Hookup

by Anne Marsh

  His penis isn’t as polite. It pulses against me, hot, hungry and deliciously eager. Rational decision-making is overrated. I also part my legs as I come to this happy conclusion.

  “Hurry up.” I may bounce ever so slightly because the man is taking forever. He makes a rough sound as the tip of him slips inside the first inch of me.

  I squeeze because I shouldn’t be the only one suffering here. Plus, I’ve got him where I want him, so letting go would just be a waste of time. He groans something, so I do it again.

  “Condom, Maple.” He throws out an arm, yanking open the drawer of the bedside table. While he looks for the condom, I admire my view. His chest is a work of art, all muscles and sun-bronzed skin. He must spend a lot of time outside without a shirt. There’s also a gorgeous line of muscles and the best ever happy trail arrowing down to—well, let’s just say I really hope looks aren’t deceiving.

  “Scoot,” he growls, slamming the drawer shut. “Either come up here or let me get this on.”

  He flexes beneath me. Choices, choices.

  I snatch the condom out of his hand and move back to give myself some room to work. His body is a delicious distraction, and even though I’m a big believer in safe sex, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to take him bare. What the hell is happening to me? I promptly drop the condom on him.

  God bless a man who does his crunches because he levers up so he can reach the condom and hand it to me. He doesn’t even seem to notice my unusual gracelessness, but maybe that’s because his hands are skating down my arms and sweeping over my breasts. I’m not an overachiever in that department, but I’ve got enough. His fingers find my nipples and do a stroking thing that makes me arch.

  “Do it again.”

  Apparently Max is good with taking directions, because he does. Plus, he palms my boobs, cupping and rubbing and generally driving me insane. “How about this?”

  His mouth discovers my nipple.

  “Yes?”

  I’m grinding on his massive, Vlad the Impaler–worthy penis, so that’s all I can manage. I don’t know how some people manage to call out all the stuff they’re enjoying most or recite epic poetry. I’m just trying not to moan, because I feel like I should retain a modicum of dignity.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?” He sounds downright happy for a man who’s doing all the work.

  “Can’t reach,” I mumble. Scout’s honor. It’s true.

  “Problem solved.” Before I can squeak out a protest, Max turns me around effortlessly. Sure, I have a perfect view of his penis, but this also means that my butt—and other parts—are right there in his face. He pauses, just a beat, as if he’s waiting for me to greenlight him. When his hand strokes over the curve closest to his mouth, I moan again.

  Fuck talking. My brain just stops. If the man wants a conversation, he’ll have to hold it with himself. Talking with my mouth full would be rude, right? I’ve always been flexible, so I do a sort of downward dog and take him into my mouth. He lets out a hoarse shout, but I’m a busy woman. Plus, he started this, so I don’t think he should be doing any complaining.

  Just to make sure he’s one hundred percent satisfied, I show my appreciation to his penis. Plus, I may have had one or two (dozen) fantasies about him fucking my mouth, and this is my chance. I lick him from the base to the tip, sucking hard. At some point, when his breathing grows rougher and the hands in my hair tug harder, I add the edge of my teeth and my palms. As blow jobs go, it’s slightly rough—and trust me, he definitely appreciates it. Max may be a nice guy most of the time, but he likes that bit of edge with his sex.

  Clearly, he finds it motivational, because he doesn’t hold back. His mouth seems to be everywhere at once, licking and kissing a soft, dirty path. The man may be shit on a dance floor but his tongue flies over me and I swear I’m hearing the “Hallelujah Chorus” with each decadent stroke. I manage to keep my end, fisting and sucking, but little noises escape me. Whimpers, goddamned moans, an entire yes-please chorus—it all erupts from my throat in full stereo, porn-worthy volume. The bastard chuckles and then he picks up the pace.

  I need him in me. I maintain just enough control to snatch up the condom from where it’s fallen on the bed and tear it. The foil packet goes somewhere—as if I care—and then I’m wrapping a hand around him. One more good, juicy lick to ease the way and then I’m smoothing Mr. Condom down his penis. For a moment, it almost doesn’t fit. He’s truly enormous. I rise to the challenge, though.

  I reverse my position. Dancing has made me really flexible. On top, underneath him, spooned up beside him—so many choices. I decide I need to see his face because he’s staring up at me as if I’m the center of his universe and we both deserve a reward. I brush my mouth over his. Being the giver he is, his hands keep right on touching me.

  “How?” He grits the question out.

  “Do you need a menu?” Honestly, I’m not picky. In works for me. I lick my palm and wrap it around his dick. My fingers don’t meet. He’s big and I’m going to need all the lube I can get.

  God. I can’t believe I’m about to pop my hookup cherry. On the other hand, I’ve always been way into monogamy and I’m suddenly certain I haven’t changed my position on that. Who would want to share this amazing penis?

  He lifts me up and I sink down. Oh. Forget Bora Bora or the stage spotlights or all those other times I thought I was hot. Heat pebbles my skin, and I can feel the warmth pouring off Max. He feels this, too. I throw out my hands, trying to find some traction or something to hold on to. My nails dig into his shoulders while I bury my face in his throat. This has the added advantage of letting me scream without alerting the entire world to what we’re doing.

  He grips my butt, maneuvering me down and then somehow his thumbs are grazing my clit, pushing me open as he moves inside me and the orgasm train is barreling into the station. He does something else with his fingers and his magic penis is slamming into me, and hello.

  I scream into his throat. My whole body gives it up, trembling and shaking as I see white and light and a whole galaxy of the sexiest, hottest stars ever. Keeping still is an impossibility. I bump and grind, milking him for all he’s got because if I stop to think for even a second, reality will creep in. None of the guys I’ve slept with in the past have been players like Max and I hate, hate, hate not being the best.

  He flips us over, shifting forward, and I think I groan his name. Or “More.” I could just call him that from now on. I wrap my arms and legs around him just in case he’s thinking of going anywhere, and then all I can do is hold on.

  Max O’Reilly is fucking me. One big palm cradles my head which has apparently grown nerve endings or something overnight because the rasp of his fingertips against my scalp has me shivering. The other hand cups my butt and holds me still for his next thrust.

  Works for me.

  I force my eyes to stay open because missing any second of this isn’t an option. Max thrusts deeper and my eyes may roll back in my head. Just for a moment because then I’m watching him again. His face is fierce, all of his attention concentrated on the place where we’re joined together. His hands hold me close as he moves, finding our rhythm until his strokes get harsher and there’s no more gentle.

  Which works for me.

  God, it works for me.

  I lose track of the details after that, but that’s okay. Max is a detail man. He’s got me. I run my hands over his shoulders and down his back. I palm his butt. And I taste every inch of his silky, sun-kissed, salty skin as if he’s my very own mansicle and if I don’t hurry up and lick him good, he’ll melt away. He tastes amazing, so good that I have to lick him over and over because if once is great, a thousand times will be even better.

  He kisses me back, his mouth working down my jaw to my throat. I love what he’s doing, as the noises I’m making attest. He’s big down there, making me
stretch for him, and I love that, too. He’s thrusting deeper and deeper, and we’re both more than a little out of control, because I don’t know about him, but this feels amazing.

  It’s almost a shock when I come, squeezing him hard, my thighs trying to strangle his waist. I lock up, chasing that glorious heartbeat, as the bed, the world, everything ignites in a blaze of heat and all I can do is feel and yell because he needs to be here with me.

  “Max, Max...ohmygod... Max.”

  And I think he is. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s coming, too, making Max noises that I hear dimly through my happy, postorgasmic bliss.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Max

  “YOU HAVE AN amazing dick. It’s a dozen inches of pure magic. Do you think you’re just naturally talented or is it practice? Some kind of hookup magic?” Maple drills her head into my shoulder, trying to wiggle into my side. Apparently sex makes her talkative.

  “Twelve inches is an overstatement.” My dick’s happy to make the effort to live up to her expectations—it perks right up.

  “Wow.” Her gaze dips downward. I can feel her lips curve up into a smile. “You could have fooled me.”

  I’m not sure what she expects me to do. Or maybe it’s what she expects us to do? I’ve never had sex with a friend before. The friend in question snuggles into my chest, recovering from her own orgasms. I know she came at least three times, because she told me so. We could have sex again. I could get up. Or maybe she wants a shower, a good exit line, compliments? This is why I stick to hookups.

  Except...

  Item: Best. Sex. Ever.

  Item: Maple is still talking.

  I listen while she babbles on, stroking my hand through her hair, sorting it out because we’ve totally messed it up. When she slows down, I slide my question into a pause.

  “What do you want to do now?”

  She hums a bouncy measure as she gives my question some thought. This isn’t so bad. We’ve had sex, we both came and no one’s made a mad rush for the door. Maybe this can work.

  “There’s one thing that could make this better,” she says.

  I’m more than willing to take suggestions. “Just one? Hit me.”

  I run my hands down her hair while I wait for her answer. I’ve restored order. Mostly. I’ve never stuck around after my hookups. Yes, I’m the little kid who spots a giant Lego tower and goes all “me smash!” on it and then walks way because the fun part is the crash and the way the Legos spray everywhere. I’m not a fan of picking up the pieces. But I don’t think twice about kicking Maple out of bed or finding an excuse to go. Instead, I tug a long section of her hair toward me. Ginger maybe? It smells as pretty as the rest of her, all sunshine and spicy.

  She hums a little, a tune I don’t recognize yet. “Biscuits and gravy would be heaven on earth. Can you cook? Or are you just a pretty penis?”

  “Hmm.” I pull her on top of me. “Pretty sure there’s a sad lack of pork products in my kitchen. Ditto on baked goods.”

  She makes a face, eyes laughing down at me. “I’ll have to downgrade your star rating, Mr. O’Reilly.”

  “That’s bullshit.” To prove my point, I lean up and kiss her. I know exactly how she likes to be kissed now.

  I take my time, even though my dick’s ready to go again and I think Maple could be convinced. Our kiss is slow, a sleepy, sweet press of our mouths. We’re just sitting in the Porsche, keys in the ignition, motor idling, rather than tearing up the highway balls-out. I can’t remember the last time I kissed someone like this. Her stomach growls, though, so I break off our kiss. Priorities, right?

  “I just lost another star, didn’t I?”

  She giggles. “You gonna fill me up, hotshot?”

  “Was that the best dirty joke you could come up with?” I reach out an arm, patting around for my phone on the bedside table.

  “Is that a challenge?” She rolls her eyes, her body shaking with laughter.

  There’s a little hole-in-the-wall mom-and-pop place on the other side of Santa Cruz that caters to the college crowd. The cook there makes the best gravy ever. They have chocolate gravy and biscuits the size of hubcaps.

  “I can see I’m going to have to work to stay number one in your fantasy list.” I send my fingers flying over the screen. The restaurant doesn’t deliver, but the car service I use sometimes is happy to pick it up and bring it here.

  I turn the phone around so she can see. “Twenty-seven minutes. Want to see what I can do in twenty-five?”

  * * *

  We’re in the shower.

  I’m on my knees, doing some not-so-Sunday worshipping.

  Maple moans my name, while her fingers tear at my hair. I volunteered my head when she complained about being off balance. My face is between her thighs, her right leg over my left shoulder, and let’s just say we’re not playing Twister or yoga for adults.

  I lick up her slick, sweet slit. We established five minutes ago that she really likes this, and sure enough, she starts making those whimpering noises I fucking love so much.

  Or maybe it’s English. Can’t tell, don’t care, because she’s coming on my face and she’s definitely thanking me. Moments later, I stand up, kill the water and lift her out of the shower.

  Best twenty-two minutes ever.

  * * *

  After we consume our cumulative weight in biscuits and gravy, we wander out to the kitchen because Maple has repeatedly mentioned wanting to murder a cup of coffee. That answers my earlier question about whether she was a matcha-drinking freak. She’s not. Instead, she’s a full-on caffeine monster and that’s something I actually stock in my kitchen.

  Much to my regret, she’s wearing clothes again. I pointed out that this was both a shame (no one should cover up a body as hot as hers) and a waste of time (I’ll just have to strip her after we’re done refueling), but she refuses to give in. Instead, she steals my favorite UC Santa Cruz T-shirt and slips on what she calls her “emergency panties.” Apparently smart girls keep a spare pair of panties in their purses just in case the night’s date turns out to have a Conan the Barbarian side and rips the first pair off with his teeth. Or in case, you know, there’s an impromptu sleepover and she wants to not do the walk of shame pantyless the next morning.

  We take our coffee outside, but when she goes to perch on a lounge chair overlooking the ocean, I have a better idea. “Sit here.”

  I pat my lap. I know what she’s thinking, but she’s safe. I’m wearing a pair of ancient navy blue sweatpants that dip dangerously low on my hips, and so the suggestion’s not as obscene as it sounds.

  She sets her coffee mug down and straddles my legs, leaning back, arms arched over her head in a perfect, round circle as she stretches. Or something. Fuck if I know what she’s doing but her thighs grip mine and I can’t stop myself from running a hand up the toned, taut lines of her stomach.

  “So?” She arches further until her ocean view must be completely upside down. “Are we really going to do this?”

  I’ve never had anything but temporary hookups, so I’m not sure what this is. “Give me more words.”

  “Have sex.”

  “News flash.” I pull her upright and hand her the mug. “You’ve already had your wicked way with me.”

  She buries her face in her cup. “I meant, are we going to do it more than once?”

  I lean in and nip her ear. “Once again? Already checked it off the list. I’m hurt you don’t remember.”

  She stares back at me. “Do you want to do it again?”

  “Do you?”

  She mock-sighs. “I do have hundreds of guys pinging me for a hookup.”

  I want to go all caveman on those guys.

  “You didn’t delete the app?”

  That can’t be true.

  She’s not looking for a hookup.

  Is
she?

  “I don’t want to have to hide in the house,” she says. “I want to get out, to live a little. Maybe Madd was a bad choice. Maybe I can do better. But if I’m being honest, just the idea of dating makes me want to scream. I’m tired of putting in all the work. I just want sex. And a friend. Are you taking applications for friendship?”

  “You want to hook up with me? Are you fucking with me?”

  She shrugs. “No. Well, yes. I totally want to fuck you. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Jesus, Maple. No. Do you think I’d lie to you?”

  “No. I don’t. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

  At her words my brain gets a little dizzy, as if there’s not enough oxygen in the room. Which is impossible. Maple’s breathing just fine. Maybe I’m having a heart attack?

  “Don’t have a panic attack.” Maple leans in, pressing her fingertips against my mouth. Not sure how that’s supposed to encourage me to breathe, but it works.

  “I’m not proposing to you,” she continues. “I’m just saying that—if you have no plans for a hookup with a random, sexy stranger—maybe you’d like to make plans with me.”

  Hell, yes. Play it cool, I remind myself.

  “What makes you think this could work?”

  “Item one, hot sex.” She winks at me as she uses my favorite phrase. And honestly, having sex with her again is a no-brainer. She’s freaking gorgeous, her smiles and constant motion pulling me in. The way she hums her own soundtrack as she dances through life, the way she picks herself up when life hands her a shit sandwich, the way she goes balls-out when she decides she wants something, it all makes me want more. Naked more.

  “Item two, I looked your profile up on Kinkster. We like the same things.”

  She slides that in there, as if it’s no big deal. You like country ballads? Me, too! Tacos on the beach, margaritas with salt on the rim, and sex in public? You bet. Right there with you.