by Dee Palmer
“Yeah, she did mention something like that, and no offence, but all evidence points to the contrary as far as I’m concerned.” She hops onto the stool, all bright and feisty. Any shadow of sadness gone; I’m glad.
“How about I win you over with my Full English?” I flip the coffee machine on and start to assemble the ingredients, confident no one in their right mind would turn down a cooked breakfast.
“Why would you want to win me over?” Her tone is derisive and she snorts with incredulity. “Not your type, remember?”
I am glad I have my back to her, because the smile that flashes across my face couldn’t hide how happy it makes me that my throwaway remark obviously struck a discord. “You’re not, but I’m just not used to people hating me. It’s new and I’m not sure I’m a fan.” I put an empty plate in front of her, cutlery, fresh orange juice, and a fancy latte with a foam swirl, which looks like rolling waves. Her face lights with instant joy and I get that fucking pinch in my chest again. Why do I care that I can make her smile this way? Why should I care that I want to make her smile like that all the time? Enough! I shake my head to stop my thoughts. Christ at this rate I’ll be opening the post to a brand new vagina, a special delivery just for me. “Besides not being my type doesn’t mean I am not going to fuck you. In fact, it just makes it easier to keep it to just fucking–not so messy.” She laughs out loud.
“And you hate messy.” She points her foam filled spoon at me and then sucks it clean. I have to turn to check the bacon and adjust myself.
“That I do.” I shift awkwardly; the sand in my shorts is chaffing me raw with the tent I’m sporting. “Look, do you mind finishing breakfast while I take a shower?” I pull the material loose, but there is no hiding my arousal. She licks her fucking lips–yeah that helps.
“So, you invite me for breakfast, but I have to cook it. I can see why you’re such a hit with the ladies,” she mocks.
“It’s your fucking fault.” I stride up to her and pull her off the stool. Her shock is quickly replaced with something much baser, when I take her hand and slide it down the front of my shorts. “And this is why I’m such a hit with the ladies.” Her tiny hand grasps my cock, and it twitches and swells with appreciation. She twists her grip and strokes my length, her lids close and she takes a deep breath. She opens her eyes and it might only be a flash of a memory, but I can see she’s a million miles away. Her hollow glare falls on me, but her eyes hold none of their shine or fierceness. They hold no desire for me. Fuck that! She checks herself with the slightest shake of her head, tightens her grip, and presses her body to mine. I tip her chin and pinch the end to get her focus back to me. “Watch the breakfast.” My tone brooks no discussion, even if her eyes fill with hurt once more.
“So much for saying you would fuck me. I guess I’m really not your type.” She pulls her hand roughly, causing the elastic to snap hard against my skin.
“I said I will fuck you, Ada, and I will; but only when you are with me. I have no fucking idea where you were just now, but you sure as shit weren’t holding my dick in your hand.” Her expression is a mix of sadness and shame. Neither are emotions I care for. I snap the towel from my shoulder, spin it into a thin coil, and whip it across her backside. She yelps and jumps away toward the cooker. “That’s the idea. Now, don’t let it burn. It stinks like a bitch in heat when you burn something in this open plan space. It stays in the furniture, rugs, you name it. And I’m having a party tonight, remember?” She narrows her eyes at my comment. It’s not like she isn’t invited–everyone’s invited.
My shower takes a little longer than usual, and when I return, she has reset her place on the small table. She has put me at the far end and has even got a small vase with a single pink rose. Where the fuck did she steal that from? The food has been served, and she has even put a plate over my dish to keep it warm. She nibbles on her toast and frowns when I pull my chair and place setting directly beside her. I nod toward the flower. “I little early for light fingers?” I quip.
“I didn’t steal it, arse-hat. Burt, in the next building, gave it to me over the balcony.” She snaps and points in the direction of my elderly neighbour with the adjoining overhang. Burt really shouldn’t be living on the fourth floor when it takes him so long to climb the stairs. I might have to suggest putting in a lift just for that stubborn old bugger.
“You’ve met my neighbour already. You’ll be doing bake sales and selling homemade lemonade next?” I laugh, because this whole scene feels comfortingly domesticated. Her lips turn down into a thin line and she drifts away, but only for an instant and then she’s back, all indignant energy.
“That’s me, domestic Goddess without a domicile just waiting to serve you.” She pulls her fringe in mock servitude, but her humour is wholly misplaced and she knows it when she regards my face. I am just about to sweep the breakfast feast onto the floor and take her on the table, when she fills her mouth with a huge serving of bread and beans, moaning with distracted gratification. My mouth drops and damn it I’m hard again. “Look, I will clean your place for the party, and I’ll do some more washing–if you want to risk it–but only because I pay my debts. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone and that includes you.” She waves her fork at me, but quickly gets back to devouring her meal like a starved woman.
“That was you on the beach earlier, wasn’t it?” She slows her chewing and sips her coffee. Her expression is guarded and I find I’m intrigued to know so much more than she clearly wants to share. My voice is softly coaxing. “I saw you on the beach. It was pretty early. Did you have a late night and get locked out?” I sniff out a laugh and shrug like we’ve all been there.
She swallows, and now that her plate is empty, she carefully places her cutlery neatly down the centre, and dabs her mouth gently with a napkin. Who knew I had napkins? “Something like that.” Her voice is barely a whisper and she leans into my hand when I tuck her hair behind her ear.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Her eyes meet mine and she looks startled, delicate, fragile, and I want to grab all that uncertainty out of her.
“Okay.” She exhales, and my smile starts to spread across my face with an unbridled sense of achievement. Buddy can suck it. I have earned that privilege and all it took was some bacon and a fried egg. “How about I go and get a brush and some bands, and we can braid each other’s hair at the same time.” Her fingertips clip my jaw shut. I would be pissed, if her smile hadn’t just hit me like a sucker punch. She’s so fucking beautiful when she smiles playfully but fine…let’s play. She stands and takes both our plates. I knock them from her hand and send the dishes crashing to the wooden floor. Her gasp of surprise and the worry that flits across her face is perfectly placed. She should be worried. She attempts to retreat, but with each slow step I advance with a much wider gait toward her. The gap closes; the heat builds.
“Ethan!” Her tone is a warning, but I don’t head it. “Ethan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you; to be rude.” She places her hand on my bare chest. Her fingers are so soft and firm, the pressure goes straight to my balls.
“No?” I tilt my head with disbelief.
“Well, I did, but I didn’t think you–”
“Didn’t think I would what? Be offended? I’m not.” I snap my interruption and Ada jumps. My jaw clenches because I fucking am. I want her to tell me, to be the one she whispers to, not Buddy. That she would joke about it just pissed me off, but she doesn’t need to know that. “But you were rude and after my hospitality, I think it’s only fair that I return the sentiment.” I step up, quickly taking her in my arms, and walking her until her back is pressed against the wall. We hit with the force of my eagerness and our momentum. She gasps and I groan. My mouth covers hers; her hands fist into my damp hair and she pulls me with equal ferocity against her mouth. I can’t get close enough, and there are too many damn clothes in the way. I keep my mouth soft and urgent, kissing and sucking her lips, not giving her the chance to voice her protestat
ions. My hands grab the edge of her oversized sweatshirt. I could slip it off her shoulders it’s so fucking big, but I pull it and another sweater over her head. I tug at her ugly misshaped grey sweatpants only to find another pair of jeans underneath.
“Jesus Christ, woman, why are you wearing so many layers?” I see her hesitate, and her eyes flash with a reservation I am far too gone to want to explore–another time maybe but not right now. “You know what? None of my business.” She smiles and her shoulders sink about an inch with her relaxing breath. She eagerly helps with the buttons on her shirt and jeans, and once the T-shirt is gone, we are down to gold. Bra and panties, and flawless, silken skin. I step back and drag my eyes up her mostly naked body. She starts to cross her arms, but stops at the slow shake of my head.
“I don’t think–” She starts to voice her concern, but I growl my interruption.
“Hmm…and I think that is a great idea. Don’t think.” I hold still and I can hear her heart thumping; the rhythm is hypnotic. I place my large hand on the centre of her chest, just above her soft swelling breasts, and I take a moment to enjoy the racing beat. I push my body flush against hers, and drop to my knees in reverence at the offering before me. I keep my hand in place and she watches me with trepidation in her eyes. That’s why I know this is an offering. She is so unsure but so driven by her desire, she is utterly helpless to resist what is about to happen. It feels like she is sacrificing something deep inside; her face is etched with a world of turmoil. I should stop…this girl screams complication with her secrets.
Despite her struggle, unlike before, she is right with me–every breath, every beat–and right now I’ll take her sacrifice if it means I get to be inside her. I need to be inside her. I drag my hand down the centre of her body, and I can feel her shaking, her deep blue eyes wide with tempered lust. Fuck that, I want her wild with lust…I want that passion–that fire. I want us to burn in it.
Her skin is impossibly soft, and a deep guttural groan rises from the pit of my stomach when I peel her panties down her legs to reveal that she is bare and glistening with her own arousal. She has an intricate tattoo just above her pubic bone; not permanent, some sort of henna. It’s pretty, delicate, erotic–just like her. She tenses and whimpers, her hands pulling the strands of my hair so tight I would think she doesn’t want me to lick her into next week. “You want me to stop?” I blow a little puff of air on an exhale, and she practically jumps back up the wall.
“Oh, God, no! Please don’t do that.” Her little panting pleas are all the encouragement I need– almost all.
“You’re gonna need to loosen the vice grip on my hair then, baby.” My wide smile is met with an embarrassed flush to her smiling cheeks.
“Oh, sorry, it’s just been a while.” She bites her lips tight and frowns, unhappy with the disclosure. Well, that sort of information is private, I guess. I am pretty much a stranger; one who is just about to–
“Holy Fucking God!” She squeals when I drag my tongue and swirl it from her very centre to her very swollen tip. Hmmm, I hum and breathe in her scent–ocean and sunrise, sweet and musky, and not enough. Her legs start to shake violently and I have to hold her tighter than I normally would–unless it was intentional. I fight to keep her upright, she is wound taught with sexual tension. One of her hands is braced against the wall, the other has found its way back into my hair and is progressing nicely at scalping me. I growl into her folds and she freezes, her grip relaxes and I resume, because this is the best fucking breakfast.
“Ethan…Ethan…I…I.” She pants and squirms against my mouth. I take one hand and thread my fingers through hers against the wall. Holding her tight, we’re both white knuckled with the grip. I slide my other hand between her legs and push my two longest fingers inside her delicious wetness. Shit, she is so fucking responsive, I can’t wait to sink inside her. My balls ache at the glacial pace I’m setting, but I’m in no hurry–I have all day. I curl my finger deep inside and apply just that little bit of pressure. At that moment, I am glad my neighbour is hard of hearing. Ada’s voice tears from her just as her climax rips her apart. She clenches and quakes in my hand, and it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I have seen. She sinks down the wall and slides into my waiting lap–soft, sated and pliant. She sighs and tightens her arms around my neck.
Long moments pass and I don’t know what I’m waiting for, because my balls hurt enough that I should have her nailed to the floor right now. But this just feels too perfect, I can wait. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure, and I get this strange, warm surge of hubris in my chest. Her fingers trace my lips, which curl into an unstoppable smile at her gentle, reverent touch. I lean down and she reaches up to cover my lips with soft sensual kisses. But her kiss is a little more firm with its finality, rather than teasing and seductive. “I have to go.” She jumps from my lap so quick, I topple back, sufficiently stunned with the erotic U-turn.
“I have to go.” She speaks slowly, like she would to a child, and by the look on my face the confusion means she repeats with a qualifying statement. “I have work to do.” The speed at which she is dressed, should be in some record book. I am still shell shocked in my shorts with an equally record breaking hard on.
“That’s it? That’s all I get?” I hate that I sound as hurt as I am, but she just blindsided my A-game.
“Oh, and….um…thank you.” Her smile is incredible and if I wasn’t so fucking mad, I would say she was adorable, edible, all over again.
“Consider it my donation to charity.” Okay that was low, and I physically cringe when I see her reel from shock. I add quickly because her eyes would cause bodily harm if they could. “Stand down. I meant my apartment.” I sweep my arm around at the area of concern. She is hardly playing nice herself, but she didn’t deserve that.
“Oh, don’t fucking worry,” she counters. “I’ll be back to clean your apartment before the party. But then we’re even.” She storms to the door, pulling the last of her many layers roughly over her head. She is swamped by that thing and has a look of vulnerability that doesn’t sit right. Fortunately, due to the way she just blue balled me I don’t give a shit how vulnerable she looks.
“Ada, I don’t think you understand. We are so far from being even.” My voice drops and her eyes widen. Oh, good, she does understand.
“SHIT! SHIT! SHIIIIIIIIIT!” I scream into my scrunched up sweater, muffling the sound to an early morning appropriate volume. I throw my head back and look to the heavens. What were you thinking, Ada? Jesus what was that? I mean, I know it’s been a while–I’m not talking about the two or three encounters I rushed into right after my escape from the facility. They were a knee jerk reaction to a desperate need to feel normal, because fucking strangers is normal, right? Those don’t count because first, they didn’t count, and I ended up feeling less connected, a little sad, and a little less like me. Second, I quickly decided a good hug from Buddy gave me all the intimacy I craved and failed to get from fucking a random guy. No, I am talking about my time with Cal…someone I had had the deepest connection with…someone I loved. Cal was good–no that’s unfair, Cal was amazing –but even with him I never came like that…ever! My hand hovers on the rear entrance door of the apartment building and I look up the stairwell. Ethan’s hooded eyes shine with a deep desire that zeros in with military precision…right where his tongue just left me gasping for more.
His heavenly, talented lips curl with a knowing grin. He puts his fingers against his mouth, and I think he is going to blow me a kiss, but he slips his two middle fingers inside and slowly draws them back out, sucking them clean. Holy fuck! I want to run back up the stairs and start all over again. My breath hitches and I have an internal debate about my work commitments and whether I really need to eat today or not, when he helps me make the right decision.
“Don’t forget your rubber gloves, Ada. I’m just about to make a real mess in the shower!” He calls out, and I can hear his belly laugh even as he slams the door shut.
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nbsp; “Shit! What a fucking, arsehole!” I am shaking with pent up rage and frustration…mostly frustration…sexual frustration…damn it!
“Wow, Ada!” I cringe at the familiar but reprimanding tone of Ethan’s sweet hippy neighbour, Burt. “You are an angel, and angels don’t use language like a sailor on leave.” He holds his elbow for me to help him down the last few steps on to the narrow back street. He is not so old, maybe late sixties, but has bad knees and crippling arthritis in his hands, which is why he keeps painting. That is how I knew him before I knew he was Ethan’s neighbour. “Off to Sheila’s I take it?” I smile and nod. I’m a creature of habit and Burt is familiar with my morning routine at least. “Well, let me escort you on this most interesting morning.” His cheeky wink is replaced with a look of misplaced innocence.
“Nothing interesting about this morning, Burt. I have some cleaning to do at Ethan’s place, and I had to sort out when I could fit it in.” We start to walk slowly along the back road that lies between the harbour and the beach toward Sheila’s art studio.
“Oh, that is a shame.”
“Really? Why would that be a shame? Because you think Ethan is such a great guy, or because you would like some dirty details of my non-existent sex life?” Non-existent until about ten world-shaking minutes ago, that is. “You know your sister thinks you’re a dirty old man as it is. Don’t give her any more ammunition.”
“What? I’m shocked. My sister, Sheila, the eminent artist, being mean to her brother, surely not? I may not have her talent but I can still paint, and it keeps my arthritis at bay.” What started out as humorous outrage, softens with silent sadness. “You don’t think I’m a dirty old man do you, Ada?”
I laugh kindly and squeeze his arm. “Burt, I’ve modelled naked for you and Sheila for eight months now, and while your sister has produced something like eight full-sized paintings, you have yet to sketch a single nipple. The plants you arrange around me, however, are exquisite. I should be insulted the plants get all the attention, but no, I don’t think you’re a dirty old man.”
