by Lili Valente
“I think I’m a little sex-woozy.” More like West-woozy, but at the moment, they’re the same.
He drags his lips along my neck, whispering a hot, “Oh no. I hear the only cure is more sex.”
“Then, cure me, West.”
I lead him to my bedroom, then flick on the light because with a man like West, I don’t want to do it in the dark. I want to get frisky with the lights on. I want to see his magnificent body, watch his rippling muscles, gaze at his gorgeous face as he breaks apart.
As he makes me break apart again.
Once in my room, I strip off his shirt. Having fun with his belt, I hum a naughty little tune as I unbuckle it, then slide down his pants. He toes off shoes and socks then works his fingers down the front of my dress. He’s quick and adept with all the little buckles and snaps, but he’s missing one critical bit of data.
“I’m going to give you a tip, Mister Sexy English Cuber.”
He raises his face, tilts his head. “What would that be?”
I spin around. “There’s a zipper.”
He laughs, and even that’s sexy. Husky. Just right. “Zippers are my new favorite thing,” he says, sliding it down notch by delicious notch. The sound of it opening sends a thrill through my body. He guides down the fabric, the straps over my arms, the bodice falling down my waist, then to the floor.
“So beautiful,” he says, as he draws a line with his finger along my spine to the top of my ass. “This back is so fucking gorgeous. I want to mark it. With my hands. With my come.”
I shudder at the prospect of all those glorious coming opportunities. And I make a mental note that if all goes well, I might even ask him for a repeat because I like the sound of that last dirty one—a lot.
Yes, I want more West already. I want another night like this, from the way it started at the bar to the way it’s playing out now.
He whirls me around once more and unhooks my bra.
Then it’s my turn, and I feel like I’m unwrapping a present. As I reach his boxer briefs, I grin wickedly. They’re orange. For some reason, this delights me. Most men wear black or gray. West isn’t afraid to don a pair of bright orange boxer briefs, and the color does wonders for his cock.
But then his cock seems to be the eighth wonder of the modern world.
I push his briefs down, gasping as I take in the view of his arousal. He’s hard, thick, pulsing. I wrap my fingers around his shaft, and he twitches in my hand.
I grow even wetter. A pulse beats between my legs, and I ache for him.
“Gigi,” he rasps out.
“I would like to ride this cock,” I say with wicked glee.
“Then cover me up, woman, and get on top.”
I hustle over to my nightstand to grab a condom, but the expiration date is not my friend.
“Oh shoot,” I say.
“Are they expired?”
“Yes. It’s been ages.”
He reaches for his wallet in his pants, flicks it open, grabs the protection. Moving to the bed, he settles onto it and slides it down his cock. I climb over him, straddling him.
“Now ride me, gorgeous. Ride me like you’ve wanted to all night,” he says, clutching my hips, lifting me above so I’m poised to drop down on his fantastic erection.
“How do you know I’ve been wanting to do it all night?”
Brushing a finger along my hip, he levels me with a hot stare. “The way you look at me.”
Trembling with pleasure, with anticipation, I ask, “How do I look at you?” I’m shameless with him, but his praise is life. I want to eat it up, drink it down, swallow it whole. His words are sexier than his body, and his body is a work of art.
“The same way I look at you. With white-hot desire,” he says, then he grips the base of his dick, rubs it against my wet folds, and pushes up into me.
Oh, hello, Pleasure. It’s been a while, but it’s so very good to see you again.
It’s been so long that it’s almost a new sensation, but I know exactly what to do with it. I set my hands on his pecs, rocking my hips, swaying, swiveling. Finding a pace instantly.
West doesn’t look away. He gazes at my face, stroking his thumb over my cheek, giving me compliments, endless compliments.
And I inhale them like oxygen.
“So sexy,” he says. A hand slides down my chest, gripping my right breast. Squeezing it.
I bow my back as lust ripples through me.
“Your tits are fucking perfect, Gigi. Such a fantastic handful,” he groans, his other hand joining the party.
Squeezing and kneading my breasts as I rise and fall, as I writhe and rock. As we moan and groan together. He’s so deep in me, so far, and he fucks up into me, filling me.
His hand coasts lower, over my belly button, his thumb reaching my clit.
The second he touches me, I scream in pleasure.
I’m so sensitive, so aroused already, and as he strokes and rubs, fucks and grinds, I am lost. Lost in the pleasure, just like I was lost in his voice mere hours ago. With his fingers and his cock working in tandem, he coaxes another orgasm out of me as I tremble, shaking, falling apart on my handsome stranger.
Who barely feels like a stranger at all.
He feels like a brand-new lover.
The kind who’ll send me dirty missives.
Who’ll tell me how much he longed for my body while he was at work, in his corner office, overseeing money or gold or whatever he does in those suits.
Mostly, he feels like the kind of lover who wants more than one time.
That’s what I want too.
And I want more this very second.
West makes me ravenous, and I’m a greedy woman tonight.
He slides his hands into my hair, pulls my face close to his, and whispers, dark and dirty, “Get on your hands and knees now. I need to fuck you hard and ruthlessly.”
“I love ruthless fucking. So much.” I slide off him, flipping over and into the position he wants.
He kneels behind me, those big hands curling over my ass, spreading me open. He runs the head of his cock through my wetness and slides back inside, filling me.
It’s such a decadent position, such a submissive position. It makes me feel like an animal, and I love it. I love the rawness of it. And I love the way he can own my body like this.
West needs no ownership manual. He knows what to do.
As I lower my chest towards the bed, propped on my elbows, he slides his hand down my spine, towards my neck. He grips my hair and tugs hard as he buries his cock inside me.
He is relentless. Ruthless. Dominating and dirty, as he fucks and fucks and fucks. Grabbing my strands, making me yelp.
He slides his hand the other direction, on a fast-track for my ass, and I turn my face, needing to watch.
“That’s right. Watch me, love. Watch as I smack this beautiful ass,” he says, lifting his hand, bringing it down hard on my rear.
I yelp, the pain radiating, morphing into pleasure, incomparable pleasure.
He lifts his other hand, smacks my other cheek, hard and punishing.
“Yes,” I whimper into the bed.
“Your skin is so beautiful. It wears my marks so well,” he rasps.
“Do it again,” I say, urging him on. But he needs no urging.
Another smack. Another sharp zing of pleasure.
The Sex Ninja brings his other hand back to my clit, pinches it, then drives deep inside me.
I am a whimpering mess of pleasure and just the right amount of pain, as my body gives in and I come once again on an epic cry of oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.
But this time I’m not alone. This time he joins me with a guttural groan. “So fucking hot,” he roars as he unleashes his pleasure, and we fall apart together.
As we pant and moan, he sweeps a kiss across my neck. “And that was the best game of the night.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “Best. Game. Ever.”
Then, he gets up to dispose of the condom in my bat
hroom and returns seconds later, settling next to me, his warm body snug against mine. Mmm. This feels so good.
This post-sex high.
It makes me picture possibilities.
More nights like this, more moments rich with rat-a-tat-tat banter, one-up-manship wit, dirty Scrabble. Maybe even Strip Dungeons and Dragons.
Is that a thing?
If not, it should be. I bet West would play it.
I bet he’d love to play it with me.
West is no Theodore. He’s no slide-shaming dipshit.
Fine, I’ve only spent one night with him, but it’s been an electric, flirty, and most of all, an honest night.
I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I’m not interested in entanglements. I’m not even sure I have room in my life for anything more than Sweetie Pies. But I am very interested in seeing West again.
For more of the same.
Maybe it’s the nookie buzz talking, but I don’t care.
Sex-drunk and giddy on endorphins, I roam my fingers down his chest. “And we should play it again. Soon,” I suggest, nerves fluttering in me.
“We should, and we will.”
Why yes, universe, thank you. This was a perfect night.
6
West
Best night ever.
This woman is brilliant. Fantastic. Funny.
And sexy as hell.
I don’t want the night to end, though I’m usually a big fan of hitting the road after the fun is over so that I can get home, shower, and prepare for an early start in the morning.
But everything is already in place for the grand opening next week. There’s not much left to do except stock shelves and arrange the knick-knacks on the walls, and Abby’s promised to take care of that on Monday. My sister isn’t much use in the kitchen, but when it comes to spiffing up a room, she’s an artist. The beautifying of the space is better left in her hands.
So really, I’m free to take a breather for a few days.
A few days I’d really love to stay locked up in my house, in my bed, with this gorgeous creature. Once we’re half-dressed and relatively decent, I trap Gigi between my arms against the counter in her tiny kitchen. “Come home with me,” I say. “I have so many plans for your beautiful body. And,” I say, kissing her jaw, “I might have backgammon.”
Her place is adorable—as cute and packed with personality as she is—but I’d love to fuck her on the ladder in my library. And in my giant bathtub upstairs. And in my bed with the thick curtains, we can pull around it to make it night for as long as we like.
“I do love backgammon. And your plans, but I can’t,” she says with a sigh. “I have so much to do tomorrow.”
“Work?” I wrinkle my nose. “Call in sick.”
She laughs. “I can’t call in sick. I’m the owner, but no, it’s not work. Tomorrow’s my day off, but I have tons of work things to catch up on here at home. Orders, and paperwork, and all the behind-the-scenes stuff that’s not exciting but has to be done.”
“Perfect. Bring your behind-the-scenes stuff to my place. I can fuck you gently to sleep and you can work in the morning.”
“What if I wanted to be fucked roughly to sleep?” she says in that naughty voice of hers. The one I’m quickly becoming addicted to.
“Even better.” I step in, pressing my body against hers, letting her feel how very up I am for fucking her any way she wants.
“God, you’re tempting.” She tilts her head back, moaning softly as she sets her water glass on the counter beside the sink. “But I really can’t. I have to visit my grandmother tomorrow too. I’ve been so busy I haven’t seen her in almost two weeks.”
“I haven’t seen my grandmother in months. I doubt she’s even noticed. Time goes by fast when you’re old. Or so she tells me.”
Her eyes narrow. “I love Gram. And spending time with her.”
“I love my nan too. She’s an incredible human, who would completely understand if I needed to have a three day stay at home sex holiday with a beautiful woman instead of coming to play croquet with her on the back lawn. She’d encourage it, in fact.”
“Nice. I’d like to dispense sex encouragement when I’m a grandmother. Also, I see we’re up to three days now?” Gigi asks with a laugh. She cocks her head, nibbling her lip in that slightly shy way that makes me want to kiss her. But so far, a lot of her mannerisms have that effect on me. “I would love to spend three days in your bed, but…”
“But what?” I ask, easing back a bit, giving her space. There’s a serious note in her voice I haven’t heard before. Did I read her wrong when she asked for another time? She hesitates and I encourage gently, “Whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me. I enjoy honesty outside the bedroom too.”
She fiddles with the silky tie on her fluffy feathered robe, the one that makes her look like a 1950’s movie star between takes on set. “You’re…incredible.”
“I was thinking the same about you,” I say. “But… I’m definitely hearing a but in there somewhere.”
Her lips curve, but her smile fades as she continues, “I want to see you again. I truly do. But I can’t steal away for a sex fest, as appealing as that sounds. I can’t throw all my responsibilities out the window. I just took over as head of my family’s business and I’m in the middle of major renovations. And I checked my email while you were in the bathroom and found out I’ve been invited to join this super prestigious competition I applied for a few months ago.”
“Congratulations,” I say, automatically, though I can’t help but be concerned that she’s back to business so soon after coming her brains out.
I would have assumed she’d need at least a few hours rest to be up to tackling email.
“Thank you.” Her hand flutters to brush her hair from her forehead. “I didn’t think there was any way I’d get in. It’s the first time I’ve applied, and they usually pick more established people. But I guess they’re making a point to give up-and-comers a chance this year so…” She pulls in a bracing breath. “I really need to make the most of this opportunity. I might not get another shot at something like this. Ever. And the first part of the competition starts on Monday. So…”
“You need your beauty sleep.”
“Yes,” she says. “And probably not to disappear into a gorgeous man’s bedroom for three days. Even though I would love to. So, can we take a rain check for the sex fest and make plans for, I dunno, something simpler? But also involving sex, and food, and getting to know you and that naughty mouth of yours.”
A woman who knows her limits. A woman who expresses her truth.
I could get used to this. It’s unusual, but completely welcome.
“Absolutely.” I take her hand and lift it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “I’m busy too. I completely understand.”
“But we should definitely do this again,” she says, trailing off, like she’s leaving me an invitation–to ask her out again.
Or for the first time I should say.
I RSVP.
“Damn straight we should. You can text me when you have an evening free. Or we could grab lunch someday if you like. I’d love to pick your brain about the area. Get the local, inside scoop on the best restaurants, pickle shops, places to buy pork pie hats.”
“You’d be hot in pork pie.” She smiles, then snags her phone and we exchange numbers. “And I’d love that. How’s Wednesday?”
I try to rein in a grin. I'd almost pegged her as the leave ‘em hanging type. But here she is making plans before the night is even over. No games, no bullshit. Just boundaries and communication. She is who she is. And I like that. “Wednesday sounds perfect.”
“Though a lunch date might not give us enough time for sex,” she says with a frown.
“Then on our lunch date, we’ll make plans for a steamy night in, instead of this three-day sex fest you declined.”
“It pained me to decline,” she says, all flirty again. “Seriously. Real, genuine pain.”
&n
bsp; “Oh, it pained me too. But I plan on teasing you over lunch, getting you all hot and bothered, so you’ll be begging for a quickie after the sandwich. How does that sound?”
She sidles up against me. “You’re making me hungry.” She shifts into a practical mode. “How’s eleven on Wednesday? I usually take a lunch break then. Between the morning and the afternoon rush.” She motions out the window behind her. “I own Sweetie Pies, the pie shop on the corner.”
I startle for a moment, but school my expression.
“How perfect is that?” I ask, a slow grin spreading across my face, suddenly glad I didn’t mention the location of my new business when we arrived at her apartment.
At the time I hadn’t wanted to distract from the pressing business of delivering her second orgasm as soon as possible—or introduce information that might complicate matters later. If the sex had been awful, I figured I could keep an eye on the walk and arrange not to be out and about on the street at the same time as my new neighbor.
But the sex was amazing, and we seem to be on the exact same, low-stress-casual-dating page.
She laughs. “Well, I think it’s pretty perfect. It’s my baby.” She tilts her head, her brow knitting. “But why is that perfect? Have you been in for a slice? Maybe on a Sunday or occasional Monday morning when I wasn’t working because, I would have remembered you,” she says, wagging a finger.
I smile wider. “No. I haven’t been in yet. But I’ve passed by several times and always admired the cartoon on your sandwich board outside. The curvy woman in the pink dress makes sense now.” I roam my gaze over her, the inspiration for the illustration I’ve had a bit of a thing for.
She rolls her eyes. “Thanks. My cousin drew it. Thought it would be good for branding. So far, she’s been right. Online orders are way up since we switched the logo on Valentine’s Day this year.”
“Brilliant,” I say, her words reminding me I should probably have some cute menus designed as well. A minimalist by nature, a heavy cream card stock with daily offerings typed out with my vintage typewriter appeals to my sensibilities, but the customers in this area might expect something more whimsical.