I was undoubtedly attracted to him sexually, and had hopes he felt the same way. As much as I trusted him, and as much as I’d grown to love how he made me feel, I was slowly sinking into the pit of reality regarding my weight.
Real men didn’t want to fuck fat girls.
I parked my car in the drive and walked to the front door. As soon as the doorbell went ‘ding’, he pulled the door open.
“I heard you two blocks away,” he said.
An apron.
He was wearing a fucking apron.
“What in the world are you wearing?”
He looked at it as if he’d forgotten he had it on. “Oh. An apron.”
The home smelled like Italian food. Italian food I knew I couldn’t eat. A plate of spaghetti alone would exceed my daily points allowance. Anything else of the Italian variety would be in excess of spaghetti, and end up putting me in the points total for a week.
“Why?”
“Because I’m cooking, and I don’t want to get my new wife beaters dirty. Do you have any idea what these things cost for a 6-pack?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you can afford it.”
“I can’t afford to be ruining them. That’s for sure.”
He pushed the front door closed, kissed me, and turned toward the kitchen. “I like that dress.”
“Thank you. It’s another LuLaRoe.”
“I like it. It looks awesome,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll eat in just a few.”
The smell of garlic and tomatoes and basin caused my nostrils to flare. My mouth salivated and my tongue swelled at the thought of what he might be cooking.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Italian.”
“I can’t--”
“Be careful what you say, oh ye of little faith.”
“Alright. What is it?”
“I told you, Italian.”
“Specifically.”
“Lasagna.”
I sighed. “I can have a tablespoon of it.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Not of my lasagna.”
What’s in it?”
“No noodles. I used zucchini, instead. Low-fat mozzarella cheese. I made sauce with fresh garlic, fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, and no oil. No salt, and a little pepper. Oh, and no sugar. The meat is a mixture of chicken breast, sausage, and turkey. And, I weighed it. From what I’ve calculated, and I included everything, it’ll be about 6 points for a pretty healthy slice.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. The only points in it are the meat and the cheese, and that skim milk cheese is one point a quarter cup. Include this motherfucker in your next cookbook.”
He pulled the oven door open and removed the casserole dish. The smell filled the room and made me recall the days when my mother was alive. I used to eat her Italian food like there was no tomorrow.
“It smells wonderful.”
“I hope it tastes wonderful.”
As the food cooled, we sat at the kitchen table. “How many points do you have left?”
“Seventeen.”
“Good. We’ll have wine.”
A glass of wine sounded good. Almost as good as the lasagna.
“One glass.”
He rested his chin in his hands and looked right at me. “We’ve talked about relationships, love, work, flowers, murder, the MC, books, food, and about cars. Hell, we’ve even talked about God, the ocean’s magic, and life after death. But one thing we haven’t talked about, is sex.”
I coughed on nothing. I swallowed and offered an apologetic grin. “Okay.”
His eyebrows raised. “What are your thoughts on it?”
“On sex?”
“Yeah. Sex.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
He looked off to the side and nodded. “So do I. I’m just weird about it.”
You sure are.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sex in real life isn’t like an erotic novel, nor should it be. You know, if I write a book, and wait until eighty-five percent to have the first sex scene, people bitch about it. They complain, saying that they had to wait until the book was damned near over to have a sex scene. I think that’s fucking ridiculous. The characters warrant the commission of the act, and if the characters are like you and me, sex isn’t going to come at fifteen percent, or even twenty-five percent, it’s going to come at eighty-five percent.”
But it’s going to come, eventually, right?
“Are we talking about book sex or real-life stuff?”
“Both.”
I stared at him with a confused look on my face. “What’s the question again?”
“What do you think about it?”
“About sex?”
“Yeah. Sex.”
“In real-life?”
“Either one.”
I didn’t care about book sex. At least not at that moment. I was fairly interested in the real thing, though.
“I think sex is an important part of a relationship.”
“So do I.”
I chuckled. “I’m glad we agree.”
“If we were writing a book about our relationship, where do you think we’d be?” he asked.
I had no earthly idea of what the answer should be. But. He mentioned eighty-five percent earlier, so that’s where my mind went. “Eighty-five percent,” I said. “Maybe eighty-six.”
“I’d say we’re pretty close,” he said. “Maybe not exactly eighty-five.”
I began to think about his statement and where our book would be if we were writing one. If we were at eighty-five percent, it would mean our story was almost told. We were at the end of the book. I wasn’t ready to be at the end of the book. I wanted a happily ever after, and we hadn’t even eaten lasagna yet, or had sex.
“I’m glad that’s settled,” I said with a laugh.
“Me, too.”
He stood, got the lasagna, and placed it in the center of the table. After pouring two glasses of wine, he got the salad out of the refrigerator. “I got all the vegetables at the farmer’s market, not the supermarket. I know it doesn’t matter on points, but they’re supposed to be better for you.”
“It looks great.”
He put a healthy scoop of lasagna on my plate, and gave me a separate plate of salad, some sliced peppers, and a glass of wine.
“Here goes nothing,” he said.
I took a bite of the lasagna. It might have been that I hadn’t eaten it in ten years, or that I really wanted it after we’d talked about it. It very well could have been that what he cooked was insanely fantastic.
Whatever the reason, I went bug-eyed after my first bite. “Holy crap. This is good.”
He took a bite. After he swallowed, he wagged his eyebrows. “That is pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” I gave him a stern look. “It’s great.”
We ate our wonderful dinner, laughed about being on diets, and discussed how food had become such an important part of everyone’s lives. After we finished our wine, we moved to the couch and relaxed.
He put a record on the turntable. As the music began to play, I smiled. “Marvin Gaye?”
“It is. It’s his greatest hits record.”
In my father’s words, Marvin Gaye’s music was music for fucking. As Tate inched closer to me on the couch, I wondered if my father was right.
He turned my head to the side and planted a kiss on me that made my head spin. It wasn’t like the other times we’d kissed. It was slightly aggressive, and infused with passion. My entire body went numb during the kiss, and when our lips parted, I began to ache for more.
I licked my lips and looked at him.
He reached for my hand. Not one to argue about anything when it came to sex, I followed his lead and stood.
He lifted my dress over my head.
Dear God.
The time had come.
Apparently, we reached
eighty-five percent while we were sitting on the couch.
Standing in front of him wearing nothing more than a bra and panties, I quickly became self-conscious. After looking me up and down, he took a step back and shook his head.
“Fucking hell,” he said under his breath.
“What?”
“You look fanfuckingtastic.”
“Really?”
He nodded eagerly. “Really.”
My face went hot. I knew I didn’t, but it was nice to hear him say.
Before I realized what he was doing, he knelt in front of me, reached for my hips, and hooked his thumbs around the waist of my panties. I looked at him in disbelief as he tugged them down my legs and cast them aside.
After kissing the inside of my thighs from my knees to my crotch, he stood. With his eyes fixed on mine, he pulled his shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and then unbuttoned his jeans.
I had yet to see him without his shirt on, and now that he was naked from the waist up, I was aghast.
His abs had abs.
Tattoos of sugar skulls, flowers smoke and wings covered his torso, and there was a pair of brass knuckles tattooed on his lower abdomen.
But his six-pack was free of any artwork.
Incapable of doing much else, I fixed my eyes on his torso. While I slipped into a rippled ab induced coma, he unbuckled his belt. After tossing it into the pile, he raised his hands over his head, cocked his head to the side, and stretched his back.
My lips parted, but I didn’t speak.
I had nothing to say. I was way out of my league, and didn’t want to fuck up what we had. If I somehow did or said something that stopped him from continuing, I’d never be able to live with myself.
For a nano-second, my eyes fell to his waist. Through all of the movement, his fly opened a little, giving me a glimpse at his well-manicured lower region.
I knew there were a lot of ways that a girl could satisfy him, but there were only a few of them that worked for me. Despite his praise of my looks and my beauty, I was well aware that I outweighed him by quite a bit.
Riding his cock in reverse cowgirl was on my bucket list, but for the night at least, it was out of the question.
I lowered myself to my knees, unbuckled my bra and nervously lowered it to the floor. As Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On began to play, I reached for his jeans and pulled them down his thighs.
As with any girl, I was curious. I told myself after the dick discussion at my father’s house that his size wasn’t going to matter.
But. I secretly hoped he was hung like a horse.
When it sprung free of its denim confines, my mouth flopped open in amazement. Like everything else on Tate’s body, his dick was perfect. I figured if his cock was in front of me, and my mouth was already open, I might as well take a moment and show him a little trick I liked to do.
I wrapped my lips around the tip, slipped my tongue against the bottom on the shaft, and guided half the length into my throat. After a few strokes, I buried my face against his stomach and groaned.
“God fucking damn,” he wailed.
He pushed his hands against my forehead, pulling himself from my mouth in the process.
“What,” I gasped, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “You didn’t like it?”
“I loved it,” he said. “But if you want me to last, you can’t do that. It’s been too damned long.”
“So, you do like it?”
“I fucking love it. But unless you want that to be the end of our night, we need to wait.”
The thought of sucking him to climax excited me. “I’ll do it.”
“I appreciate it,” he said. “But I want…I want to…I want to fuck the shit out of you. I’ve been watching your sexy ass for what? A couple months? I can’t take it anymore.”
He sure knew how to make me feel good. I grinned and stood. “Uhhm. Okay.”
He tugged his jeans down his legs and tossed them on the couch. Wearing nothing but his socks, he led me to the bedroom. Seeing his muscular ass rise and fall with each step was the final straw.
Whether he wanted to give it to me or not, I was getting laid. One way or another.
When we reached the room, he guided me to the bed. I rolled onto my back, fully expecting he’d want to have me in the doggy style position, which was really all I knew.
Much to my surprise, he buried his face between my legs.
“I want to eat your pussy until you cry like a baby,” he said.
I hope you’ve got a backup plan, because that ought to take you all of ten seconds.
“Okay,” I muttered. I spread my legs as wide as I was able, allowing him free rein of my nether region. “If you hear me whimper, it doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”
He looked up and chuckled. “I’ll remember that.”
He sucked my clit like a romance novel writing guru, and then went to work on my pussy. I bit my lip and hoped to have an indiscernible orgasm or five. He licked my pussy and fingered me at the same time, making sure to bring me to climax twice as quickly as if he decided to simply choose either licking or fingering me.
Having only read about such things left me in an awkward position. In the books I read, women lasted forever while the man licked their pussies. In real life, at least when Tate Reynolds was licking a pussy, it didn’t take a matter of seconds to bring a woman to orgasm.
While he flicked his tongue against my hyper-sensitive clit, my lip biting orgasm disguise somehow got lost.
I gripped his head in my hands and howled like a wolf while I came against his mouth. Repeatedly, he sucked and licked me to an ecstatic climax, leaving me as a limp pile of exhausted flesh when he eventually sat up and smiled.
“That was awesome,” he said.
I rolled to the side and smiled. “It was okay.”
He chuckled. “You’re funny.”
“Fat girls can do two things,” I said. “Suck dicks, and make people laugh. They’re our superpowers.”
His eyes thinned. “Don’t say that again.”
“What? Superpower?”
“No, the other one. The F-word.”
He was serious. Like, really serious.
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Don’t talk about yourself that way. Not in my presence, and hopefully not in anyone’s presence.”
“Okay.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I blushed. “Thank you.”
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re beautiful.”
I swallowed heavily at the thought of it. “I’m. I’m beautiful.”
“One more time.”
“I’m beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
He inched his way across the bed, positioned himself between my legs, and then looked at me. When our eyes met, I think I might have been in a little bit of a good mood because of the whole say you’re beautiful thing.
It took an otherwise awkward situation and made me feel normal. As close to it as I could, anyway.
And then, he dropped the bomb.
He wedged his hips between my thighs and smiled. “Hey, Beautiful?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
A tingling ran through me from head to toe. Other than my father, no other man had ever spoken those words. I shouldn’t have, I mean I really shouldn’t have.
But I did.
I just needed to hear it again.
“Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat. “I love you.”
I looked at his massive chest, his chiseled abs, and his bulging biceps. At that moment, it was none of those things that I mattered.
All that mattered was who Tate Reynolds was.
“I love you, too,” I said. “I really do.”
He pressed his chest to mine, held me tight, and kissed me until I was a submissive pile of sexual desire. And then, he did what real men do.
Confiden
t men.
Men with great big dicks.
He made love to me.
Not by stepping on my head or bending me over a concrete park bench. He didn’t take me to a window and fuck me for the city to see, or fuck me in a movie theater. No one was restrained, and there were no handcuffs.
They weren’t needed.
When a man has a dick like Tate’s, and a heart of gold, he doesn’t need gimmicks, accessories, or people in the background clapping.
He simply needs to do what God put him on this earth to do.
Make love like a fucking boss.
During that time, Tate Reynolds owned me. Fully. Completely.
His hips gyrated magically, filling me with his magnificent cock with each thrust. I groped, grabbed, and dug my nails into his back, all of which seemed to drive him to last longer than I ever would have expected.
Everything about Tate fit me. Where I had a curve, he filled it. Our bodies meshed. Perfectly. If two people were ever made to fit together, it was us. Elated that everything worked as well as it did, I relaxed and let him do what it seemed he was good at.
He did it with care, caution, and, most of all, love.
When I was no longer able to count the orgasms I’d achieved on my fingers, I started with my toes.
Two toes into it, and I felt the mother of all orgasms building.
My eyes shot open.
Oh. My. God.
He sensed it. Or he caused it intentionally. Something. But, somehow he knew. His pace increased slightly, but didn’t become savage. A few seconds later, his cock swelled to twice its original girth.
I sank my fingers into his flesh with such force that I was sure he’d have scars, but I didn’t care. I mean, I did. But, I didn’t.
And then, at that instant that he took the last stroke that I can recall, I burst into a million little pieces and showered the room with emotion.
“Oh. My God!” I muttered, arching my back in the process.
“I fucking love you,” he exclaimed.
Together, like everything else we did that night, we came.
At some point, I returned to earth. When I did, I realized something.
Tate Reynolds wasn’t normal. He was an anomaly. A systems glitch. An oddity. But. He was mine.
F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7) Page 117