last pickle in the jar, basting the turkey, ménage ala moi . . .”

  I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore. One more loosely related term to masturbation is going to kill me. “Okay, I get it. I don’t have proof. Stop torturing me.”

  She gets this super sexy smile on her face and kisses my cheek. “Thanks for making me pancakes. You know how much I love how you handle my hot cakes.” She lifts a suggestive eyebrow, causing me to laugh.

  “You so don’t play fair,” I groan

  “I want my puppy.”

  “Well, I want to be able to go to bed with a satisfied dick. It looks like we’re both at a stalemate.”

  “Were you just talking about it? Do I hear barking in my future?” She smiles proudly.

  “I think we’re even. One Freudian slip of my mouth does not make up for the pure torture you put me through last night. I had to listen to you, pet your petunia. Do you know what that does to a deprived man like me?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answers innocently.

  I grab her waist, pull her into me so she can feel exactly how hard I am, and then I look her straight into the eyes. “Do you feel that? Next time you decide to scratch your patch and she bop that sweet peach of yours, remember that our walls are paper thin, and I may have to march straight over to your room to give you exactly what that little mouth moaned for last night.” I thrust into her side and she gasps. “Do you understand?”

  She whimpers.

  “Answer me, Breezy. Do you fucking understand?”

  “Yes,” she replies weakly.

  “And what exactly do you understand?”

/>   “That if I tickle my fickle pickle, you’re going to punish me with your bald headed yogurt slinger.”

  I burst out laughing. I know I started this innuendo game, but I think in the end it’s going to fucking kill me. She smiles, knowing she somehow managed to break the sexual tension between us. My dick is still hard, and I’m pretty sure she’s soaking her panties.

  We both end up laughing and returning to our pancakes. How this girl is able to drive me so damn crazy and yet still manage to make me laugh at the same time, I will never understand. I better get my “A” game together, because at this rate I’m going to be picking up doggy poop by tomorrow morning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Breezy

  Max and I are hanging out. It’s Saturday morning, and I kinda wish we were back in the eighties when Saturday meant watching Saturday Morning Cartoons and I was able to sit in front of the television, with a bowl of cereal in hand, while Thundercats, She-Ra, and the Carebears played across the screen. Now, we’re forced to zone out to whatever stupid reality show is playing on Direct TV.

  Max’s phone chirps and he reaches into his pocket. He reads his text for a second and looks up at me. “Dashawn and Maggie are going golfing today and want to know if we want to go?”

  “Max, you know I don’t golf. I can’t hit it in that windmill thingy. It always knocks my ball around.”

  Max smacks his face and looks at me like I’m crazy. “I mean real golfing, Breezy, with real golf clubs made out of wood and iron—no windmills, just sand traps and water hazards.”

  “Oh god, I would totally suck at that.”

  “That’s okay; I’d show you how to properly handle wood.”

  I arch an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m pretty sure I know how to handle wood. I’ve become quite a pro at it.”

  “Is that so? So you have no problem joining me on the golf course and showing me how good you are at handling my wood?” He laughs.

  I think for a second before answering. “You’re laughing. Do you not think I can handle your wood properly, Max?”

  “I’m not sure you can muster up enough pressure to get the stroke right.”

  “Are you daring me, Max?”

  “No dare, just a friendly observation.”

  Max knows I won’t back down from a challenge. Even though I hate the game, and know I’m horrible at it, I reluctantly agree to go with Maggie and Dashawn golfing.

  Once at the green, I feel completely out of place. All three of them have golfed before, and my golfing experience is limited to crazy windmills, and gaping mouths. We’re playing a round on the fifth hole before I finally lose it.

  “I suck at this game,” I shout when I swing and the ball falls off the tee instead of connecting with my club. Maggie and Dashawn are laughing their asses off, and Max is refusing to help me at all.

  “I thought you were a pro at handling wood?” he mocks me.

  I look at the iron club in my hand. “I’m a pro at handling wood. Hard iron has a totally different feel to it.”

  Max takes that as an invitation. He saunters up behind me and places two strong arms over the top of mine. He has me snuggled into him, so I can feel his semi-erectness right against my ass cheek.

  “The trick is to make sure you have a firm grip on the shaft.” His hand folds over mine; I feel him squeeze it. “Then you slide this hand down the iron rod ‘till it’s about here.”

  “Are we still talking about golf here?” Dashawn asks.

  I hear Maggie hit him, but I’m so focused on Max being near me, that I can barely hear a word either of them is saying.

  “This is all about golf,” she tells him.

  “Now the trick here is to make sure you have a firm grip on the wood, or in this case the hard iron rod in your hand. Remember to go slow with it and practice swing a couple times before actually driving it home.”

  I look up at him and he smiles. The moment his hands leave mine, I feel naked. All I want is for him to hold me again. I decide to completely miss the ball. I swing hard and fast so my club doesn’t make contact.

  “You’re handling it too hard. Dial it down a little, Breezy.”

  “I think you need to show me how to hold your rod again. I keep over-handling the equipment.”

  “This is so not about golf,” Dashawn remarks, rolling his eyes. “Are you guys actually going to try and play golf, or do we have to sit here and watch this weird flirting thing going on between the two of you the rest of the day?”

  Max takes an aggressive step forward and goes back to holding me. I take a deep breath and inhale his fresh scent of man, as his cheek brushes against mine and his hands firmly grip my hands together. “This time let me help you.” He thrusts his pelvis into my ass, then starts swinging our bodies in unison as he shows me how to handle his club like a professional. On the third swing back, the iron connects with the ball, sending it sailing out and across the green. Why anyone wants to actually play this game is beyond me.

  “Good hit guys. You gonna let me have a turn now?” Maggie asks. Max and I look at each other, realize we’re still holding one another, and jump apart. Maggie and Dashawn both laugh.

  Maggie gets up to the tee and hits it, not as far as what Max and I did, but definitely shows me up with her power to handle a club. Dashawn and Max take their turns next, hitting the ball well into the green. We climb into our golf cart and follow our balls. Maggie manages to hit her ball near the hole on her third try. Max and Dashawn battle it out for eagles, and me, I’m ten swings away from a big fat goose egg.

  “You’re doing great, Breezy. Just remember that it’s all about how you hold the wood,” Max shouts. I look over my shoulder to see him grinning at me.

  “I told you I know how to hold and handle wood just fine.”

  “Well you should be able to rock hard iron as well. It’s all about grip control and the right stroke.”

  Dashawn glares at us and shouts, “If you two don’t stop this weird, sexual innuendo game you’re playing, I’m going to have to take Maggie over into that sand pit and have my way with her.”

  “Oh god, please keep it up then!” Maggie screeches.

  Dashawn shakes his head. Max and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

  “Sorry, Dashawn, we’ll keep our wood jokes to a minimum, besides Max here is going to be my purse bitch after this and take me shopping.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard about that. Well played, man.”

  “If you come within two inches of my underwear with scissors, Dashawn Leroy Anderson, you won’t get one inch of this sexy body anymore. Not to mention any more sweets. No more pies, cakes, tarts, cookies, puddings, muffins, nothing. You’ll be cut off, Dashawn. No more sweetness for you.”

  “Aww, come on baby cakes, you know how I love my sugar,” he envelopes her in his arms and places a giant kiss on her lips. “You know I’m not stupid enough to lay a finger on any of that sexy lingerie of yours.”

  “See, Max, now there’s a man who knows his boundaries when it comes to women’s underwear. You don’t use scissors. They don’t have holes, and crotchless is definitely not an option.”

  “Oh I definitely like them crotchless. It makes tasting my sweetness that much easier.”

  Maggie punches him in the gut. “Oof,” he moans.

  “Doesn’t it bother you when she gets all violent like that?” Max asks, swinging his club. He connects with his ball, and it flies across the green.

  “No sir. It only turns me on more.” Dashawn kisses Maggie and she giggles.

  “What is it with you and Tony having a thing for violent women? Frankly, I like my women sweet and sensitive.”

  “Well, there goes my hope of us being a couple, Max. We both know I am never sweet nor sensitive,” I tell him playfully. All three of them look at me simultaneously.

  “You want to date me?” Max asks taking three giant steps towards me. “Because I can definitely arrange that.” My heart flutters when he gets so close that I can sme
ll his aftershave. I swoon over our nearness and silently pray that he will bend in and kiss me.

  “N . . . no. I was playing around. I didn’t mean it.” I didn’t mean it. Not one little bit. Okay, maybe the smallest amount of truth was in that statement, but it’s not like it will ever happen. Max and I are just friends and that’s it.

  Max doesn’t stop invading my space. “One of these days you’re going to admit you have the hots for me, Hicks, and when you do, I’m going to make sure to give you the best night of your life.”

  “Um, okay.” I’m not sure what to say. Those traitorous Max juices are back, and for some reason they always seem to be happening lately. I can’t let him have the upper hand in this. I’m going to win the bet, and I’m going to win it today. “Can we hurry this up? I have some major shopping to do.”

  Max backs up a step and sighs. “I hate being purse bitch.”

  “Get used to it, Max. Whenever someone finally gets you to settle down, you’re going to be doing a lot of purse holding. I see it in your future. Think of this as me prepping you for the inevitable.”

  Maggie and Dashawn laugh.

  “Fine, but I’m not going to like it.”

  Internally I giggle. I have something big planned up my sleeve. He has no idea about it, but when all is said and done, Max is going to be begging me for sex, and I’ll have a damn puppy. Yup, it’s going to happen, right after I make a fool of myself golfing some more.

  Chapter Twenty

  Max

  Who knew cutting up a girl’s panties would be this much fun? That gift card was genius. Breezy insisted that I come with her to Victoria’s Secret. Now I’m sitting here holding her purse, sitting in the lounge with a bunch of husbands and boyfriends, waiting for the modeling to begin. Luckily, this particular Victoria’s Secret has us all sectioned off by flimsy white curtains, so besides me, no one’s going to see Breezy in her lingerie.

  “Max, I’m having trouble. Can you come do me from behind?”