Hot Laps

by Shey Stahl

  Stepping forward, Casten made his way over. He stopped short just before reaching me and smiled widely. “You look beautiful.” He kissed my cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yeah, I did. How come you weren’t with me when I woke up?” I went in for the kill immediately. I needed to know.

  His eyes squinted before he made this endearing tilt of his head. “I’m not one to prey upon pretty girls while their unconscious.”

  “I see.” I moved closer to him, my bare knee touched his. “So what about tonight?”

  “I guess we’ll have to see where that takes us then, won’t we?”

  Suffice it to say, I was starting to feel like I was seducing him. I’d never had to work to get anyone to have sex with me. It just sort of happened. Now I had a guy being nice to me and saying nice things. If was throwing me into a wheel stand as Charlie would say.

  Well, that night took us to yet another consecutive night of drinking and no humping. We went back to my apartment and he passed out on the floor in my bedroom while I ended up in the bathroom puking from the multiple shots of Yukon Jack.

  Then we had to make it to work by eight.

  On Friday night I tried again to get the dick off lock down, but that night I was obligated to go to dinner with my parents for my mom’s birthday.

  I convinced Casten to come with me after work by simply adding, “I’ll give you anything you want afterwards.”

  He was game after that but a tad nervous about meeting my family. We weren’t dating, nor were we sleeping together, so what would I tell my parents he was? A friend?

  They’d laugh in my fucking face at that one. I never had guy friends who I wasn’t secretly humping on the side. It just wasn’t me. Anna was my only friend besides alcohol.

  As we sat in the driveway, I cracked open a beer from under my seat.

  “Are you sure we should drink? I mean, we’ve drank for the last five days straight. In some countries that’s considered a job, by the way,” he pointed out.

  “Look, you’re about to meet my family.” I gave him a look of, “Are you really that dumb?”

  He clanked his beer to mine without another word and sat back in the seat. “Good point. Cheers, honey.”

  There we sat, in front of a police officer’s house drinking beer in my car. I sensed this made Casten slightly uncomfortable.

  “So, your dad, he’s a cop, huh?” he asked peeking over me to look out the side window when my dad appeared outside, probably wondering why we were in the car still. Then knowing me, he turned and went back inside.

  “Last time I checked.”

  “Has he ever arrested you?”

  “No, but his friends have.” I took another drink, watching his reaction. “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “I’ve been in handcuffs a lot.”

  “So what, you like convince them not to arrest you?”

  “I didn’t say it was police who handcuffed me …”

  When he smiled, I caught on and snickered softly. “Wow.” Taking my keys from the ignition I tossed them in my purse that was on my lap and put my empty beer bottle in a bag behind my seat. Casten did the same.

  Casten sighed and looked at the house, tipping his head the direction of the red door. “So who am I in there?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well,” he paused shoving his phone inside the pocket of his hoodie. “Are you telling them I’m your friend or just some bum off the street?”

  “Clearly you’re no bum dressed like that” —I pointed out with a gesture to his designer jeans and a hoodie that was no doubt over a hundred dollars. “I’ll tell them you’re a male prostitute.”

  “Great,” The corners of his mouth were carefully avoiding a smile. “By the way, I’m very expensive.” He then got out, walked around to my side of the car and opened the door for me. Such a gentleman.

  “Do you accept sexual favors as payment?” I stepped out holding onto his hand to steady myself as I stepped through the soggy lawn toward the door.

  “If I’m a prostitute, and you paid me in sexual favors,” he paused for effect, “how is that payment for me when I’m the one who is supposed to be sexing you?”

  “Sexing?” I couldn’t help my laugh.

  “Oh, shut up,” he smirked at his own humor, shoving me back a little, “you get it.”

  I giggled knocking on the door. “No, I really don’t. Explain this sexing thing to me.”

  My dad answered the door just as Casten said, “Oh, I plan to later.”

  Andrew, my dad, eyed Casten. “What is it that you plan to do later?” he asked to a very quiet and nervous Casten.

  “I, uh …” he sputtered jetting his hand out with a grin. “Nice to meet you, sir, I’m Casten Riley.”

  I bit my lip and said nothing. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but feel my heart jump up in my throat wondering what Dad would say next.

  “Riley, huh,” my dad stepped to the side allowing us to come inside. “As in your dad is Jameson Riley?”

  “Yes sir,” Casten said in a remarkably smooth tone, stepping forward and following me inside.

  And that’s all that was needed for my dad to be in love with Casten. I never did have to explain who he was.

  I literally had to pull him out of their house around midnight.

  “So, did you have fun?” I watched in amusement as he stumbled down the driveway.

  He looked back at me over his shoulder. “Your grandmother called me a pussy and drank my shot for me. I can’t really think of any other way to feel welcomed than that right there.”

  I laughed and drove his car back to his place, he was a little wasted but once we were inside, I wasn’t any better when I found his liquor cabinet.

  Our time spent drunk was becoming predictable. And annoying. We made out, topless, and drank a lot of fucking alcohol. He had no problem stripping the clothes from my upper body but when it came to below the waist, no go.

  His hands were up my shirt and his mouth on mine but he hesitated. There I was, straddling his lap in the living room of his parent’s house. His dick was searching for me, I could feel it, but no, the cocky engine builder kept the monster on lock down. I wiggled to see what he’d do and then ripped my shirt off throwing my boobs in his face to see if they could seal the deal. No dice, he did show them some attention, pulling my left nipple into his mouth and sucking gently, but still, nothing. Humping him over his jeans, he definitely got excited, let out an adorable groan and held onto me tightly but when I reached for his zipper, he pulled my wrist away firmly grasping them with one of his large hands.

  “Come on already!” I nearly screamed in sexual frustration. “Why won’t you have sex with me? Do you not want too?”

  He kissed my forehead once. “I never said that,” he let his words sink in for a moment, and then continued. “If I remember correctly, I told you I wanted too a few times already.”

  “Then what the fuck is the problem?” I quirked an eyebrow at him, he shrugged.

  Casten laughed leaning to one side, his head fell back against the couch as his bloodshot eyes fell to the beer in my hand.

  Even in my drunken state, I caught on.

  “Are you saying you won’t fuck me because we’re drinking?” I’d never heard of such a thing. It seemed just … absurd to think. Who in their right mind has this sober logic?

  “Let me ask you something,” he paused meeting my eyes letting go of me completely, his green eyes intense. One of his hands brushed the fallen hair out of my eyes. “Have you ever had sex when you’ve been sober?”

  “Has anyone?”

  “Yes, actually,” his eyes narrowed, “believe it or not, it’s possible. I actually prefer it that way.”

  Again, ridiculous. “So you’re saying we can’t hump until I’m sober?”

  “We,” he clarified.

  “Both of us?”

  This seemed even more irrational. He had to be joking.

  “Yes. Listen, Hayden,” he remo
ved me from his lap so that I was looking at him. “I’m not that guy who takes advantage of the drunk girl. That’s not me and I won’t do it. Sure, if after we’ve already done it … I can’t say I’d control myself as well.” He paused smiling. “But … for the first time, we need to be sober.”

  “Why?” I tried to understand his insanity. “You’ve never had a one night stand or anything while drunk?”

  “This isn’t a one night stand, Hayden.”

  “Well, I know that. But it still doesn’t make any sense.” My mind kept racing trying to put sense to his logic. I was drawing a blank. “Or have you never had sex for the first time drunk?”

  “No. I have. But I don’t want to with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he shrugged in a manner that seemed somewhat shy. “I want you.” He whispered. “I want to show you just how much I want you and, for that, I want us sober.”

  Now I was beginning to understand.

  “Let’s sober up then.”

  “That anxious?”

  “You really have no clue how much I want that…” I gestured south. “Inside me.”

  “Is it even about me or just my dick? Cause it’s kind of attached to me.”

  “No, no, it’s you but that,” I gestured south once again, “sorta gets all my pistons firing.”

  “Wow,” he replied mocking me.

  “You shut up and sober up.”

  Flying Lap – It’s the quickest of laps.

  Is it pathetic that I’ve never been sober while having sex?

  Yes, actually it is, you whore.

  I could hardly tell you how many people I’ve had sex with let alone if it was enjoyable or not. The only guy I distinctly remember was Jacob, and for twenty-one, that boy was gifted in bed. He had me screaming to the roosters until the wee hours of the morning what I remember. He’s also the boy who left the red mark on my ass that’s still there eight months later.

  After Rosa left, who showed up and watched a movie with us, Casten and I sat there side-by-side watching some television show he seemed intently focused on when my boredom peaked right along with my need.

  This getting sober shit was going to take some effort; effort I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about.

  I remember how I tried to sober up when I was younger, fearing my parents would know I started this “drunkenness” at around thirteen. I’d become fairly talented at it so I did what I normally did. Jumping jacks.

  Casten noticed real quick, his eyes darting frequently from the large flat screen television mounted on the wall in his living room before he finally asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Jumping jacks. What does it look like?”

  “It appears you’re jumping but in a strange spastic motion. I’m not so sure those are actually jumping jacks. It looks like some drunk version of cross fit.” Again, he paused seeming amused with himself. “Why are you jumping?”

  I let out a panting breath. “I once got pulled over for a DUI when I was seventeen so I ran around the car a couple times and then did some jumping jacks. I’m convinced it knocked my number down at least a few points.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched adorably and appeared childlike. “Great logic.”

  All this jumping got me thinking and, quite frankly, made me a little self conscious about jumping around by myself and in front of a man who held god-like status in his attractiveness and masculinity.

  I’ve also learned, over time, and through extensive research with Anna, it’s best to have company when doing something stupid. That way, when you got caught and maybe even land a spot on let’s say, hypothetically, the front page of the newspaper for crashing a car through the McDonald’s Golden Arches, it listed you and your accomplice. It just looks better that way. Believe me. When it’s just your name, it stands out. But when it’s two, it blends together and then, eventually, I feel people lose interest. Unless you’re Bonnie and Clyde. Or Thelma and Louise. Okay, maybe my theory wasn’t that great. Partners in crime are memorable, too.

  At least this was sobering me up. Confusion always does that for me.

  “Come on, get up and jump,” I urged eager to see his jumping moves.

  So he did, and then I started with, what seemed appropriate at the time, Kris Kross lyrics.

  Eventually, I knew I was sober. I just knew it.

  I stopped jumping as well, still panting though. “I’m sober.”

  “I think I twisted my ankle,” he let out a little laugh and fell against the couch, watching me standing there looking at him. “I’m not sure you’re sober yet.” His hands reached out to my thighs, dragging up them carefully before the giggle returned.

  Quirking a questionable eyebrow at him, I continued to pant, holding my side but leaning towards him to rest my hands on the back of the couch on each side of his head. I was hovering. “You were just watching my boobs, weren’t you?”

  He looked up curiously through his lashes, his head in line with my vagina.

  “You caught me, pretty girl. I was eyeing your boobs.”

  Leaning down again, I straddled his lap.

  Finally, fucking finally, movements and clothes were peeling quickly as he pushed himself forward on the leather couch, sliding to the edge and then standing while my legs remained wrapped around his waist tightly. With steady, but hurried movements, he carried me up the stairs toward his bedroom.

  When we got there, it wasn’t lost on me that I briefly wondered how many women he’d carried to his room. I was turning into a girl. I never worried about this kind of shit. Now look what happens when I’m sober, I start thinking irrationally.

  Fumbling briefly with the handle to his room, the door slammed open, hitting the wall and then flying back and smacking me in the ass.

  Nothing, even the burning of my ass, was going to stop me tonight.

  I never stopped kissing him. I was going all out. I was giving it everything I had to get those damn pants of his off tonight.

  Grunting, he tried to get closer, his hands wild, controlling, and memorizing my body’s shape against his, but saying nothing.

  His knees hit the edge of his king size bed, still kissing me in frantic but deep passionate Earth-shattering kisses, he didn’t let go. Instead, he bent forward at the waist, letting me fall against the bed before he let go completely.

  “Prepare yourself, I have the most comfortable bed in the world.” His eyes, that deep penetrating green darkened.

  Crawling backwards as sexy as I could, or thought I was, I moved to the center of the bed. “I’m not concerned with comfort. I want control.”

  He just stood there staring at me until he raked his hand through his wild mess of hair.

  Dropping my eyes nervously, I asked. “What are you going to do, give me a sobriety test?”

  His large talented hands made the path from my knees up my trembling thighs, to rest on my hips, his body hunched forward.

  He was now the hoverer.

  “No,” he shook his head against my stomach, his teeth latched onto the edge of my panties. Oh God. “I’ll know when you’re sober,” he continued until they were completely off and then dropped them from his lips, playfully. “I can read you pretty well.”

  Spreading my legs further, he settled between them sitting up on his knees towering over me. “I think we both know I’m sober.” I told him with confidence as my hand instinctively reached for the prize in front of me and dipped inside his jeans finding the hardest dick I think I’ve ever had the pleasure to palm.

  Casten’s gaze broke from my eyes to my hand, his breathing deepened. It had to look good from this point for him. How is it not a win-win situation?

  Someone else’s hand in your pants is pretty much a winning situation, at least in my book.

  Growling, he grabbed my hips roughly pushing me back on his bed, kissing me. I knew he wanted this but the enthusiasm he was putting forth was magical.

  Most can guess what happens when you’re getting down
and dirty. Clothes disappear, movements become frantic before someone makes the first move toward insertion and then you’re having sex. At least that’s how it’s been for me in the past. Don’t put too much weight on those theories though—keep in mind I’ve never soberly had sex.

  Well, all that shit went out the goddamn window that night in Casten’s room.

  Now I’m not saying it wasn’t frantic or whatever, but it was different from my past encounters.

  Instead, let us focus on the hovering sexy engine builder who’s about to show me just how well his shaft insertion could be.

  He was thorough, I’ll give him that.

  At one point, I was on all fours and he was behind me. I’m not entirely sure how that position came about, but it did, and he was face to ass. For me personally, I’m not that comfortable with my ass in the air or my asshole on display. Especially when the person behind me was Casten Riley. It might have been different if he was pile driving me from behind but no, no insertion had actually taken place yet. This was still part of that whole let’s-be-thorough-as-possible-task that he had taken great pride in.

  So with my ass sunny side up, I failed to think about what my ass looked like these days. Given I don’t spend much time examining my own ass but I had a general idea of what it looked like from a few curious self-examinations.

  “What’s this mark from?” he asked eyeing my ass, I assumed. I was face down in a pillow, maybe he wasn’t even referring to my ass. My eyes darted behind me and I knew damn well what he was referring to. The mark Jacob (hockey god) had left me with.

  Be honest or not?

  “My curling iron?” I lied in the form of a question sucking in an embarrassing choked breath.

  “Highly doubtful,” he flipped me over, hovering between my legs and started laughing, “unless of course your hair was down to your ass, which it’s not.”

  “Alright,” I let out another noise that wasn’t sexy and was in between the snort-giggle but this one had some spit involved and then I started choking to which Casten raised his eyebrows more than likely questioning my sanity at this point. If he was smart, he’d run now.

  “I had an interesting encounter with a fairly rough hockey player,” I admitted when I could speak again.