And gold it is; long, thick and the perfect shade of loaded crimson…so beautiful that I cannot help myself – I lower my arms, reach out and touch it. He doesn’t stop me. The glance he gives me is thankful, awakened; begs me to touch him. I feel that I make him just as hot as he makes me. I wrap one hand around the base, really low and deep so that I feel the top of his sack against one side of my thumb as I squeeze tight. My other hand I use to stroke him, make him submit to me now.
He sways under my firm caresses, his eyes closed as body falls forward, helplessly giving in to me. I’m good at this, I’ve been told. The secret is in imagining you can feel what they’re feeling. When you do that, somehow you can. Letting go of my mind, I click in with his essence, slowing then quickening my speed, one hand always tight at the base, teasing him the way I like to be teased. Men move so fast sometimes, they don’t know that they like to wait for it. Every time a man has tried to hurry me, I make him wait, and then later he tells me that I gave him the biggest orgasm of his life. That’s right boys - stop being so impatient. Let a girl do her thing.
He’s like a warm and silky steel pole in my hands. We are chest to chest, skin to skin, his mouth an inch from mine so that I can feel his breath as I slide my hand up and down his bulging shaft, so engorged I cannot believe it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a man this hard. He doesn’t want to cum yet, so he stops me. He needs and wants more than this. So do I. He removes my hands, his expression hungry as he pins them above my head with a look that says I’ve been a bad girl and must be punished. I smile. A thick strong hand holds my hostage, my back arched, my head thrown back, my breasts thrust forward toward him, shamelessly, my mouth slightly open, my breathing heavy. All I want is for him to be inside me. Now!
I push my hips toward him, reach for him, my sex still covered in pink silk; albeit askew from his handiwork. With his free hand, he reaches inside the front of my panties and with his middle finger, parts me easily, finds I am still a puddle of desire.
I bend my legs a bit to help him pull off my panties, let them fall around my ankles where I kick them off impatiently. Take me, dammit, right here, right now. Stick your beautiful cock deep inside me. Make the whole world disappear forever.
This stranger who I’ve never seen before smiles a naughty smile at me, grabs onto my left thigh, pulls it open and without the aiding of his hands, curls his hips forward and up, pressing that amazing cock into me, filling me completely, engulfing the entire length of himself into my sopping wet pussy. Every cell in my body alights as he fucks me. Electric pulses hammer throughout my cells, as he drills into me once, twice, three times and then I stop counting like an idiot. I am in the hands of a true artist. He pushes deeper and holds it, our skin connected everywhere like we are one person as he takes my mouth in his and grinds. We kiss as he slowly temps me to cum with the firm rhythmic thrusts. It’s so good that he knows to tease and tortures. I know I’ll cum. He pulls out to the point just before the tip comes out and then he slides it back in until we are hip to hip, chest to breasts, tongue to tongue. He releases my hands and they fall around his shoulders. I grip on, weak and tingling, holding onto to his strength as I ride him.
One arm wraps around me to protect my back from the wall as we rock together, my leg wrapped around his ass, my body rising and falling on his shaft, our breathing quickening as he buries his face in my neck, kissing me hard, his cock pounding me harder. Bam. Bam.
I feel the building of my orgasm. We moan together. The burning deep within me begins to break free. I whimper helplessly in his ear, breaking my own rule of silence. “Oh. Oh God. I can’t take it, fuck me harder. Please don’t stop. I’m cumming. Oh my God, keep going. Yes. Yes. I’m cumming. You feel so good!” The heat explodes between my legs. It’s the wildest combination of insatiable longing and satisfaction all at once. Deep regions of me contract in pounding bursts of the most gorgeous release.
I scream. Everything I want is here, right now. He holds off as long as he can and then he pulls out and strokes himself, shooting his juices hot across my stomach. I massage them in with my hand just for the nasty fuck of it, holding his unbelievable gaze with my eyes, showing him I get it. I like it. I want it. I allow him to be who he is in that moment. His eyes close and he collapses against me.
“I’m Mark,” he tells me, quietly.
“Jessica.”
The Next Day
“You did what?!” Amber’s jaw is on the table, soaking up the garlic oil that was meant for our bread. We’re on the charming outdoor patio of a restaurant having lunch, enjoying the final warm days we’ll have before Fall begins. She continues, “What are you, crazy or something? I don’t even know who you are right now.”
I know who I am. I do. I’m 5’6” with a pretty okay body leaning toward the average side over the thin, but I feel pretty good about it. I saw an anorexic girl the other day and I was like, honey, how do you not see that? I felt bad for her. If I can’t be grateful for what I have, however imperfect and flawed, then I can’t be happy. I don’t want to be on the fast track to plastic surgery or an eating disorder. No, thank you.
But I digress. Like I said before, I’ve got red hair (dyed - explaining my lack of freckles) breasts that are a small C cup (when I’m on my period) and I’m a little loud. I also love to make fun of people. In a good way, not in the I’m a bitch sort of way. I don’t like to hurt people but I do like to laugh… and people can be truly ridiculous, right?
Like Amber here. I love her and she is my best friend, one of two of them, but she hates to look like a pig (metaphorically) and every time we take a picture together, she has to approve it before I post it to Instagram. She rarely approves them, but that’s because she’s a perfectionist of the highest order. A control freak. But also one of the most loyal and fun people I know. And don’t tell her I told you this but the photos she does approve, she looks bad in. Pretty but angry and cold, like that’s sexy. Maybe that’s how she wants to look, I don’t know.
“I can’t say it again,” I say to her, grabbing a piece of baguette and smooshing it into the oil. Mmm. She didn’t really drop her jaw in it, because you know, she’s not a cartoon. Damn – great sex sure does make my mind goofy. I shove the yummy bread in my mouth with a playful smirk.
“You must say it again, because I cannot believe it,” she commands me.
“No.”
“Yes!”
“Okay.” I reach for the already half-gone glass of white wine in front of me… and take an extraordinarily long dramatic pause. I love to tease. I soak in gleefully her anticipation as I drink slowly, until Amber can hardly stand it.
I’m so glad to have a friend who doesn’t mind drinking at 2 p.m. on a weekday with me, when I’ve got news like this. We never really need a reason. I decide this is the perfect moment to tell her that. Overly sweet, I say, “I love that we can drink at lunch like this. It makes me feel really close to you.”
“Shut up! Tell me again what you did, Jessica, or I will punch you right now in front of all these people. Because I am telling you – I. Do. Not. Believe it.” She got really quiet on that last part. Amber couldn’t look menacing if she tried. Her petite frame, small hands, blue eyes, and blond hair wouldn’t allow it. She could look like a fairy, maybe… just not a menacing fairy. Still, the volume of her attempt, created an audience. People are looking at us. I love this shit.
“Okay,” I say and lean forward to whisper really quietly. She leans in, so excited, her thin prettily-shaped eyebrows raised up in expectation. I can’t help myself. I yell really loudly right in her face, “I had amazing sex with a guy I met on the Internet!!!”
She whoops, bounces backward in her chair and looks around. Sure enough, all eyes are on us, forks suspended, men growing pup tents (I’m guessing), and women shocked, secretly so incredibly jealous.
I announce to the room, “I’m kidding! Just kidding.” They go back to eating. “No, I’m not!” Amber and I start laughing so hard that the whole place
gets very annoyed…except for the men. They are trying not to peak at me, my tits, my legs. It’s tough enough for them to not look at women, without my bringing up the word “sex” in a public place -and with no shame.
When our giggling fit ends, we both bury our grins into our glasses to collect ourselves, act like ladies. We are not trashy… not at all. Both Amber and I are put-together women who have decent jobs, even though we aren’t passionate about them (hence the drinking like we don’t care – because we don’t). Well, I guess Amber is passionate about hers – she works in casting – but since it’s her own business, she can skip out, and create her own schedule. We’ve both got good relationships with our families and our friends, blah blah blah. But damn if it isn’t boring sometimes to be that “together.” So trashy, no. A little wild? Hell yes.
“What was it like?” she asks, leaning in closer to me as she pulls some long honey-colored strands of hair behind her ear, out of habit. So “Amber” of her. I love it when she does that.
I lean in, too (show is over, people) and tell the truth. “The crazy thing is, it was incredible. This guy looked like he was out of a movie. He knew how to move his hips the right way, like a dancer would, you know how they do that thing?” She nods, grinning. “He wasn’t afraid to look at me either, but not too much, you know? He didn’t get creepy about it, or go the other way…”
“Like he’s trying to be Casanova but there is no connection, all act,” she interjects.
“Exactly. Right?! None of that crap. When he sucked on…sorry, do you want to hear the gory details?”
“Are you kidding me right now?! Do you know how long it’s been since Josh and I slept together?”
I have no idea. She never talks about sex anymore. Not since they moved in four or five months ago. “How long?”
“Just keep talking. I don’t want to get depressed,” she rolls her eyes, and takes a big gulp of wine. That can’t have tasted good, drinking that much that fast, but okay. It must have been a reaaaaallly long time.
“Okay,” I whisper and continue in a voice so low that there is no way anyone but Amber can hear me. “When he sucked on my nipples, he did it with such attention and slow licking that I swear they woke up for the first time in my life. Like they were only pretending to feel good before and now were ‘hey ho! What’s going on here?’” She shakes her head in disbelief and envy. I nod. “Seriously Amber, it was amazing. And oh my God, I could not believe his body!” I grin hard and pound my fists on the table, my feet on the floor, like that girl in Flashdance – she’s a maniac, maniac on the flah-whore. Wait, not whore. I am not a whore. “Oh my God. Am I a whore? I swear my mind just pulled out the ‘W-H’ word.”
“No! You are a woman who just got her heart ripped out by yet another man on this planet who doesn’t understand the definition of fidelity. Because we need more of those around. You’re like me - you like sex. You are one of the gifted women who likes having sex and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that! I mean you’re going to live longer because of it. Studies show, people who have sex and who orgasm specifically, are healthier and happier. They live longer. You’re practically immortal, never a bad thing. Do you hear me?”
She looked very serious and those great eyebrows of hers (I have to ask where she gets them threaded) are up again. I nod but she waits for more, tossing out a hand gesture for me to tell her I am not a whore, indicating she wants me to say it out loud.
“Yes. I hear you. I am not a whore. I am immortal. Thank you.”
She leans back, satisfied. “So, are you going to see him again?”
Just then my phone beeps telling me I have a text message.
“No. He was only in town for one night. That’s why I did it.” I pick up my phone to find the name David smacking me in the gut, his text reads: Can we talk?
Amber is oblivious and says, “Oh nooooo!!! Only in town for a night! That sucks so bad. Are you kidding me right now?”
“I am not kidding you.” I hold up the phone to show her. “I am also not kidding that David wants to talk.”
She stares at it. “Dude.”
“Right?!” I toss it like it has a disease.
We sit for a second, staring at my phone and ponder how weird the world is, helpless to do anything about it. Since neither of us want to talk about David or why he is calling, or what he could possibly want, I throw out a life raft. “So…how long has it been with you and Josh?”
She rolls her eyes as the waiter comes and fills our waters. She waits for him to leave and says, “I told you. Don’t depress me. I’d rather talk about David texting you and I know we don’t want to get into that.”
“Totes. Okay, so…I have to know. Who does your eyebrows?”
She lights up like I just asked how old her children are, because she doesn’t have children. If she did, she wouldn’t have time to have eyebrows that perfect. “Aren’t they great? You have got to go to my girl! She is ah-ma-zing.”
A Half Hour Later
Amber and I part ways in the depths of the crowded 4th Street subway station; her heading downtown to the money district, me up to Bryant Park. Fashion Week is coming just around the corner, in a mere couple of weeks, so I have to meet my boss, the fashion editor of a very popular magazine. I won’t name the name – hers or its – because we’re all listed in the magazine, in print, and online… and I don’t want to get sued. Fired is something I may become, every day. I live on the edge of unemployment and it has been this way for four years now.
Why do I work for her is a question I often ask myself. She is a raving lunatic – a she-devil I call The Bitch. I don’t quit because it’s a huge magazine, very important, and I always said I wanted to go into fashion. Why I said that, I don’t know anymore. I ask myself lately, what am I doing here? Why do I take this crap? Do I do it because the field is glamorous or something? I thought it was, once upon a time, but let me tell you, it is not. It’s all about how people look; who’s talking about you, who has the power, who is going to come up with the new IT thing/look/color/hair/makeup/attitude… and then of course, when that trend passes and the ‘It People’ fall from grace, ignoring them and acting like you don’t know them is the next move. It makes me ill. My view could be tainted by my boss. It’s a possibility. Anyway, I’m too tired to go find another job. That’s what I tell myself.
Have you ever wondered how you got where you are, and if you want to stay here? Me too. I don’t have the answer though. So I drink at lunch.
I’m riding the B train to Bryant Park, avoiding the faces of the people around me by looking at my calendar on my phone. It looks a little fuzzy from alcohol vision. When the train stops, I step off and walk toward 40th Street. Up the stairs I look to my left, longingly at Pax, the little self-serve food chain; part grocery type store, part restaurant. (I love their brie and apple baguette sandwiches but I already had enough bread today). I move on.
Walking up the street, I search for The Bitch and find her standing outside Bryant Park Grill, barking from her cellphone. I wince at the sound of her saying, “What?! There is no fucking way I’m using him again. His last shoot was a disaster. Not only was it late and over budget, the girls look like they should be on the back of a Harley, not in a Victorian ball. If it had been the 70’s, sure, but those big-breasted models were ridiculous and not at all what’s in right now. Who has big boobs in fashion? Name me one person!”
“Giselle,” I say, and she throws me a look.
The Bitch waves a freshly manicured hand at me and wafts Marc Jacobs’ latest overpriced scent in my unwilling direction. “Those are fake. And I’m not talking to you.” I want to gag, but I hold it back. Not an easy task.
“My assistant is here and I have to ask where THE FUCK she has been for the last five minutes. I’ll talk to you later. Make it happen, and don’t call me back until you do.” She hangs up, slides the phone into her Birkin bag, and looks at me with head cocked grossly to the side, attitude pouring from her. Her face would
have an expression but Botox holds it hostage. “Well?”
At this moment, I hate my life.
“What?” I play dumb. It’s kind of fun to watch her spaz. Plus it makes me feel like less of a schmoe.
“You’re late, Jessica. Do you think my time is less important than yours?”
“Is that a new bag?” I ask, with awe that doesn’t match my true feelings.
My ploy works. She has been talking about getting this bag in time for fashion week for a month now, and it looks like the publicist came through. She shifts gears, gushing, “Oh my God – isn’t it the best? I wanted it in red but they gave me the orange one and I thought, orange is so much more of a statement.”
“Totally,” I agree, nodding emphatically like she and her bag are amazing. “It’s gor-geous. Looks so great on you. The orange is purrrrrrfect.”
Disaster averted.
We go over what we’re going to do September 5th when the insanity begins. I take notes in my phone as she rattles off a bunch of stuff I can easily remember without the phone. It makes her feel important when I write down what she says. I’ve learned this.
The list is this: I’m to organize gift bags; contact the suppliers to make sure they’ve sent the goods that go in them, email staff with instructions as to where to set them out, which designer, which show, and no one else. Also, I’m to make sure everyone who’s going to be there on staff is registered and won’t have problems from security. It used to be that the designer paid for the gift bags – and the small ones still do – but ever since the publication industry got hit hard by the internet (people don’t buy as many magazines these days) we have taken to publicizing ourselves. We want to be seen with the best of the best, of course. So now, we supply the goody bags.
I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) Page 2