by Lana Brazen
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m good,” I reply, although strangely, I’m not. I’m even more mixed up than I was two months ago when I began this adventure.
+ + +
“Harden Handy, what can I do for you?”
“Andrew?” I instantly recognize the rugged voice of James’s assistant, and I laugh. Is he legitimately a handyman with a name like that?
“Who is this?”
The question doesn’t surprise me. “Lana Blasen.”
We didn’t really speak when we met. Images flood my head of Andrew between my thighs. His finger up my backside. The warmth of his chest with his hand on my breast. “From Dr. Lubton’s office.”
“Ahh, James told me he suggested you call me.” There’s a smile in his voice, and I relax. It isn’t that I want Andrew more than James, but I’m curious about a few things. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you really a handyman? Andrew of all trades?” I tease.
“I am that, but I do other things.” His voice remains playful. “Can I do something for you?”
I swallow, wishing once again I’d called Jessica for advice. I need to talk to someone about all this…sexual adventure.
“I don’t really know how this works, Andrew. I guess you could say I’m a swinging virgin.” I laugh at my own joke. “When a friend recommended I call for the doctor, I had no idea what I’d get myself into. I thought swinging was for couples only. Here’s my conflict: I don’t know that I can be the other woman in the room and considering that two gay men probably don’t want a woman, I’m at a loss.”
I hear something shuffle through the phone. “Was there a question in there? Because I’m lost.” His voice remains jovial, patient and wanting to understand.
“I’ve only been with James, so I think it’s time to branch out.” Did it sound like I wanted sex with someone else because that’s what it feels like I’m asking? However, nothing is further from the truth. I want James, but I don’t think it’s good for me—emotionally—to keep returning to him. I’d read Fifty Shades of Grey. I remember the psychotic woman who lost her mind after her activities and attachment to the main character.
“And that’s why you called me?” Is it? Am I hoping to have another experience with a different man? Do I really want Andrew more than James? “I’m going to break some unwritten code here and tell you that James mentioned you haven’t had another doctor visit, and I’m worried it was me. Did I do something wrong? Did you not enjoy yourself?”
My cheeks heat as I recall all the things Andrew did along with James. “No, it wasn’t you. I think it’s me.” The statement has never been truer and still as awful to say as to hear. “I think I’ve become too attached to James and thought I should try something else. Someone else.”
Why do I feel like I am cheating on a man who is only in it for the game?
“If that’s what you want, I’m available. I can find another man to fulfill a threesome for us.” The thought brings me up short. Threesome? Of course, that’s what it was, but I hadn’t thought of it like that. I felt like James and I were sharing Andrew with us, like a couple, but that was the wrong way to consider things. “But…I’m going to break confidentiality and tell you I think James really wanted another visit, even without me.”
“I…” I’m stumped. “Then why didn’t he call me?” Why hasn’t he called to see me again?
“Because that’s not how doctor visits work.” He chuckles. “But if you need a handyman, there might be a second number on my card because handymen make house calls.”
I had noticed before there was a handwritten number marked cell phone on the back, and I flip the card once again. I assumed it only meant an additional number to the one listed on the front.
“I enjoyed you, Andrew,” I clarify for him, not wanting him to doubt his sexual attractiveness like I’ve doubted mine. “I guess I have more to think about.”
“Lana, a word of advice. Call the other number.”
+ + +
“You called for a handyman?”
As I hold open the door, my breath catches at the sight before me. He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt, dark jeans, and construction boots that have never seen a day’s labor. A tool belt rests low on his hips, and I think I’m drooling. He still has the same cropped hair and clean face, but his pale eyes sparkle today.
“Yes, Andrew recommended you.”
I’m not certain what I’m doing. When I called the number, the smooth voice wasn’t so casual once I mentioned my name and how I was looking for a handyman. Keeping to his professional format, he set a time, and I gave him my address. I didn’t have to wait long for an appointment. It was Sunday morning.
“Can I ask what the problem is? Perhaps show me where you have an issue?” He easily falls into the role, but I’m not certain I can continue.
“Are you married?”
His expression cracks. His jaw clenches. “I am not.”
“Because I saw…” He knows what I saw.
“And I saw you. Who was he?” There’s an accusation in his voice.
“I’m divorced. Everything I mentioned in my initial call is true. My name, my occupation, my marital status, but I know nothing about you. I can’t participate if you’re married.”
“I’m not married.”
There really wasn’t a reason to doubt him. Or believe him.
“Do you want me to treat you like the other woman? Call you my little slut and fuck you on the sly?” He steps closer to me, and I hate how my body betrays me, instantly wet and weeping for his touch.
“I don’t,” I say, holding up a hand and halting his approach. “I was married to a man who cheated on me, and I could never do that to another woman, even in a fantasy. If your wife knows you play this game, that’s your business, but I still don’t want to participate. I can’t be the other woman.”
“She’s my sister, visiting from Ohio. Her name is Christine. I’m the oldest. She doesn’t know what I do.”
“And what do you do? Are you really a doctor, or do you just play one on TV?”
His head tilts, processing the joke, and his hands come to his hips. “I’m really a doctor. A rheumatologist.”
“You fight auto-immune diseases and joint discomfort?” I’d looked up what a rheumatologist did because I really didn’t know.
“I do. My specialty is auto-immune diseases.” He pauses a beat. “Now, answer my question. Who was he?”
“A colleague. I guess you could say it was a date, but it was really just dinner and drinks.”
“Did he touch you?” His voice lowers. “Did he fuck you?”
“No.” The singular syllable word is breathless on my lips.
“Then I’m here to repair things.” He pauses letting the innuendo take. “Why don’t you go slip into something a little more comfortable?” His eyes roam down my oversized sweatshirt and shorts.
“Play the bored housewife?” I hitch up a brow, and he slowly smiles.
“Divorcée in need of a repairman.”
After I find the one piece of lingerie I still own, I slip into the silky black material and make my way to the kitchen where James has opened my sink cabinet, spread all the product bottles around the floor and lays with his head on a rolled towel underneath the sink.
“You might have a bad pipe, ma’am,” he says, before looking up to see me in my outfit. When he lifts his head, he pauses. His throat rolls as his eyes roam my body, but he doesn’t break form.
“Could you slide up a chair next to me? I might need your assistance to hold a light.” He pulls out a flashlight from his tool belt, and I pull a kitchen chair next to him. He tips up his head again.
“Lean forward a bit. Spread your legs.”
I do as asked, revealing that I’m bare under the black material. My nipples peak against the fabric, erect and noticeable to him. My hands grip the side of the chair, forcing my breasts together. The nightie is too tight, and I’m at risk of popping free
of the lacy edge.
He lays his head back. “Perhaps come closer to the edge of the seat. Lean a little to your right.” His voice is so controlled like he really needs me to hold up a flashlight and help him look at my pipes. My knees separate so I straddle the chair, forcing the short nightie up to my hips. Slowly, he sits up, ducking his head as he exits the cabinet, and looks over at my glistening core.
“Seems you have a leak.” He looks left and right. “But I don’t have a cloth to wipe it up.” Without further discussion, he leans forward and laps at my center, splitting me in two with the thickness of his tongue. This is not a gentle, assessing doctor but a rugged, aggressive laborer, and he works me as he flattens his tongue and then reaches my clit. A finger dips into me, and my head lolls back. I reach out for the counter next to me to hold me in place as his mouth sucks at my sensitive folds, and another finger delves deeper.
“Oh God,” I moan as the wave crests quickly, breaking as his tongue circles and his fingers dip. I squirm against his face until I grip his head, thinking I can’t take any more as silver sparks dance before me.
He pulls back and lowers for the rolled towel in the cabinet. Looking under the sink, he unbuckles the tool belt, which clatters to his sides. Then he unbuttons his jeans and unzips the zipper. Removing himself, he shimmies the sides of his jeans to reveal smooth hips and no underwear.
“This pipe might need further inspection.” Instantly, I scramble to the floor, kneeling between his legs and grip him at the base. His eyes close, and I swallow him down without preamble. Drawing back up his stiff shaft, I linger to suck the head and then twirl my tongue around the edge. Opening wide, I return him to my mouth, taking him to the back of my throat as I squeeze his sac.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I want to come in your throat, but I won’t.” He moves to sit up again, and I sit back.
“Stand at the sink a second, turn on the faucet, and let me see if I’ve fixed the leak.” Walking up to the sink, I do as he asks, straddling his body as I stand, and reaching for the cold faucet. His hands grip the back of my upper thighs, and he draws me to his face once again, licking and lapping. My knees quake, and I grip the edge of the sink as I rock against his tongue. He sucks even harder than he did before, the position unique with my pussy over his face. My breath hitches, and I clench, coming once again on a rush. He pulls back, and my legs quiver. I’m dripping like the faucet we’re pretending is broken.
“I think we need to stopper the pipe.” He’s so serious as he speaks, but I chuckle as he lowers me to straddle his thighs. He pulls a condom from the tool belt and rolls it on while I watch, hungry to have him in my mouth but wanting him in other places more. “Kneel up.”
Using his shoulders for support, I guide myself over him, which he holds upright. I lower, and my belly flutters.
“You feel so good,” I admit, not realizing how much I’ve missed him, and this, and us. He complements me in ways I can’t describe, knowing what I want, how I want it. I refuse to consider his practice and expertise, falling into a blissfully blind acceptance that he understands me. What my body needs. What I ask of him.
“Grip the countertop,” he demands, and I reach over his head. His warm mouth covers a breast not so well contained in the thin covering of my nightie. With his hands on my hip, he helps me rock up and down on him, using the counter as leverage to pull myself up and down. Faster, deeper, harder.
“Come,” he groans, and I lower a hand to stroke myself, rubbing at my clit to get me there once more. I feel like I’m split in two, holding him deep within me as I come undone. Quickly, he tugs me off him.
“On all fours,” he commands, and I twist, scrambling on my knees, and then lowering to my elbows. He leans up behind me, slipping the black silk up my spine, the sliding his hand into my hair and twirling it around his fist.
“I’m going to fuck you.” Without further warning, he slams into me, using my hair to tip my head back and my ass up. His thumb comes to my hole, recalling what Andrew had done to me. “May I?”
I nod and look over my shoulder as he sucks his thumb in his mouth, licking it to moisten the tip, and then presses at my sensitive spot.
“Sweet Jesus. I love how you let me do anything to you. So inexperienced yet so receptive.” It’s the most he’s ever said to me to imply he’s pleased. My hips jut back as he thrusts forward.
“I’m going to come inside you,” he warns, and his breath catches as he stills, pulsing and pumping within me. I lower my forehead to the kitchen tile, breathing deeply as he continues to jerk. Pushing at my shoulder, he lowers me to lie flat as he removes himself. Then he collapses on the floor next to me.
“Did I stop the leak?” he asks, all serious and curious as those pale eyes darken.
“I think you restarted the faucet.” I laugh, and so does he. The sound breaks his façade so much it’s almost blinding. His features relax. He has a great smile.
“Stay for lunch,” I ask, keeping my eyes on his, and his laughter slow dies, but his grin only lessens.
“Let me make a call. Then I have one more place I want to check for faulty plumbing.”
My brows pinch in question, and he replies, “Your bathroom. Specifically, the shower.”
+ + +
He makes his call, and we play naughty plumber and dirty divorcee once more in the shower. The stall will never be the same to me again. Neither will my kitchen floor. To my surprise, he does stay for lunch. A turkey sandwich and a small fruit salad are all I can offer him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Sitting at my kitchen table with him seems a little surreal to me.
“May I ask questions?”
He slows his chewing, swallowing before reaching for a beer I offered and nodding.
“How did you get into all this? Did you just want to have sex with random people?”
A grin grows, and I’m glad I didn’t offend him. “I was…in a relationship…and wanted to experiment. I thought it would bring us closer. Give her what she wanted while satisfying my adventurous side. She didn’t like it and said it made her feel dirty. I tried to let it go, but the first experience fed something in me. I wanted more. We didn’t last, but there were other issues that broke us. I decided I could be that man, the one couples needed to experiment. It left me without commitments and fulfilled a need for me. I’m a busy man who doesn’t have time for relationships, so this works.”
I feel like he’s telling me something, and I hear it loud and clear. Do not get attached.
“And you’ve never become involved with the female?”
“Never. I stick to married couples who express a strong relationship but a need to dabble. I don’t do this often, other than when the urge hits or recommendations are made.”
“Sort of word of mouth,” I snark, tongue in cheek.
“Something like that.”
“So why me?” He tips up a brow in question. “I didn’t come with a husband.”
“It was a risk, but you said Jessica recommended me, and well, I owe her and her husband for favors in the past.”
I don’t ask, as I assume that would be a personal overshare.
“Can I ask you a question?” he inquires, and I nod. “Did you enjoy Andrew?”
“I did,” I answer, watching his face shift. “What? What is that expression?”
He clears his throat while looking down at his sandwich. “I liked the look on your face when he was with you, but it also made me feel strangely possessive. Like an itch under my skin and I wanted to prove I was the better man.”
“I…” Wow. “I don’t know what to say. Were you jealous of him?”
“Not jealous. I asked Andrew to be there. For you. We’re both unattached men in this lifestyle, and I thought he’d be good for you. I knew we’d play off each other well. But there was still something about him being there with you. My competitive streak came through.”
“So it’s a competition. Who has the biggest dick and all?” I tease.
“Not the bigge
st, but who satisfies you best.”
Should I tell him how my pussy is pulsing? Let him know that his words make my belly flip? Ask him if I can kiss him and then make him come in my mouth?
“You get this hungry look in your eyes when you’re aroused. Like you’re dazed but determined.”
I hold his gaze. “Do I have that look now?”
“Yes,” he breathes.
“And do you intend to do anything about it?” I boldly ask, leaning my elbows on the table, which press my breasts together.
“How do you feel about lunch and this table?”
“I’m no longer hungry for a sandwich.”
He doesn’t clear the dishes with the sweep of his arm like I’ve read in romance novels but calmly stands to remove our plates to the counter. For a moment, I think I’m rejected for my suggestion until he leans against the cabinets and begins unzipping his jeans.
“Lie back on the table, please,” he says, and I scramble from the chair.
6
To call Sunday a #sexfestSunday is an understatement. James leaves shortly after fucking me on the table, pulling out before he came, and turning my head so he went off in my mouth. I’d never been so out of control and completely in charge at the same time.
Before he left, he told me satisfaction was guaranteed, and he wondered if he might return to check my pipes in a week. I laugh at the seriousness in his tone, but the expression on his face is finally more relaxed. He’s a striking man with those gray streaks and peppered jaw. I like Sunday James almost as much as Dr. Lubton.
“Lana Blasen,” I answer on the third ring from my desk at the office on Tuesday morning.
“Ms. Blasen, this is James for Harden Handy.”
I snort into the phone and lean forward as if somehow shielding my cell phone hides him when no one can see him anyway.
“James,” I whisper breathlessly. I swallow the sound as I look over my shoulder.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Blasen, I have an issue with next Sunday. Could we possibly change our appointment to Thursday evening?”