Nice Girls, Naughty Sex

by Jordan LaRousse

  Our shed was gray and slanted south. We had braced it against the hard north winds, my dad and I lugging two-by-fours from the pickup. I looked back to the house, sure I’d see my mom at the kitchen window, like she’d been that day, worrying about our skin exposed to the bitter air.

  The meadow curtains were closed. Aurelio put a gloved hand on my elbow.

  I wanted to climb in past his smile, climb in deep.

  Why should my eyes be tearing? “It’s cold,” I said, although with the sharp sun today, my chest felt hot, and I wanted to unzip my jacket. It had been cold that day, too. I don’t know what made him leave that night. How quiet he’d been across the kitchen floor. We never heard my dad set the suitcases beside the door while he put on his jacket.

  As we reached the shed, I pointed past the wheelbarrow, rusted and without wheel. “The wintergreen patch runs between those spruces. We’ve clippers in the shed.” He passed by me at a quicker stride, his focus on the few unburied stalks, dusted with snow.

  Did he really care about the herbal healings of the wintergreen?

  He crouched in between the spruces and brushed away the snow, then took off his glove. His fingers were nearly the color of the slender stem, and he ran them from the burnished red leaf at the ground to the top berry. This was what he wanted to be . . . a botanist. I smiled at my own surety that he’d be good at it. He’d be good at whatever he chose to do. Resolution, that’s what it was. There was a sense of resolution about Aurelio.

  Would he ever leave his family? Would he just walk out?

  He turned to me from the crouched position and smiled again, eyes squinting to slits in the sunlight. “If you have the clippers. . . . ”

  “Yes. Right.” I’d been staring. I’d been memorizing the locks of black hair that escaped his cap, his narrow waist, narrow hips, the slip of brown skin exposed as his jacket bunched up. Crusted snow hindered my steps back to the shed door, but more than that, my legs strained against opening, as if something pried at them. I felt seeping in my underclothes.

  I unlatched the shed door. I saw first the clippers and then the shovel. One swing of the shovel would cause him to collapse. Against the wide blanket of white, his dark frame would be vulnerable, open for me to take what I wanted. I hugged myself. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just didn’t know how to take that step, to put belly against belly, thigh to thigh.

  I grabbed the clippers and hurried back to him. He stood now, still squinting into the sun. His gloves hung out of his pockets.

  There was no smile as I approached, nor any move to meet me. He just stood waiting for the clippers, waiting for each of my slow steps to carry me to him. And then, as the sun thinned behind a feather of clouds, his eyes cleared. He wasn’t looking at the clippers in my hand.

  I was the one who was collapsing. I stepped back. The cold shadow of the shed took my legs, and I stepped back again, bumping into the workhorse table. And then he moved forward. Inches from my back, the old wood radiated cold. The sun hadn’t hit this western edge. He kept coming.

  Again, my legs weakened; my clit throbbed and my vagina contracted. Could I devour this man? Would he disappear if I took him inside me? I fell back against the leaning shed as his breath puffed white over mine. I reached up and slid the hat from his head and let the black shine of hair wash over. This close to him, this close, the dark frame around his lush copper face, sunlit eyes, the petaled lips that parted for me . . . it was like drinking night, gulping the sky with effervescent stars tingling throughout. I would drown under him, or I would burst open and disintegrate.

  “Aurelio,” I said, and he kissed the name away.

  I unzipped him in the cold. Unzipped my coat too and let our bodies meet. Will you leave too? I wanted to ask, but the morning stubble on his face tasted clean, freshly washed, unconcerned with the day. His tongue shot through my mouth with fiery hunger, driving my hands places I’d never gone. I fumbled with his belt, tugged. This was necessary: our bodies, this frenzy. This long, hard breath that had to gasp through my nose because my mouth wouldn’t let go of his lips, the upper lip satin, the bottom silk, all the supple leaves I’d collected in spring nothing compared to this skin.

  He shoved me back against the shed. And then he eased my belt from the loop, nimble and slow. I shivered, and he said, “Are you cold?” He didn’t want an answer. His hand reached in, and I thought it would splash in the flood that met him.

  Low moans escaped me, my cheeks flushing. I wanted to apologize to him, to the birds fluttering in the trees, the winking sun, the whole world flashing through my unstable eyes—as he fingered in deeper, as he flicked inside me—apologize for my abandon. I felt my body would flood from my mouth if I didn’t have him in it. Under that soft black hair, I bit his ear, nibbled down his neck, climbing up him, though my feet never left the ground.

  He held me with one finger’s dance. And then I needed more skin. I yanked his jacket sleeve, wanting chest, bicep, collarbone. Him. But his finger slid out. He put it to my lips, the smell of my sex at my nose. And he pressed his pelvis to mine.

  Then his eyes lit brighter, and he grinned. “Turn around,” he said.

  I did, my hands bracing me against the shed. Those slender fingers I’d watched at breakfast slid down my waist, onto my hips, and he wiggled down my jeans, exposing everything to the open air. One hand ran up my sweater, lifting my bra; the other guided the hard shaft I hadn’t yet seen, the silken tip brushing against me.

  When he entered me, a guttural moan escaped my body; it was something he generated from me, this sound so animal and foreign. The shed creaked, and I wanted to bite into the wood, let it splinter through my teeth. We rocked to the sound of skin pounding skin.

  The pressure of each thrust made me want him to continue up the path and bury his body deep inside me. My hip banged against the tool horse, metal bolts rattling in their widening holes. He thrust faster. I couldn’t hold. I couldn’t stand. I was crumbling forward under the crush of tingling pressure. When my hands let go and my forehead crashed against the shed, my body flooded in climax. His moan came then, soft and low, slowing his body.

  The shed came back into focus, close wood grain against my face, and I saw my hands were chapped. I started to shiver.

  Aurelio nuzzled the back of my hair and slid my pants up. Then he turned me back to him. I touched his cheek, slightly flushed, traced the cheekbone that would shine in the sun. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” I said, and the words came out as confession. As surrender.

  He smiled as he buckled his pants. And my fingers managed my own, though they needled with the pulse of blood my body hadn’t yet subdued.

  “You’re pulsing through me still,” I said. We both laughed then.

  Bending, he retrieved the clippers I’d dropped somewhere in the snow. He held them up with a triumphant grin. Then he went back to his wintergreen and clipped.

  This was the sex I’d read about. One frenzied moment brought on by hours of longing, and then, complete.

  “That should be it,” he said, slipping on one glove, shifting leaves, stalks, and clippers hand to hand.

  We walked back into the sun, both of us squinting. I had to keep looking sideways at him. This was a face I never wanted to forget. He waved ahead, and I saw the kitchen curtains pulled back, my mother there at the window.

  Pain waved through me from sternum to stomach. “When are you leaving?” I asked.

  “Sunday, I s’pose.”

  Not tonight when the last light went out and the children were all in bed?

  “Not before?” I asked.

  He bent forward a little, to get a full look at me. “You kicking me out?”

  I shook my head and hoped he didn’t see that my eyes were moist again.

  We both stomped on the porch steps, shaking snow from our pants and boots. The door waited, but neither of us reached for the handle. This was a threshold to cross. Our feet, together. I wanted him to know it. It wasn’t romanti
c commitment and certainly not marriage I needed from this man I hardly knew. But acknowledgment. I wanted him to feel that what he entered was a house. To know that what he’d entered was a woman.

  He threaded his fingers tightly through mine and put the other hand over mine on the doorknob. “Hot chocolate?” he said with a smile. The door opened and we stepped through.

  part two

  DIRTY MARTINI

  AT A STANDSTILL

  Heidi Champa

  I looked at the clock for the millionth time that hour. My beach bag and suitcase were waiting for me in the car. I had agreed to stay late, my boss convincing me to do a little overtime before my long weekend. The minutes were moving slower than ever, and my mind was already on the beach. Leaning back in my chair, I imagined my toes curling in the cool evening sand as I strolled by the water. Staring out the window at the sun dipping in the sky, I could almost taste the sweet tang of the margarita that was waiting for me.

  The rest of my friends had done the smart thing and made their long weekends longer. But I was playing the part of the loyal employee.

  It was finally time to leave—I threw the office door open, the heat of the day hitting me square in the face. My blouse immediately clung to the skin on my back, sweat drenching me. I sank uncomfortably into the driver’s seat of my car, which started after my third attempt at turning the key. Even it was trying to keep me from my vacation. My old Volvo wagon had seen better days, but its shining attribute was that the air conditioner still worked.

  Once on the road, I thought it would be smooth sailing. I barreled down the highway, heading toward that glorious, long, high bridge that would take me to my destination. I paid my fee at the bridge entrance, managing a smile for the burly toll collector, who was clearly suffering in the heat. Choosing the left lane, I eased down on the accelerator, the air conditioner on so cold that my nipples stiffened under my shirt.

  The sun was behind me, shining like a spotlight through my back windshield. I sang out loud to the radio, settling myself into vacation mood. It was then, just as I got over the crest of the first arch, when I saw it: lines of cars, stopped as far as I could see. Brake lights gleamed; the red sea of beady little eyes stared back at me, taunting me, keeping me from that perfect, salty-rimmed glass of tequila-flavored heaven.

  I stopped.

  MY FOOT WAS JAMMED down on the brake pedal, my calf muscles cramping from overuse. Reluctantly, I turned off my air conditioner, slammed the gearshift into park, and put down all my windows. The clock ticked over, counting twenty-two minutes since we’d all screeched to a halt. We hadn’t moved an inch. I cast an agitated glance over the side of the bridge, the blue water calm and inviting. I was supposed to be on the other side of that water, the ocean lapping at my polished toes, the bonfire warming hot dogs and s’mores. I could picture the cooler filled with beer sitting in the sand, everyone laughing and wondering what had become of me.

  I checked the screen of my cell phone, but found it had conked out somewhere between the office and my purgatory. I was truly trapped. The air was so thick; I could almost feel the moisture settling on my skin. My windows were wide open, but there was hardly a breeze, even above the water. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, the heat captured beneath my silky skirt. I let my legs fall open and hiked the hem of my skirt to my upper thighs. I tried to slow my breathing down, but my agitation remained acute. Sweat dribbled between my breasts, the lacy cups soaking wet. I felt sticky and heavy, my hair starting to frizz around my ears. Despite the sun dissolving into the horizon, the heat was pervasive. I wished again for that frozen drink, to have the icy slush flowing down my throat, settling my nerves.

  Turning my attention to the right, I noticed a blue Camaro sitting next to me with a frustrated-looking guy behind the wheel. His phone was pressed to his ear, and his rough voice cut through the soft hum of the engine in front of me. I couldn’t make out all that he said, but somehow the perfunctory fucks carried easily to my ears.

  I realized that I had passed the guy on the road before the bridge. We had shared that momentary glance that some drivers do, looking at each other through the glass as we sped by. I had noticed the muscled forearm resting on the window jamb earlier, and the same arm resided there still. Sexy.

  He turned unexpectedly toward me, and my breath caught. His eyes were piercing, and they looked dark and angry. I thought he’d disengage immediately, but he didn’t. He regarded me with a smirk before finally turning away.

  I watched him throw his cell phone into the passenger seat. Strong-looking fingers wrapped around the black steering wheel, his knuckles turning white before he lowered his head to the wheel as well. I knew how he felt.

  I turned again, ahead, into the congestion, and noticed two cops walking down the middle of the road, leaning into windows for a few minutes before moving on. When the heavy footfalls stopped next to my car, I leaned toward the window to find out what was happening.

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Officer Healy. We’re just letting everyone know what’s going on. We had two trucks overturn up ahead. There’s no danger, but one of them was carrying syrup. It’s a huge mess. It’s going to be a few hours before we can get moving again. Just sit tight. We’re doing everything we can to clean up as fast as we can.”

  I managed a sparse smile as the officer tapped on the window jamb of the passenger seat. He stole a fleeting look at my cleavage before moving on.

  I sat up straight and curiously looked over at my neighbor. His seat was easing back into a reclined position. He lifted a bottle of water to his lips and drank. My mouth puckered involuntarily. I glanced at the empty bottle in my cup holder, cursing myself for not hitting the vending machine before I left the office. My eyes were drawn back to the mystery man next door, and I watched him drink slowly, his Adam’s apple moving up and down.

  He lowered the bottle when he was done and met my eyes, catching me coveting his . . . liquid refreshment. I couldn’t help the smile that formed on my lips. His eyes softened as he returned the grin.

  “So, how much does this suck?” he asked casually. His voice was less gruff now than it had been when he was on the phone.

  I laughed. It was a lazy, natural sound in the heat. It felt good, as if I were giggling off a thin layer of tension and responsibility.

  “Hey, do you need a drink? I’ve got an extra bottle of water.”

  My first instinct was to refuse, a holdover from my polite work demeanor. But, damn it, this was the beginning of my long weekend. Plus, there was something about him that intrigued me. I managed a nod.

  He opened his door, standing up and stretching. The sun behind us was dipping below the horizon, and in the dusky light, he looked like some kind of jungle predator warming up before a hunt. I watched him move, his long torso turning from side to side, his arms reaching above his head. The dress shirt he was wearing clung to him, a line of sweat painted down the middle of his wide back. His muscles tightened as he leaned into his car for the water, then shut the door and came my way.

  It took him only two steps to get to my car. He leaned down a bit, just like the cop had. His eyes ran over me, my cheeks flushing in response. The water bottle came through the window, and I reached for it.

  The cool plastic felt nice on my palm. His wet fingers lingered over mine, the contact completely unnecessary, but I loved it. The condensation dripped off the bottle onto my exposed thigh. I don’t know if it was the humidity or being stuck on the bridge for so long, but I suddenly felt something unfamiliar. I felt reckless.

  I thought, for a moment, that he would just turn around and walk away, but he hesitated.

  Neither of us spoke, each waiting for the other to say what we both wanted. He beat me to the punch.

  “You want some company?” he asked. His eyes were even more striking up close.

  “Sure,” I replied, looking up at him through my heavy eyelashes.

  My heart jumped when he opened the passenger door and slid inside. It was surreal
to have him next to me, his large frame filling up the seat. I tried to be graceful as I slurped down the ice-cold water, but the heat got the best of me, and in my haste to slake my thirst, a few stray drops ran over my lips and splashed onto my chest and shirt. The cold made me jump, but the water was so refreshing. Secretly, I longed to dump the whole damn thing over my head.

  “Drinking problem?”

  I laughed again. His teasing eyes ran over my body again, his stare lingering over the pale triangle of my chest. He reached for me, touching the wet spot on the front of my blouse. The first drip of moist heat from between my legs hit my panties. I shifted in my seat. My pussy lips felt slick and swollen.

  “Apparently. I was just so thirsty. I hadn’t planned on the delay. My friends are already at the beach.”

  “Mine too. I knew I should have left yesterday.”

  “Me too. My boss talked me into staying.”

  The sky had gone dark, and the bridge lamps were few and far between. The dim lights from the dash threw mysterious shadows across his face. He stared ahead; neither of us spoke. His hands slid up and down his legs, his feet tapping out an erratic rhythm. I looked at him, taking in the strong line of his jaw. Then his eyes met mine, and an involuntary shudder moved through my body.

  “So, you come here often?” he asked.

  “Is that the best line you can come up with?” I laughed.

  He smiled. “You know, I’ve been stuck on this bridge before. It was years ago. When I was a kid. My family and I were heading to the beach when a camper rammed the wall up there. Closed down the bridge for hours. But I had my Walkman with me, then.”

  “I could turn on the radio,” I offered. I reached over to turn the stereo on. His hand closed on mine, and his touch sent chills up my spine, despite the heat.