by Shey Stahl
I stood there, not exactly wanting to run through the sprinklers and licking jelly off my forearm when Casten looked at me, holding concern, and then at the jelly on his skin. He gave me the weirdest look right then.
“I’ll be right back,” he turned then and jogged inside the house.
Nathan came up to me, handing me a vanilla Monster energy drink and a bottle of whip cream vodka. “He won’t admit it to anyone, especially us, but the dude’s got issues with shit on his skin. Freaks him out if it’s sticky.”
“Good to know.”
I made a mental note to test this theory later.
After four shots of vodka and half the energy drink, Casten returned wearing a new pair of shorts and sparkly clean skin.
“Better?”
“Come on,” he took me by my sticky hand and led me to the outdoor shower to clean off.
The band started up after that, rocking Casten’s favorite music idol. Strange enough it was Kenny Chesney who he idolized but he did enjoy some Steve Miller, too.
He asked me to dance with him when they played “True Fine Love.”
Casten was unlike anyone I’ve ever met in my life.
I was convinced by one in the morning that he was my soul-mate.
And though I wanted desperately to give this engine builder’s piston a good workout, it didn’t come to that. We kissed a lot, mostly while dancing but I was having so much fun that, for once, sex wasn’t on my mind.
Having a good fucking time was.
Everywhere I looked, people were doing the same.
Just past the bounce house that had about twenty bags of packing peanuts inside of it was Rosa, passed out in a lounge chair, still covered in jelly and wearing her floaties.
Anna and Cole were nowhere in sight and Nathan and Noah were setting off fireworks.
As people began to pass out and the night’s sky was lit by the bonfire and fireworks bursting ever so often, Casten and I danced in the same field he apparently set on fire a few years back.
“Were your parents pissed?”
Casten laughed, his lips at my ear swaying to a slower song. “Yeah, they were pretty pissed.”
“You think they’ll be mad about this?”
“Oh yeah,” his laugh shook my chest with his. “I may need a place to stay. You got a place?”
“I live with a butthole.” My hands moved over his bare chest, the light hair dusting his hand feeling oh so nice. “You could take his room if you want.”
He watched my hands moving over him and then looked up at me with his chin bent forward, only his eyes on mine. “Sounds good.”
I was about to ask him why he was staring at me like he wanted to ask a question when his right hand that was on my waist moved slowly up to my neck and tilted my head.
Trailing his lips from my ear, over my jaw and then to my own, soft pillow lips moving with mine his kiss was sweet. Slow at first, then building with passion. He tasted like vanilla, so sweet, so tasty. I love kissing, I do. But it’s a slow agony when it comes to Casten Riley because he makes me want so much more.
I think he knew and his right hand, the one that was gripping my waist slipped a little further south and we still swayed to the music in our own private shadow of the bonfire. More importantly, his hands found their way around to the waistband at the front of my jeans.
Dip it low, baby, dip it low!
And he did.
Good boy. Good fucking boy!
I hadn’t been touched like that down there since eighth grade biology when Caleb Rushing told me he wanted to conduct his own experiment and finger fucked me into a state of bliss I didn’t know existed at the young age of thirteen.
At first, Casten’s touch was soft, his eyes watching mine to see where I would allow him to take this. Then, slowly, when he knew I wasn’t about to stop him, he gave me one of his fingers, and then another.
Let me tell you, he had talented hands.
“Do you know what a dynamometer is, Hayden?” he whispered in my ear, holding me tight against the front of his body. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, wanting to wrap my legs around him too. Looking over his shoulder, no one was paying any mind to us.
Then I kissed the side of his neck and watched as his shoulders slumped, slightly bending into me.
“No,” I squeaked out, holding on for dear life. Pulling back, I blinked at him and then it dawned on me exactly what he was doing.
It wasn’t easy to hear with the music still pulsing, and I’ll never forget this song as long as I live. “Country Girl” by Luke Bryan burned into my memory because I was shaking it for him.
“I can’t hear you … do you know what a dynamometer is?”
I shook my head, unable to answer, and trying like hell to swallow but panting instead.
“It’s a machine we call the dyno. It measures the force, torque and power of an engine.”
Moving his fingers faster, he was measuring my force, torque and power, I was sure of it. His forehead was resting on my shoulder, his own breath heavy as he assaulted my cheeks, gasping with each exhale. Casten’s attention then turned to my neck, biting, sucking, and kissing the heated skin.
And then he said, “If we want to know how much power we can get out of an engine, we do that by measuring the torque, and, RPMs.”
Yes, measure away, buddy. Measure that fucking torque. MEASURE!
I was so close, already, and he knew it.
He moved his fingers faster, curling and swirling and they glided in and out of me. “We’re testing,” his breath caught, “constant force, and constant speed …”
“Stop talking.”
He ignored my plea, knowing it was too much for me, but giving me what I needed.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Feel it, pretty girl.”
Clutching the back of my neck with one hand, I squirmed responding to his touch. He didn’t stop and it was maddening. To fall apart like this, in his hands, and not be able to move.
I fell hard. So hard and so good. Best orgasm of my life, hands down.
“I’d say the test here was conclusive,” he whispered against my mouth, kissing me softly, then my nose and pulling back to look at me. His hand slipped out and then his fingers traveled slowly from down below, over my ribs and higher until they were at my lips. For a moment, I thought for sure he was about to make me taste my own flavor. But as Casten Riley was proving to me, he rarely did what I expected him to do.
He laughed, lightly, still a little breathless himself. “Just kidding.”
And then brought his fingers to his own lips and tasted.
Oh.
I swallowed, blinking and waiting.
“Tastes as good as I thought it would.”
I said nothing.
I wanted him right then. So I tackled him and straddled his waist. I didn’t care that we were in a grass field or that people were all around us. I was like those people in his house, just going at it. I finally understood their deal.
Casten wasn’t having it though. And while he was kissing me and his erection wanted it, he stopped me and rolled me over to my side and then he was on top of me holding my arms into the dry grass.
He looked down at me, his eyes shining. “We can’t do it out here.”
“Why? Let’s go to your room then.” My hand went to his shorts, palming down the front of him, knowing he wanted it. His hips jerked forward, his eyes squeezing shut as he let out a soft grunt. On shaking arms, he swallowed and drew in a labored breath.
“There’s time for that later. Don’t rush.” With a wink, he pulled my floppy body up. “Let’s dance.”
Goddamn him.
Right about now, at that moment in the night, picture a montage video with Old Dirty Bastard jamming to “Shimmy Shimmy Ya.”
I have an obsession with nineties rap.
I should point out that Casten knows a guy in a band, Harrison.
Guess who also shares a love for old school rap?
Correc
t. Harrison.
He could rap with the best of them and mimic all the best even though he’s a skinny white guy.
Casten, he cannot rap. Not at all. He thinks he can, and we told him he could, but his skills were weak in that area.
He could, however, melt your heart with a little Big & Rich. And I saved a horse and rode an engine builder.
As another classic favorite of my pulsed through the field, I lost myself and da-dipped with Casten Riley.
Moving behind me, Casten pushed his hips into my ass and moved me to the beat with him. Da dipping we went.
I popped, pushed, rocked and dipped as the song said. I had rhythm and, Casten, well, that motherfucker had more moves than Michael Jackson.
It wasn’t long and dancing required more energy than either of us had because that bottle of vanilla vodka that I’d consumed earlier was long gone.
I had a top-notch night. Memorable. But there were a few things I did wonder about when I woke up the next morning…alone.
Burn-out – This can be done to either celebrate a victory or, in some cases, warm the tires up.
“Oh God, yes, baby, right there! Just like that!”
“Yeah, you like that you fucking whore? You like my cock in your mouth?”
“Yes! Yes! Harder! Fuck my mouth!”
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Gag. More gagging.
That’s the bullshit I woke up to.
Fucking Adam and his whore went at it way too early but when I looked over at the clock, squinting, it read 5:37 AM.
“Fucking asshole,” I muttered and then spun around in my bed so I could kick my wall and annoy the shit out of these two fuck bunnies since I didn’t get any last night and if I didn’t I wasn’t happy about them voicing getting some.
“Why? For the LOVE OF GOD am I alone?” I raised my hands above my head shaking my fists at the heavens.
For a moment, I contemplated throwing up or walking my drunk ass to Burger King down the street to absorb some of the alcohol still sloshing around.
I decided on throwing up first and then I would be going to Burger King.
First though, I found my phone to see if there was any evidence on it and saw a text from Anna: I woke up in Cole’s bed fully clothed, covered in jelly, with my thong around his neck. Polling starts now to decide whether we fucked or not. By the soreness between my legs, my vote is yes.
After laughing at her, I discovered my underwear were still on, which was a good thing, or a bad thing. Both had drawbacks and both had positive points.
There was another text from Casten, at least I thought it was him by the message and the name I programmed into my phone under Italian Tune-up.
Laughing, I remember his description of an Italian tune-up was from last night.
His text read: Someone changed all my contacts to engine terms last night so. I’m really hoping this isn’t my grandma. With that said, if you’re looking for your bra, I have it. Btw…what did you change Cole’s number to? I found his shorts in the kitchen sink and I’m wondering where the rest of him went? Explain please.
I decided I would call him instead, so I did.
He answered on the first ring. “Is this the infamous … Crank Preparer?”
“Ah, yes, I think I remember now. I am your crank preparer.” I smiled all warm and gooey inside and sunk down further into my bed. Screw Burger King. “But I’m assuming I didn’t do any crank prepping last night …” I purposely left the question open ended hoping he felt the need to explain.
“I’d say the prepping was done. However,” he whispered, “the machine work needs to be done.”
Oh God. Machine work? I felt warmth fill my stomach anticipating anything that might happen today. Praying some machine work was done.
I curled into myself and cuddled to my pillow and the phone in my hand.
“So I’m curious, do you know where Cole is or what you changed his number to?”
“That I couldn’t tell you.” Still laughing, I noticed sticky spots on my forearm and then I remembered swimming in grape jelly. “I don’t remember what I changed what to.”
“Well, this oughta be an interesting week then,” he laughed.
Most guys would have probably been pissed that I changed all their contacts to engine terms but not Casten, he thought it was funny. “Let me guess, Charlie is Dip Stick?”
“Damn, I did a good job on that.” I was actually very pleased with it remembering my time spent on Google searching for engine terms last night.
We continued to laugh for a moment before he asked again. “Has your friend called you?”
I knew he was talking about Anna, at least I hoped he was. “No, she did send me a text that said she was with Cole. I wouldn’t worry about his pants. I don’t think he needs them.”
“I suppose not.”
Then to my complete surprise, I blurted out. “How did I end up at my place…alone?”
He was quiet for a moment, eerily quiet and then spoke softly. “I, uh … didn’t think that it would be a good idea if I stayed. We were both fairly intoxicated. So I took you home.”
“I see. Do you remember last night at all?”
“Well, I just had a vision of me carrying you home after funnel feeding you Monster energy drinks and vodka. Your roommate thinks I’m a dick, huh?”
“Nah, he thinks everyone is a dick. That’s just Adam for you. Thank you by the way.”
“For what?” I could hear him yawning.
“Taking me home obviously.”
“Oh, yeah. No problem. It was surprisingly entertaining. Until you puked in my favorite hat. You owe me another one, by the way.”
“Got it. New hat, preferably with no puke in it,”
“Yes, no puke, please,” he laughed, the sound made me smile.
Another long pause so I said, “If you want, I could try to decipher those contacts for you, over breakfast?”
Oh God, I went there.
“I’m starving,” Casten didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right over.”
Casten wasn’t lying when he said, “I’ll be right over.”
I was sure he must have drove fast to my apartment when he arrived in fifteen minutes. Adam answered the door before I came barreling down the hall.
Casten looked at Adam curiously. The douche answered the door in his fucking underwear. White underwear to be exact. My feelings about Adam and his white underwear have not changed and probably never will. I hate them, absolutely hate them.
Why, you might ask?
You could see his fucking pubic hairs through them. It’s repulsive. Enough said.
Adam was a thirty-two-year-old construction worker who’d seen better days. Not only did he look to be in his forties, I was sure he had a prescription pill addiction, was forty pounds overweight (all in his belly) and had the worst breath ever.
Some would wonder why I lived with him.
I wondered that, too.
Anna wouldn’t move out with me, her parents were actually cool people, so that left me with Adam, my Craigslist roomie.
I do have to admit that he did provide some entertainment from time to time and he bought me beer.
Casten took one look at Adam, and then me, and smiled. “Hello.”
Adam scratched his balls, yes, actually scratched his fucking balls in front of us, then reached out to grab Casten’s hand.
Casten was quicker than that and immediately retracted his outstretched hand shoving both in the pockets of his cargo shorts.
“Put some fucking clothes on, you idiot,” I backhanded his shoulder. “No one wants to see that shit.” Grumbling, I pulled Casten inside and then up to my bedroom.
Stepping inside, he smiled and closed the door behind him.
“Sorry it took so long, I got lost.”
“I thought you drove me home last night?” I gave him this perplexed look
“Uh, well, I did but then I think I might have passed out or something because I woke up in the par
king lot of Safeway and I don’t know how I got there, or home.”
“But you drove me,” I repeated.
“I know. Someone had to drink and drive and you should thank me for risking my life for you, so you were safe.” Casten smiled, stepping inside my room a little further. If that was possible. I think my room was an 8x8 space that couldn’t even hold a queen size bed.
“What’s his deal?” Casten gestured over his shoulder when he heard a thump on the other side of the door.
“He’s a fucking asshole is what his deal is.” I looked over his appearance. He was still just as pretty as he was last night. Maybe a little worn out but still pretty in his blue zip up hoodie that I wouldn’t mind being zipped inside him with.
“Nice shirt,” he said, pulling at the hem of the shirt I was wearing. Apparently I’d stolen a JAR Racing shirt from his room last night. With notable amusement, he handed me my bra. “I think this is yours.”
I tried with every muscle in my face not to smile at him but failed. I should also point out, besides having my underwear mailed back to me, I’ve had my bra returned the next day as well, so really, this wasn’t anything new to me. And the fact that this engine builder was returning my bra made me laugh.
“How’d you get it?” I had no aversion to getting naked in front of anyone and stripped his shirt over my head, gave Casten a good look at my boobs and put my bra back on.
When the shirt was off, I looked to him for his answer as to why he had it in the first place.
His lips curved into a smile. “You were showing me how fast you could take your bra off. I have no idea why or what provoked it. I just ended up with it at some point.” He spoke quietly and surprisingly stayed calm while eyeing my chest, briefly, but did he give them a good gaze. “You have probably the nicest tits I’ve ever seen.” When his wandering eyes met mine, he winked.
“Thanks, I’ve been growing them for the last nineteen years. I put a lot of hard work into that, by the way.”
A loud thump came from the other side of my door causing me to jump.
I rolled my eyes at my mentally challenged roommate. I swear a four-year-old with an extreme Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder was less annoying than him. I’m not saying a four-year-old with ADHD was annoying, but they could be a little much to handle at times. I should know. I had it. But for Adam’s sake, multiply that by size, age, and decrease the stupidity, lack of maturity and common sense and you’ve got Adam.