by Kim Jones
Crawling into my king-sized bed, I surround myself with my pillow boyfriends and turn on the T.V. Flipping through the movie channels, I settle on The Amityville Horror that will likely turn into a bad decision once I fall asleep. I push the thought aside and allow myself to get lost in the scary movie, and Ryan Reynolds’ body—realizing he don’t have shit on the perfection that is Marty.
“Maddie?”
I let out a yelp as Marty appears in my doorway the same way the little girl in the movie appears in the closet. Nearly knocking my door off the hinges, Marty busts in ready to save the day.
His eyes scan the room before landing on me. He looks alarmed, worried and relieved all at the same time. And delicious … he looks fucking delicious. His hat sits low just above his bright green eyes. The black hoodie he wears does nothing to hide the perfection I know is beneath it. His legs look big and thick beneath his faded jeans. And as if he couldn’t get any hotter … he’s barefoot.
“You okay?”
That voice. It’s low, dark and sexy as hell. My panties immediately dampen, and fat or not, I suddenly feel like a vixen. I can almost see myself crawling across the bed, giving him a view of my ass that promises him more pleasure than he could stand if he’d just bury himself inside it.
“I’m fine. Just watching a movie,” I say, managing to keep my voice controlled and not sound like an idiot. “What’s up?”
He ignores my question as his eyes narrow on the T.V. “A horror movie? Since when are you into scary shit?”
“Since now.” He gives me an uneasy look and I know what he’s thinking—I’ll regret it. “So you gonna tell me what you need?” I ask, smoothing my hair down. It’s pointless, so I stop.
“I wanted to see if you were hungry.”
I shoot him a sexy smile. “For what?” Why am I suddenly so horny? Why am I purring? Why, even after all these years, is he the only man that’s ever made me wet by just … being? “What time is it?” I blurt, hoping like hell to redeem myself.
He drops his head to look at his watch that sits on his big, thick, sexy as hell wrist—shit. Get it together, Perv. “Noon.” That’s a perfect time to fuck….
Walking—strutting—toward me, he takes a seat on the bed. Damn … I can smell him. “You cool with me crashing here a couple more days? Can’t get all the parts I need for my house till Tuesday.”
“Of course.” I offer a smile, and can feel the blush in my cheeks. He’s staying. The night. Again. The entire weekend. In my house.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
Am I okay? Hell no. I’m horny—ready to dry hump the pillow. And he’s sitting too close to me. “I’m fine.” Somehow, I manage to appease him with my lie and a fake smile. I could just tell him I want him. But I’m trying hard not to sound as desperate as I feel.
“You need anything?” His eyes are smiling—begging me to ask. But a girl has to have a little dignity. So we won’t be fucking again until he asks.
Remembering that he asked me another question, I shake my head. “No, I’m good.” I’m only half lying, and I feel like he knows it. Part of me really is good. The other part, is ready to tackle him and claw his clothes off.
He studies me a moment, and I feel the need to reassure him. “Scouts honor.” I start to hold my hand up to give him the signal, but then I remember I don’t know it. So instead, I give him the peace sign.
With a smirk, he holds up what must be the real “scout’s honor” hand gesture and shakes his head. “I’m gonna fix some shit around the house.” I’m nodding before he’s finished—urging him to leave. When what I really want is for him to stay. In my room. My bed. Naked.
Damn…
He stands—shooting me one last curious glance before he walks out. I try to focus on the movie, but I’m too worked up. He’s doing something to me—making me hornier than I’ve been in years. Now that I’ve had him, I want more. I’m insatiable. And it’s embarrassing.
With a mind of its own, my hand slips beneath the covers and over the outside of my panties. The warm, damp satin against my fingers has me closing my eyes and sinking further in the mattress. I shiver at the feel of my swollen lips—my knees involuntarily spreading wider as my body jerks in anticipation. Pushing my panties to the side, I moan as I slip one finger inside me—imagining it’s him.
I’m pulled from my state of euphoria and thrown into a vat of embarrassment when I hear someone clear their throat. I crack open one eye, praying like hell that it’s anyone other than Marty. I’d rather it be a murderer or the boogey man. But it’s him.
“I—” he starts, but closes his mouth when he can’t find the right words. I can’t really help him right now. I don’t know what the hell to do either. And my finger is still buried to the knuckle inside my pussy that just got a little wetter at the sight of him.
I’ve never been more ready to die. I want the world to swallow me up. Why couldn’t real life be like the cartoons where they carry a magic bag filled with black holes that you can throw down anywhere and jump into?
“What are you doing, Maddie?” he asks, and either he wants to make me feel even more like an ass, or he’s just that stupid.
“I’m fingering myself,” I say, matter of fact.
I hear a low growl escape him, and I finally notice the look on his face. It’s not embarrassment or shame. There’s no trace of humor or amusement. What I see is raw need and desire. I nearly come at the sight of it.
He closes the door and my pulse quickens with every step he takes. I’m frozen to the sheets. The only part of my body that moves is my eyes as I follow his every movement and my heart that’s nearly hammering out of my chest. I’m not even breathing.
I swallow hard as he grabs the covers I’m buried under and slowly pulls them away. With my knees parted, my hand between my legs and my shirt covering my stomach—thank God—I’m completely revealed to him.
“May I?” he asks, or more like growls. I don’t know what he wants permission for. But he can have it. He’s never asked, he’s always just taken—and I’ve always been willing. And in this moment, that hasn’t changed. I’ll accept whatever he wants to give me.
Grabbing my knees, he turns me so that I’m facing him—knocking pillows to the floor in the process. My hand slips from between my legs, and I leave it wherever it lands. My ass now sits on the edge of the bed. One leg is draped over his arm while the other hangs lifelessly off the side.
With his free hand, he spins his hat around backwards on his head, offering me a promising look that has me on the brink of orgasm once again. Dropping to his knees, he moves my legs over his shoulders and grips the sides of my panties. Slowly, he pulls them down my naked legs. Freeing one foot, he leaves them to dangle from the other.
I watch as his eyes zoom in on my pussy. My lips are much fuller than they used to be. Last week, I know he didn’t get the same view he’s getting now. This is his first time seeing me up close and personal. My head drops back as I close my eyes in embarrassment. Please don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything.
“You’ve got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen, Maddie.”
Okay … he can say that. My name … he can say that too. It sounds perfect on his lips—almost reverent. And my self-esteem gets a boost that has me relaxing a little and remembering to breathe.
With one long, torturous stroke, he drags his tongue across my lips from my entrance to my clit. I jerk at the feeling of his warm tongue and it hasn’t even dipped between my folds. Gripping my ass in his hands, he moans in appreciation as his thumbs move to my lips, parting me. I feel the air as it hits my fully exposed pussy and I swear I hear him inhale. I start to look, but his mouth closes over me and my back arches from the contact.
If practice makes perfect, then Marty has a doctorate in eating pussy. It’s always been his favorite part of making love. He’d spend hours between my legs if I’d let him. Sometimes I did—now I’m thankful for it. He licks, sucks, kisses, claims and
destroys me with his mouth. He doesn’t just use his tongue, but his lips, his teeth … everything. And I can’t decide what feels better because it all just feels that fucking good.
I’m sweating, coming, limp, lifeless and just when I’m near the brink of death, he brings me back with another orgasm that ignites inside me and has me screaming. I’m shattered. I’m broken. I’m breathless. And he’s unrelenting.
My lungs burn. My throat hurts. My eyes are misty and unfocused. I can’t ask him to stop because my body won’t allow it. My poor vagina has been kept from his mouth for too long and I owe her this moment.
When another orgasm rips through me, I’m afraid it might kill me. I’m so wrecked I don’t have the strength to arch my back or moan in pleasure. I just quietly whimper as my legs jerk.
With a tender kiss on the top part of my bare pussy, he slowly climbs over me. I feel his hands as they slide up my thighs, my hips and my stomach—exposing the most embarrassing part of me. I can’t stop him. I just don’t have the energy. But I find the will to open my eyes and gauge his reaction.
His fingers knead into my flesh as he places appreciative kisses across my tummy. If he’s repulsed by me, he does a fine job of concealing it. Pulling my shirt up to my neck, my breasts come into view and suddenly I have the urge to cover myself. But I don’t. This is me—the real, raw, physical part of me that is unchanging.
My nipples harden under his gaze, and when he dips his head I’m expecting him to pull one in his mouth. Instead, he plants kisses all across my breasts before raising up to look at me. “You’re beautiful, baby. Prettier than you’ve ever been.”
If I wasn’t already melting into the bed, I’d be a puddle. The look he wears is humble, appreciative and loving. It’s different than any way he’s ever looked at me. It’s more—better. Something about the way he called me beautiful and pretty means more than all the times he’s called me sexy. He doesn’t have to tell me I’m sexy now because he makes me feel that way.
Sitting up, he leaves me sideways in the bed, and pulls the covers back around me. He looks like he’s battling with something inside, and I know the feeling. With one last look of promise I can’t decipher, he turns to leave. Before the door closes, I’m lost in that fully sated state that only he’s ever driven me to. And it feels a fuck of a lot better than I remember.
I’m all smiles and sunshine and rainbows when I wake up later that evening. It’s partly due to the fact that the dampness between my legs isn’t from thoughts of Marty—it’s actually from Marty.
I all but skip to my dresser, pulling out a pair of baggy sweats and a tank top before practically floating into the living room where his scent lingers. Okay—that’s a little farfetched. I can’t actually smell him, but I know he’s here.
Except he isn’t.
The front part of my house has an open floor plan, allowing me to see the small kitchen, dining and living room all at once. My eyes scan once, twice, three times and each time I end up with the same results—he’s not here.
Slouching my shoulders, I dramatically drag my feet to the coffee pot. What did I expect? Him to be sitting here waiting on me? Spending his day patiently awaiting the next opportunity to send me into that sublime rapture that only he can?
“Don’t look so disappointed, babe.” My eyes jerk up to the masterpiece that is standing in front of me wearing a cocky grin.
He’s here. Not only is he here, he’s shirtless. My eyes widen just to take in all of him. He’s so … big. He’s like a mountain—his neck muscles the rolling foothills of his massive shoulders. He gives a new definition to the word “guns”. The thick, smooth beautiful art that is his chest is wide and broad. My eyes trail down to his flat, toned stomach that’s home to the biggest set of abs I’ve ever seen. And they lead to that panty drenching V that’s more than visible due to the sweats that hang very, very low on his hips—so low that I can see the five o’clock shadow of hair.
Son-of-a-bitch.
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.” Shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Y-you should. That,” I say waving my hand toward his body that my eyes involuntarily move across again. “That is really great.” I sound stupid. And I don’t care.
“You’re not so bad yourself, sweetheart.” My eyes search for his, only to find them checking me out. I follow his gaze. Once upon a time, I would have cocked my hip and given him a sexy smile. Now, I want that bag of magic holes to jump in again.
“I always wondered what you’d look like with more curves. It’s better than I expected.” Was that a compliment? Because I’m taking it as a compliment. I need that confidence boost right now. Especially while I’m standing here looking like hammered hell and he’s standing here looking like … not hammered hell.
Shit. I have got to pull myself together. But he’s so close. And dammit … He smells like soap—my soap. I want to lick his fingers. I don’t know why, but I have the urge to suck his thick fingers and force him to think about my mouth on another part of his anatomy. Then, I want him to tell me what he wants.
“You hungry?”
“Starving,” I say, all breathy and in way that suggests I’m not hungry for food.
Either he ignores it, or he doesn’t notice. “Wanna order a pizza? Watch a movie?” “Fuck?” I will him to say the word, but he doesn’t.
“Sounds great. I’ll call it in.” I move past him, fighting like hell to get air into my aching lungs that isn’t graced with the scent of him. I’m in the confines of my bedroom, my back against the closed door before I find it.
Several deep breaths and a coughing spell later, I finally get my shit together and call in our order. I still remember what he likes, assuming his tastes haven’t changed. They didn’t change for me. In the privacy of my own room, that cocky smirk finally makes an appearance on my face.
I’m on the phone, placing the order with the girl on the other end who is clearly bored, when I walk into my bathroom and look at myself for the first time since I woke up.
“Oh no,” I groan, eyeing my hair that looks like a peacock’s ass before glancing at my hard nipples that poke out through the fabric of my thin tank top. To make matters worse, it’s white—putting my slightly saggy tits on display.
“Ma’am? So you don’t want extra pepperoni?” the girl asks, annoyed.
“Yes, extra pepperoni.” Why the hell not? Surely I can use the few extra calories.
I give her my name, and she asks if I want to use the card I have on file—making me feel even more like a fat-ass. She promises me delivery in thirty minutes before hanging up.
I try to tame my hair, but because I went to sleep with it wet and without brushing it, there’s no hope. Eventually, since he’s already seen me, I say fuck it and drag my homely looking ass back to the living room. The smell of cigarette smoke hits me and suddenly I can’t get a drag fast enough.
Pulling the smoke from Marty’s fingers, I take a deep drag. It’s not enough, so I pull a few more times until my lungs burn like fire in protest. Marty quirks a brow at me.
“That’s some serious sucking.”
“Which you know I’m good at,” I quip. His eyes darken. I take another hit.
He grabs the smoke, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “I’ll find us a movie,” he says, trying to change the subject. But my eyes are on his thick neck and the way his pulse hammers against it. I can’t hide my grin. He so wants me.
I swear I can smell the pizza even before it arrives. Marty might smell good, but my love for food outweighs my desire for him. So when that big ass artery clogging, heartburn giving, love handle making pie arrives, I forget he’s even here.
Curling up on the couch with a big, cold glass of soda and the pizza box between us, Marty and I settle in for the movie that turns out to be Avatar—one of my favorites. It’s his first time watching it, and it’s one of those movies I don’t mind watching over and over.
Before I know it, we’ve devoured the pizza, and I’m s
tretched out on the couch with my feet in Marty’s lap while he mindlessly rubs them. Just like last night. Just like he used to.
For years, I’ve convinced myself this part of my life is over. Him and I—we’re over. But right now, he makes it so easy for me to want him. Just looking at him—the way his green eyes flash with different emotions as the movie flows from one scene to the next. The strong, thick line of his jaw covered in scruff from two days of not shaving. It darkens his already tanned face. The small hump in his nose from having it broke along with the tiny scar on his left cheek, adds danger and mystery to his appearance. And those lips … full and perfect with a deep philtrum that only adds to the curvature of his upper lip.
“Why are you studying me so hard?” he asks, tilting his head to look at me. His bright, cat-like eyes twinkle with amusement. I could lie to him, but I just don’t want to.
“I’m thinking about how much I missed you.”
He shoots me a wink. “Well, I’m here now.”
Yes, he is. And this time, I’m afraid I won’t be able to let him go.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maddie
Sunday, around two in the afternoon, I’m awakened from my nap on the couch by the familiar rumble of pipes. I’d gotten hardly any sleep last night—knowing Marty was in my house, but not in my bed. I stayed up wondering if he was thinking of me. If he missed me. Why in the hell he was sleeping on the couch when I had plenty of room for him beside me. Or on me. In me…
Marty stands from “his seat” at the end of the couch, and goes to the window. He opens the blinds and we mumble in unison. “Nosey fuckers…”
Thirty minutes later, I’m pouring coffee, half-ass listening to the many conversations going on inside my kitchen. I can’t focus on a single one because I can’t keep my eyes from constantly finding Marty’s. The look he wears is unnerving. He gazes at me like I’m the only woman in the room. He watches my every move. Even when he’s engaged in conversation with someone, he’s aware of everything I’m doing. And the bad part? I want him looking at me—only me.
