by Amber Burns
I park the car by the curb, noticing the girth of the house and the total property when I exit to escort Vanna to the front door. Holy – Wes wasn’t exaggerating about this Mrs. Kingston’s fat purse. How much were they making with this lady as a client?
Vanna doesn’t catch my curious stare. She’s a woman on a mission, her lower lip stiff with determination, sneakers blazing a trail to the gated entrance of the Kingston residence.
I make it as far as the gate when she stops me.
Turning from the intercom, she unlatches the gate door at the buzz to enter. “Thank you for driving me.” She makes it sound like it was a chore.
“It was my pleasure.” Again, cheesy but I like the small smile she gives me. I keep it with me as I turn, waiting for her to move along before I watch her disappear through the dark red front door under the large pillared porch of the three-bedroom mega house.
I scrub a hand over my beard-in-progress. I’m going to wait for her, that much is settled, it’s what to do in the meantime that’s up in the air. The hours go by slowly. I listen to music, take a walk around the block, do push ups on the sidewalk and count for two minutes – that earns a visit from one of the curious neighbors. I talk him out of calling the police or by-law to tow Wes’ car.
Listen to some music some more, take a nap and end up drooling over Wes’ driver’s seat; somehow the time flies without me feeling too much of it.
It’s nearing five when my stomach grumbles and reminds me coffee isn’t a good substitute for lunch and now dinner.
I don’t want to leave, but I can’t ignore the hunger any longer. I call for pizza, and when the operator asks for an address, I get out of the Bug and read the street.
“House number?” I squint to spy the gold numbers on the door of the house closest to me. Repeating the number, I hang up and wait for my oven-fresh pepperoni.
I keep a lookout for both Vanna and a pimply teen carrying the duffel with my pizza.
Within the twenty-minute delivery promise, the car with the restaurant logo comes down the two-way street, parking a little ways on the opposite direction of where I stand and wait by the driver’s door.
Not a freckled face teen at all.
“Over here.” I raise a hand, calling down the bearded middle-aged pizza guy. I get his money ready.
“Mr. Amos Fuller?”
“That’d be me. Do you need to see ID?” I only ask as his confusion’s all over his face. I hold out two bills of twenty and ten, well past the amount for the medium. “Keep the change.”
He asks twice. When he’s sure I’m sure about the money, he’s forgotten all about his curiosity.
Money wins out and he’s gone, running across the street, probably wondering at his luck for driving this route.
I polish through half the pizza before I come up for air. It’s six and no sign of Vanna.
Tossing the pizza box in the back and wiping my mouth, I consider checking in on her, and then remember how cautious she is of me already.
It starts to rain not too long after. Again, I think about going after Vanna. She’ll get soaked out there the second she steps out from that pretty house. Searching Wes’ car I come up with no umbrella and settle back in, keeping a watch for her.
When that positions starts to irk me, I sink back into the seat and close my eyes. It feels like a second later when a knock has me upright, looking at Vanna. So much for keeping watch on her…
She rounds the front of the car and I have the passenger side unlatched by then. It’s the least I can do. I also crank up the heat. She’ll need it.
“Sorry,” she begins, and seating her soaked self in from the pouring rain, she drags out a sigh. I thought I was tired, but something’s – or someone’s – put her through the ringer. She sinks back into the seat, another sigh following; only this time it’s content. “I should have said something about being late.”
“Your apology is unwelcome.” I realize that sounds harsh. A little softer, I say, “I wanted to help, and that’s on me, not you.”
She shifts her head to face me, a smile touching her weary expression. “You didn’t wait for me long?”
“I just got here.” My lie is worth it. Her eyes flutter close on that smile and just as I think she’s gone and fallen asleep on me, she says, “Thank you, Amos.”
I really like it when she says my name.
Say it again.
“What?” Her eyes fly open.
Crap. I must have spoken aloud.
Slamming my head against the steering wheel is out of the option; I don’t need to scare her more.
I should probably cover my smart mouth. Instead I’m doing the exact opposite.
“I wanted – want you to say my name again.”
She sits up.
“Come on, it’s pretty obvious I want you, Vanna.”
And if she’ll let me, I’ll prove how much. I don’t say this. I’ve crossed the line waiting for her.
“Vanna,” I sigh her name. It’s enough to shake her to respond.
“I know.”
I’m sitting up now, all ears, palms gripping my knees around the wheel. I bite my tongue, holding it together because I hear that ‘but’.
“I’m not really sure what you expect of me though.” She’s staring out the fogging window. I’m losing her. I feel her slipping out of my fingers, closing the conversation and the door to giving us a chance.
“We can take things slow.” As long as she’s my girl, I’ll settle with revving it down several notches until she’s comfortable with us being a unit, a couple.
“Slow?”
“Slow,” I stress. “No rushing anything. No demands.” And because I don’t want her to go into this entirely blindsided, I tag on, “I have to be honest though. I’m not looking for a quick piece either. This would be exclusive: Just you and me, me and you.”
I get the sense nothing short of marrying her and tying her to my side for the rest of our lives would satisfy me anyways. Right now I’m more concerned with trying to convince Vanna to let me in and prove myself.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I’m practically leaning over the space between our seats and sitting in her lap.
She nods, and I imagine she’s blushing again, her voice holds her misplaced embarrassment. I want to hear her say it.
“So that’s an ‘okay, you’re mine’?”
Vanna catches herself mid-nod. “Y-Yes, you’re m-mine. And, um, I’m y-yours.”
Hell if it isn’t music to my ears and other lower parts once it clicks – and it clicks very quickly, that Vanna agreed to be mine. All mine.
“Come here.”
I hear the huskiness in my command. It’s got her drawing those shoulders to her ears, tensing up with probably a million and one thoughts racing her mind. My girl thinks too much, and that’s the first thing I’ll nip in the bud.
Now’s a good a time as any for a lesson; I pat my leg.
“I said ‘come here’.”
“There.” She squeaks when I nod, my lips thinning the longer she makes me wait. “People will see us.” Vanna’s stammering is tearing me in two. I want to grab her hips and drop her in my lap, catch her face and bring her lips home for a bruiser of a kiss.
Fuck the people, I want to say. Fuck propriety and fuck me, woman.
I didn’t take note of it, but she’s soaked – like really soaked. Her coat is open parted halfway revealing her creamy throat. I follow the water droplets down, down her front to her rack.
Aided by the dying sunlight reflecting off the light grey dashboard, I see her blouse and under-tank are melded together over her like a second skin.
Her nipples, little nubs jutting through the soft material, are staring me in the face, temptation only an arm’s reach away.
I feel the pre-cum soaking the tip of my cock, smearing wetness over my upper thigh. I hold off reaching up and re-adjusting myself. I have Vanna’s attention and I plan to keep it.
Switching t
actics, I ask, “Do you want me to climb over?”
Probably more to shut me up, she answers me by moving, drawing one leg over the cup holder, flinching when my hand grabs her under her knee and settles her to the side of my leg closer to the driver’s door. The movement is enough for Vanna to lose her balance and drop on me all at once.
“Sorry.” It’s the first word that flies out of her mouth, fingers clinging to my shoulders during the drop; they curl over my jacket as she leans to peer into my eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Peachy.” I mean it, too. Just as her hands went to my shoulders, mine find her ass a natural place to grip. She jerks against me, breath hitching, and I feel the teasing kiss of her soft chest over mine.
She’s going to get me soaked, but I push in to mold her soft breasts to my chest, the contrast drying my mouth and forcing me to shift or fear cutting off my erection’s circulation.
I grope around the bottom of the chair. The seat jerks back with the both of us, Vanna’s chest bumping my chin.
“Oops. Wasn’t expecting that,” I say to her wide-eyed expression. I surprised her and I expected and feared this reaction.
Like a startled animal, the surprise ushers in doubt and in turn a sense of disorientation that has her trying to sit up over me, bridge a gap between our kissing bodies.
She’s waking up to what we’re doing. And I can’t let that happen.
I might only know her for a little over twenty-four hours, but Vanna is a frightful creature; she clearly takes her abilities for granted, one look suggests she doesn’t appreciate herself as much as she should, and it’s highly likely taking without asking isn’t something she’s used to.
Too bad.
She’s going to learn to take more with me instead of giving until she’s this husk of a possibly vibrant human.
“Relax, just settling us in,” I smooth the wet strands clinging to her forehead, the ones that weren’t saved by her jacket’s hood. I cup her smooth cheeks. “You have no clue what you do to me.”
“Amos,” she’s calling for me, revealing her depth of breathlessness.
A silly smile lifts my cheeks. “Hey. I got you to say my name again.”
She’s close for me to want that kiss. It takes all my willpower to stop from breaching the distance and connecting our mouths in what I know will be a firework of a next level to this foreplay.
I drop my hands from her face, finding a better place to grip: Her ass.
She arches at the touch, pushing her pebbly nipples into my chest. Our eyes lock.
In the darkening evening, I see she’s angling with the same thought. Vanna’s staring at my mouth, dividing her attention from my eyes to my lips, and that division of attention is losing its traction quick, my lips winning out.
I could order her to take the plunge, but where’s the fun in that?
This is going to end my way whether I do it for us or she finds the courage to take what she so clearly desires.
Her mouth hovers with her indecisiveness, her apprehension clouding her expression, holding her back from closing the space filled by her sweet breath.
It takes just about everything, but I’m keeping still. I got us this far, I can’t do it alone now. She’s got to put us both out of our misery, one way or another.
Marines training hardened me. You don’t go through boot camp with hats screaming over you, spittle from your superiors coating your face, and eight years AD and walk away without a life lesson.
My hands are stiff over her butt cheeks, my stare unwavering in its hold of hers; I’m a plank board until she gives me a signal: Whatever choice she makes, we end this foreplay nonsense now.
The first touch is like waking up to the world after a fitful slumber.
I’m slowly letting the kiss set my senses to green-light go, go, go. My eyes hovering close on their accord… And then it’s over. I release a hungry groan, my equivalent of a protest, in the breaking of our mouths. I’m eager to feel more so soon and I don’t give her a choice.
The second kiss is at my initiation.
It demands submission, takes total control of the situation, and leaves Vanna panting on the break I give her.
Mine, mine, mine.
My mind is chanting the mantra. The rational part of me knows she needs to fill her lungs, so with just enough sanity I angle my lips to connect over the pulse in her throat.
Her hands stroke my shaved head.
She whines, her breath growing shallower with each touch of my mouth. I kiss a trail to her clavicle, sucking the flesh over the bone, chuckling when she moans, “Amos… Please.”
“Please what?” I talk around the sucking, my tongue joining in the cruel foreplay.
I want her begging; need her under me crying for release. I’m worried that won’t be enough, but it’s a start.
She has to say it though.
“Vanna,” I groan her name, hands spreading her cheeks, mouth tilting up from her throat, claiming her mouth.
She’s pliant. Sweet, squishy putty in my hands – mine to mold and shape for the night. Come day, she might succumb to her habitual timidity.
I unsnap our lips with a wet smack. She’s a study of beauty. Arched from me, small breasts heaving, I lift my hands from her ass to rest below her pits, thumbs testing what I knew to be true: Her nipples are taut, almost as steely as my dick.
“Amos!” She says my name on a breath, her nipples slipping from the reach of thumbs. Vanna throws her head back, our unified breathing fogs the wet car windows. We’re safe from the rain in here. Safe and cozy, wrapped up in our late-evening activity, yet it has me wondering how long it’ll last.
I’m kissing her again to forget. I don’t want to think about anything other than slipping into her wet core.
She has to be wet by now.
Glistening pre-cum coating her lips, her nub swollen and begging for direct contact; the kind of contact my tongue could fix in a second.
Oh, yeah.
Fingers locking together at the back of my head, she deepens the kiss, surprising me by pressing her tongue to my entrance.
By all means.
Surprise gives way to humor. She’s an amateur, but a quick and eager learner and that couldn’t be any sexier.
She’s rubbing against my length, too. Faster and faster, wriggling closer and squeezing her thighs around my waist. I know she’s close when her breath takes a shallow dip, her panting in closer intervals and her legs grow taut in their embrace of me.
Vanna comes strong from the dry-humping, stronger than I thought anyone could dry-humping or not. I massage her back through the waves quivering her limbs, kissing her arched breasts through her blouse, lips and teeth trapping one nipple and then the other.
She’s moaning my name somewhere above me, her hands stroking my head, breathing filling the space of the car.
I’m still hard and wanting. Seeing her tits lifting with each pull of air, her gaining on her erratic breathing, and her shadowy smile ties close with a release from my blue-balls spell. That has to be love, or the beginnings of it. I’ve so crossed the lust stage that’s clear.
“Amos,” she’s saying, fingers stilling over my head. She’s pushing me out of the valley of her boobs and my protest dies in her mouth. Her kiss is a sloppy, tongue-filled, and hot affair. Saliva, hers and mine, coats my lips on her parting. I probably looked like a mess, hopefully not enough to turn her off. Holding me back from plunging in for a second bout, Vanna whispers, “Are we dating?”
I chuckle because it’s such a Vanna thing to say given the moment.
“Yeah. We’re fucking dating.”
My cursing earns me a delightful gasp. I laugh harder, my chest rising with the strain, and I can’t help teasing her a bit more.
“And we’re fucking in your brother’s car.”
She tries and fails to scramble back to her seat. “Oh, no, you don’t.” I steal a quick kiss, and when that’s not enough I rain a succession of searing, fast lip-locks betwe
en each word. “Besides. That. Wasn’t. Fucking.”
Vanna is back to moaning, leaning in for more attention, forgetting all about ‘fucking’ anywhere and the outside world, period.
If I could have it my way, I’d whisk her to some fancy hotel with some thousand-count thread sheets and slip into her slopping cunt, ramming through afterglow after afterglow for the both of us.
Reality: I settle for the teenage make-out session.
It’s still more Vanna than I could have dreamed up while jacking off under my bedsheets.
