He’d no more than graduated high school when his father was hospitalized due to problems with his heart. Within weeks, my grandfather was paralyzed and blinded by the spikes in his blood pressure. A short period of time later, he died.
My father worked on the farm for over a decade, keeping the bills paid, the family fed, and the cupboards filled with canned vegetables that the farm produced.
Upon my grandmother’s passing, my father learned of the wealth the family earned from the oil wells. He never mentioned any resentments for having forfeited his career in football, or his college education. Instead, he claimed a feeling of pride for having done what needed done in a time of need.
“I think everyone from your parent’s generation is frugal.” He rolled onto his side. Our eyes met. He held my gaze. One corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “You went on and on about my father looking like me, but you didn’t bother telling me you and your mother look so much alike. She’s beautiful.”
I blushed at the remark. “Thank you.”
He kissed me.
I liked it when he kissed me.
It wasn’t like that was in the books. Actually, nothing was like what was in the books. The sex we had was earth-shattering. A chapter had yet to be written that could accurately describe the feelings I felt when Tyson was inside me.
Every time he kissed me lightly my mind went blank. My body tingled. My heart raced.
When the kisses were more aggressive, my legs shook. My pussy tingled. I became soaked.
The reality of Tyson was so much more pleasing than the fictional equivalent.
“I like it when you kiss me,” I said.
“I like kissing you,” he replied. “It’s weird. I’ve always hated kissing.”
I felt blessed. And curious. I was always curious. It was hard not to be. “What makes it different with me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad you’re feeling it.”
His eyes smiled. “Me, too.”
He remained motionless for quite some time. During that time of silence, his eyes scanned every visible inch of me, up and down, up and down. As I prepared to ask him what it was that he was looking for, he kissed me again.
While embraced in that kiss, he slipped his hands beneath the cups of my bra and began kneading my breasts to a rhythm I matched with my gyrating hips. In a moment, he was on top of me, grinding himself against my leg.
The kiss became more aggressive. Juices flowed. My face flushed. His erection grew against my thigh, making clear that he was as pleased with the kiss as I was.
I’d never been in such an intimate embrace. Having his firm cock between us while we kissed drove me wild with desire.
Our mouths parted.
I couldn’t wait another second to feel him inside me. Pressed between him and the bed, I slid along the length of his body until my wet panties were all that prevented him from entering me. I kissed his chest while I writhed against his cock, further fueling my passion with each thrust of my hips.
I wanted him so badly I ached.
He forced his arm between us and clenched his stiff dick in his fist. After pulling my panties to the side, he guided himself into my throbbing mound.
His girth entered me, inch by inch, until I was filled with his stiffness. Our bodies merged. His naked chest melted into mine.
With our desire-filled eyes locked, we thrust our hips against one another in perfect timing. With each rhythmic stroke, the freshly-shaved flesh above his cock bumped against my clit, sending an electric jolt throughout my entire body.
Our bodies were making music. Somehow, we both knew the tempo, and were dancing to it as if we’d done so many times in the past. It was passion, defined. He was giving me all he had to offer, and I was eagerly accepting it into my warmth.
He pushed himself into me fully and paused. A hint of his cologne-laced sweat found its way into my nose. At that same instant, he pressed his mouth to mine.
Our tongues touched. My body tensed.
My pussy clenched his cock like a vise. The tips of his fingers dug into the flesh of my back, pulling me hard against him.
Without sharing so much as a word during our love-making session, we reached climactic bliss together, as one.
Tremors shot through me with each wave of pleasure the orgasm brought with it. His breathing became choppy. At the height of my breathless climax, he erupted deep inside of me.
I was so filled with euphoria, I felt like crying. When the sensation eventually subsided, he collapsed against me. I listened to his breathing until it became less labored and rhythmic. I wondered if he listened to mine.
I wrapped my arms around him. Hoping to make the moment we were sharing last forever, I held him against me. We fell asleep in each other’s arms, each satisfied so deeply that speaking of our accomplishment bore no measurable value.
I opened my eyes, not knowing how much time had passed. He lifted his head. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly.
He kissed me softly.
When our mouths parted, I gave fair warning. “Be careful,” I breathed. “It was a kiss that started this.”
He looked me over with admiring eyes as he traced the tip of his finger along the edge of my clavicle. “I think we should start and stop with a kiss. Every time.”
Upon hearing those words, my heart melted.
I agreed wholeheartedly. Starting and stopping with a kiss was perfect. Conveying my thoughts verbally, however, was going to be impossible. A big wad of emotion was trapped in my throat and it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Trying to speak through it would undoubtedly bring tears, and I wasn’t interested in being that girl.
Incapable of replying, but feeling the need to do or say something, I lifted my head and pressed my lips against his.
I once read that a kiss can say what words cannot.
I prayed it was one of those times.
24
Tyson
Shawn leaned over the jewelry case and peered inside. After surveying the contents, he shook his head lightly and coughed out a laugh. “I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“About what’s going on.”
“With what?”
He waved his hand over the top of the display. “About this. Are you trying to piss her off, or make her happy?”
“That’s a stupid question.”
“If you’re trying to make her happy, buying her a bracelet isn’t a step in the right direction. In fact, it’s a nail in your relationship’s coffin. A big one.”
It had been a month since Jo and I started seeing one another. I needed to do something to mark the achievement. Something noteworthy.
I shot him a glare. “Since when are you versed on relationships?”
“Since forever.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve never been in one.”
He folded his arms over his chest and huffed a breath of discontent. “Whenever I get in one, you can bet I won’t buy the girl a fucking bracelet. That’s a relationship no-no. At least not at the beginning. Maybe for a birthday or some shit, after you’ve been together five or six years. Not now.”
I crossed my arms and looked him over. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
“I watch a lot of reality TV.”
“Reality TV?”
“Yeah. You know. The real-life shit.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “According to reality TV, bracelets are a no-no?”
“Haven’t you seen Southern Charm?”
“Afraid not.”
“T-Rav bought Ashley a bracelet for her first gift. You should have seen the look on her face. Dude picked out a nice fuckin’ bracelet from a swanky custom shop. When she opened the box and looked inside, you would have thought he handed her steamin’ cat turd.”
“Who the fuck’s T-Rav?”
“He’s a reality TV star, and he was almost a senator. He would have been
elected, but he got busted for trafficking dope.”
A drug dealing almost senator with his own television show. It was part of what was wrong with the nation. I chuckled. “And you think I should take relationship advice from this guy?”
“No. His relationship advice sucks. You should take my relationship advice.”
I looked down my nose at him. “Based on your vast relationship experience?”
“No, motherfucker,” he huffed. “Based on the look on Ashley’s face when T-Rav handed her the goddamn bracelet.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Is there something I can help you with?” a female voice asked from behind me.
I turned around. A buxom blond in her early thirties stood on the other side of the display case. Her skin was the burnt orange color reserved for those who opted to spend their idle time in a tanning booth. Dressed in a black dress with a plunging neckline, her over-baked boobs bulged from the cups of the bra that pushed them skyward.
“Sorry,” I said. “We were just arguing about a TV show.”
“As a matter of fact—” Shawn leaned against the display case. “I have a question.”
She grinned her pre-programmed department store sales clerk smile. “I’ll do my best to answer it.”
Shawn looked her up and down and then held her curious gaze. “I’m asking for a friend.”
Her smile turned genuine. “Okay.”
“You meet this guy, and instantly you feel like your personalities are magnetic. On the first date, you say ‘what the hell’, and you decide to, well, give him a blowjob…”
He leaned closer. Naturally, she did the same. With their noses mere inches apart, he continued.
“So, he undoes his belt, reaches into his boxers, and pulls out his penis. It’s huge. As big around as your wrist and ten inches long,” he whispered. “On that night, all you do is suck him off. On the next night, he bends you over the arm of his couch. When you’re together, all you want to do is screw. You screw in the bookstore, in her car, in his FedEx delivery truck, in the shower. Each time you fuck, you have so many orgasms you damned near go blind. Then, things get romantic between the two of you. You decide it’s much more than sex. It’s nothing short of heaven. Hell, you’re happier than Daryl Dixon at a crossbow convention.”
Shawn leaned away from the display case.
She remained bent over, revealing enough overly-tanned cleavage to wage a war.
“So, one night, you two go out for dinner,” Shawn continued. “After they serve the wine, but before they bring your first course, he reaches under the table and pulls out a box. He hands it to you. What do you hope it is?”
Enthralled by his story of the big-dicked FedEx man, she made a ‘V’ with her hands and placed her chin against her open palms. “Is it a small box?”
Shawn glanced at her tits. “You pick the size.”
Leaving her boobs on display for Shawn to ogle, she looked away for a moment while contemplating her answer. When her focus returned, she stood. “Is it the first gift he’s given me? Or is this one of many?”
“The first.”
She grinned. “Flowers. I want it to be a big box of flowers.”
Shawn gave me a dismissive wave of his hand. “Told you.”
She shifted her eyes from him to me, and then looked me over. “You’re the friend?”
“Excuse me?”
She twirled her hair with her index finger while continuing her inspection of me. “You’re the FedEx driver?”
At any other point in time in my life, I would have seen her expressed interest as an invitation. At that moment, I saw it as irritating and inappropriate.
“Yeah, I’m the guy that’s in a relationship.” I pointed at Shawn. “He’s single.”
She gave me the once-over before looking at Shawn. “So, what’s with the question?”
“He wanted to buy her a bracelet,” Shawn said. “I told him it’d send the wrong message.”
“Bracelets are nice,” she said, twisting her mouth to the side as she spoke. “But, she’d probably like flowers more. A bracelet is a strange gift. It’s what you give someone you haven’t had sex with. It’s a pre-sex gift. One that leads to sex. You know, it lets her know you’re interested. After sex, bracelets are weird.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I may have been wrong but being chastised by Shawn and the tanning booth queen wasn’t easy to accept.
I gave her a look. “Bracelets are weird?”
She nodded like a child who’d been offered a second serving of ice cream. “Uh huh.”
“Let me get this straight,” Shawn said. “Bracelets are a pre-sex gift? A gesture to let the woman know you want to fuck?”
She looked at him and scrunched her nose. “Kind of. Yeah.”
Shawn pointed to the collection of bracelets that were on display in front of her. “Pick one out.”
Her face washed with confusion. “Huh?”
“I’m going to buy you a bracelet.”
Her eyes thinned. “Why?”
Shawn raked his eyes up and down her five-two frame and waited.
Enough time passed for me to make a sandwich, eat it, and clean up the mess. When I was mentally wiping the countertop free of crumbs, her eyes widened.
“Oh. My God.” She giggled. “You’re funny.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and then opened them, hoping I could make her go away, but it didn’t work. I’d seen enough over-baked flesh to last me a lifetime. I flicked the back of my hand against Shawn’s bicep and pushed him toward the door. “Come on, Casanova. We’re going to the flower shop.”
“I work until ten,” she said as we turned away.
Following me to the door with reluctance in his steps, Shawn glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
“Dude.” I huffed a sigh. “She’s orange.”
“Orange, and sexy as fuck,” he insisted. “Did you see those titties?”
There was nothing sexy about her. She, her titties, and her discolored skin were disgusting. “The ones she flopped onto the glass case?” I chuckled. “Yeah, I saw them.”
“She needs to be titty-fucked.” He glanced in her direction and then looked at me. “I’d come all over that cute little face of hers.”
I paused. “Cute? You think that chick was cute?”
“She looked like Alicia Silverstone with big fuckin’ titties.”
The movie was popular when we were thirteen. He never ceased to amaze me with his references to celebrities, and I gave him a look to make my position clear. “The chick from Clueless?”
“Yep.”
I pushed the door open and gestured toward the parking lot. “You need to grow the fuck up.”
“Fuck you, T.J.”
I walked to the car without further discussing flowers, Alicia Silverstone, bracelets, discolored titty flesh, or coming on the face of shopping mall sales associates.
Although I couldn’t blame Shawn for the sexual antics of my past, being friends with him had certainly contributed to my desire to bang as many women as possible. Sharing tales of lewd behavior and the inflated qualities of the women we had sex with was commonplace between us.
I was afraid those days were over.
He reached for the door handle and paused. “On to the flower shop?” he asked over the top of the car. “Get a big arrangement of cool shit?”
“Nope. I’m going to the bookstore.”
“Without a gift?”
“I’ve got a gift.”
“What?” he asked.
I grinned, knowing my response would fall on argumentative ears. Nonetheless, I said what I felt was appropriate.
“Loyalty.”
25
Jo
I eagerly answered my phone, excited to see that he’d taken time to return my call. “Good morning, this is Jo Watson.”
“You left a message for me to return your call,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“
As I said in the message, my name’s Jo Watson. I have a small bookstore in Texas that’s devoted to independently published romance novels. Every month, we hold a contest. We choose ten winners from a long list of entrants. Each winner is provided a paperback from the pre-selected author of the respective month. That author is what we call the ‘author of the month’. We spend the entire month decorating the store with the author’s photos, flyers depicting his or her books, posters of the newest release—”
“Stop!” he insisted.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t get wrapped up in the distribution of propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” I asked. “Maybe you misunderstood…”
The phone clicked.
“Hello? Hello?”
I lowered the phone and looked at the screen. Somehow, we’d become disconnected. I called the number again. After two rings, he answered.
“Hell-low,” he said, his tone making his level of frustration clear.
“Mister Hildreth, I’m sorry. I was in the middle of explaining our procedure for the monthly contest, and we were disconnected.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“Actually, we were.”
“Actually, we weren’t,” he said in a snide tone. “I hung up.”
“You hung up?”
“Sure did.”
I was appalled. Appalled, but not surprised. “May I ask why?”
“Because,” he said. “I was done talking to you. I don’t fuck with propaganda. Don’t believe in it. It’s not how I do things.”
“What portion of our earlier conversation led you to believe—”
“Posters, flyers, photos.” He sighed into the phone. “Propaganda, propaganda, propaganda. I write a book, I publish the book, and I write another book. I don’t do photos, flyers, or posters. Sorry.”
“We wouldn’t require anything from you. We’d do that for you, Mister Hildreth. It’s part of what we—”
“Stop!” he barked. “You won’t do it for me, because I don’t fuck with propaganda. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
The Fed Sex Man: Hot Contemporary Romance Page 16