by KC Decker
“Are you sure you’re ready for this conversation? Because I have all sorts of filthy images and impure thoughts in my head.”
“Were you thinking about how it felt to have your fingers in my panties?” I ask. Now, my lips are less of a graze, and more of a kiss—same spot. His mouth drifts down to my ear, and when he talks, his words rumble in my chest.
“No. Last night I was thinking about fucking your mouth, eating your pussy and fingering your ass, all at the same time.” He raises his eyebrows unapologetically, while I furrow my brow and try to work that out in my head.
“Don’t think too hard about that one, I’m not talking circus freak stuff—just your standard sixty-nine. Oh, and you were amazing, by the way,” he leans in closer, and I see that he is pinching his mouth shut, so he doesn’t laugh outright.
“Those are your filthy and impure thoughts?” I ask, “Just your standard, sixty-nine?” All I’m doing now is trying to keep up with him. His dirty talk always makes me squirm—which, is no doubt why he employs such tactics. But after last night, there are quite a bit of filthy thoughts swirling around in my own head.
No one is paying an ounce of attention to us tucked away in the corner of the pool like this, but it still doesn’t feel wholly appropriate to be discussing his impure thoughts out in the open like this.
Now he does laugh outright, “No, Alabama. Not even close.” He stops me from asking just how dirty his thoughts get, with his mouth on mine.
By the time he pulls back from our kiss, all the ice has melted in our drinks, so they taste like watered down Kool-Aid. Doesn’t matter though because the last thing I’m thinking about is hydration.
“Wrap your legs around my waist,” Gavin commands, and when I do, he steps into me and starts kissing my neck. There are no kids out here, but still, this is highly inappropriate in a hotel pool. Not to mention, it may look like we are fucking.
“Let’s get out of the water,” I suggest, at the same time melting against his talented mouth. His arms are looped around my lower back, holding me in place, and I all of a sudden don’t give a shit how it looks.
“Good idea, come on,” he says as he lowers me down and takes my hand to lead me to the steps, and out of the pool.
I’m not entirely sure the cabana is much better. We have the one furthest from the pool and bar but are still very much a part of the music and festivities.
“Much better,” he says as he flops down on the wide chaise lounge. “If my dick got any harder, I would have been stuck in the pool for a while.” He taps the spot next to him and says, “Come rub your body up against my tattoos.”
I laugh because he hadn’t said much when I told him I wanted to do that with my naked body, but evidently, it registered for him. I crawl toward him, wishing we were back in the room instead of at the rooftop pool. “It won’t have the same effect if I’m wearing a swimsuit,” I counter, as I lie down next to him.
“Ok, then, come tell me what you were like as a kid.”
***
We talk for a long time about everything and nothing at all, and it has never been clearer how right my friends were. He has more passion for life in his left nut than the last five guys I’ve dated combined. He is ambitious, but not the kind that steps on people’s necks to get ahead—those are the ones I usually pick for myself.
We are lying down on our sides facing each other. Both of our heads are resting on our bent arm where it separates our faces from the pool towels beneath us. He is telling me about the childhood art teacher that recognized his artistic talent and bought him his first figure drawing book—when he moves his free hand from my waist and starts thumbing my nipple through the damp bathing suit.
His touch has an immediate role in vacating my brain of our previous conversation. The focused attention on my nipple sits heavy as a brick between my legs, and my lips have parted, but I find I have nothing to say.
“Tell me about your friends,” he prompts, as if he has nothing to do with the erotic vibration humming through all my bodily functions.
“What?” I breathe, as he slips the triangle of fabric off my breast with one skilled swipe of his thumb. He closes some of the gap between us, and his lips make contact with mine at the same time he firmly tugs on my nipple.
“Your friends,” he says against my gasp. “They chose me for you…why?” he asks in the flicker of time our lips are parted. He’s already working the swimsuit top off my other breast, as if we were not in an open-walled cabana with twenty other people nearby.
When he moves his face back from mine and rests it again on his bicep so I can answer the question, I try to tighten up some of the space that separates us, so I don’t feel so exposed. My bikini top now does nothing but frame my half-naked display. In truth, no one can see my chest, but I’m very aware of the buzz of people around us, so I feel every bit of my unveiling.
He places his palm against my sternum to stop me from inching forward. “Let me look at you,” he says with a husky, scratch to his voice.
“But everybody—”
“No one else can see you.” His free hand fondles its way over and then cups my breast.
“Let me see your body,” he repeats the sentiment, then his gaze strays from my eyes. Between the heat of his stare and his decisive fingers, he has my nipples standing at full attention, and my brain too foggy to answer his question about my friends.
“Your friends,” he prompts.
“Uhhhh. Ok. You met Miles and Ivy, and then there is Arden. She is pretty consumed by her boyfriend, so we only see her for happy hour here and there.”
“Do you know what I find curious about your friends?” he asks. He is back to looking me in the eyes while we talk, but his fingers are hardly idle.
“What?” I ask, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my friends, so I’d like to see where he goes with this.
“We just spent an hour talking about your parents and how judgmental and intolerant they are of everyone.”
“And?” I ask, not really sure what my narrow-minded parents have to do with anything. Before, I had been trying to explain some of my snap decision about his unsuitability because of his tattoos and piercings.
“Do you really not see where I’m going with this?” he asks with humor in his tone.
“My parents are assholes. My friends are the best things that ever happened to me,” I say emphatically. My mom and dad don’t even belong in the same sentence as my friends. Where is he going with this?
The smile that splits his face is contagious, as he brings his hand over my waist, so he can pull me closer and drag his fingers back and forth across a bare spot on my back.
“Your parents are intolerant bigots, and one of your best friends is gay, and one of them is black.”
“I’ve only seen my parents a couple times a year, for the last eight years. I couldn’t give two shits what they think about Miles and Ivy, and I’m most certainly not friends with them to prove something to my ignorant parents.” I’ve got to be honest, I’m pretty fired up right now about what he is insinuating. “I don’t care what they look like or how they identify, I’m friends with those two because they are fucking awesome.”
“Hey,” he kisses my lips, then says, “I agree with you. I’m not saying that’s why you are friends with them.” Another kiss, “I’m pointing out how amazing it is that you are nothing like your parents.” He must realize the tide has shifted because he adjusts my top back to where it belongs.
“Oh.”
“And that gives me some perspective because I spent a fair amount of time being angry at that part of you. Keep in mind, I had spent all this time getting to know you online and thinking you were a certain way, and when we met, you were nothing like I thought. I was angry and disappointed. Actually, I was angry because I was disappointed. I have all sorts of drawings that speak to those feelings.”
“Ok, first of all, my friends know me better than I know myself—just because it was them online instead
of me, that doesn’t mean you were getting bad information. Second of all, if you ever want to see what white-hot rage looks like, tell me I’m just like my parents. I made a snap judgment about you, and then I verbalized it. That doesn’t make me narrow-minded or intolerant of people’s differences or anything like my parents. It makes me human, people do it every day, you do it too. Now, obviously, we need to talk about these drawings you just referenced.”
“Wait a sec. I’ll get to the drawings, but first I need to clarify something. I don’t make snap judgments about people.”
“Liar,” I crack a smile, “You judge people who get sorority letter tattoos and tramp stamps. You said people who go overboard with body modifications are insecure. You said that woman with the crazy fingernails had daddy issues because her boyfriend was so much older than her. You said Sam the bartender was a rapist. And tell me, why didn’t you sleep with that fuel girl who was humping your leg? Was she too slutty for you? Hmmm? Not your type?”
“No. I didn’t sleep with her because I had my mind on someone else.” He pulls me against him and nuzzles my ear, “Plus, Sam probably is a rapist.” His muffled voice in my ear canal incites a riot of goosebumps down the left side of my body.
“That’s my point. There are two types of people in the world, those who judge people without knowing them…and liars.” He coughs out a laugh, but he knows I’m right. “Now that we’ve established that you are no different than me, let’s talk about those angry drawings.”
He rolls away so that he’s lying on his back, and lets out a big sigh while I make sure he did a decent job of fixing my top. “What do you want me to say? Art is my outlet.”
“Go on.”
“They are not all bad, some of them are really hot.” He is looking very self-conscious, and I know he is not used to defending his craft.
“When you say, bad, do you mean like really bad? Like I’m dead or beat-up or something?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just like, angry fucking—not like, hurting you or against your will or anything, just…rougher than I would normally be, and more disrespectful than I would ever be. Jesus, I sound like a psychopath.”
“Rough, how?”
“Choking, hair pulling, gagging you with my cock—”
“Disrespectful, how?”
“Just, like…tit fucking you and coming all over your face—Please keep in mind that before this conversation, you wanted to know my filthy thoughts. I mean…the drawings are dirty, and they involve a lot of cum dripping off your tits and ass, but they’re not deranged or anything. They aren’t of you tied up or helpless in any way—Scratch that, there are a couple of you tied up, but those are some of the sexy drawings, not the angry ones.”
“Alright, let’s talk about the sexy ones then,” I say. For some reason, I’m not bothered by the angry drawings, especially because he is so candid about them. I get that drawing is his outlet. And I would be remiss in leaving out the fact that I’ve had guys do some of that stuff to me, and think nothing of it. At least Gavin recognizes when it’s disrespectful, or not the fun type of rough.
“I told you, they’re hot. I’ve got a healthy imagination, and I’m pretty good at drawing.” He flashes a sexy wink at me that works like a magnet because I lean over him and plant a kiss that was meant to be brief but turns into something else entirely.
“I’d rather show you than tell you about them,” he mumbles into our kiss. I pull back, a little surprised that he would show them to me. I figure it would be like letting someone read your journal—private and intensely personal.
“You would show me those drawings?” I ask, wide-eyed, but completely touched. He gives me that slow head shake and primal grin he has perfected, and I realize that’s not at all what he meant about showing me. Now my heart is beating faster, and I’m all done at the pool.
Chapter 22
When we get back to the room, the first thing I want to do is take a shower and wash off all the sweat and sunscreen. The first thing he wants to do is fill two glasses with ice water and pound them both. Then, he refills one and hands it to me, which is sweet.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” I say because it’s about to get sexy in here and I don’t want to be all sweaty and gross when it goes down.
“I have a better idea,” he says, so I stop and turn around. “How about you take a bath instead…and I’ll get my sketchbook?”
“Hotel bathtubs aren’t all that sexy, Gavin…or clean.”
“It will be perfect, we’ll throw some bubbles in there…get you all clean,” the words break off with his mischievous smile, and I can tell he is not at all worried about the state of the tub’s cleanliness. Looks like I’m taking a bath.
While the tub fills and Gavin get his stuff together for our flight home tonight, I wind my hair up into something wild and unruly on top of my head. Then, naturally, I touch up my makeup and apply lip gloss—because that’s what everyone does before a bath.
I’m still standing in the bathroom in my bikini, with a toothbrush in my mouth when Gavin rounds the corner and places his sketchbook and a pencil on the bathroom counter. He stands behind me and puts both hands on my hips. Then, while watching me through the tops of his eyes in the mirror, he begins kissing my neck.
All of a sudden, I’m less concerned with the bright light and lack of scented candles for my bath. When I bend forward to spit toothpaste into the sink, he backs up a fraction. I think, to keep a respectful distance between my ass and his dick.
When I’m finished brushing my teeth and straighten up, he lightly brushes the hair at the base of my neck aside and then follows up with a kiss that tickles so much, my nipples harden into something ferocious. The fact that he is watching us in our reflection makes the whole thing even hotter.
When the top tie of my bikini unfastens and the whole thing flops forward, I’m impressed by how stealthily he accomplished such a feat. But even that feeling is eclipsed by the one I get when his hands come up to cup and play with my breasts.
“Jesus,” he breathes into the side of my neck before resting his forehead on my shoulder. I take it, he’s a boob-man. He moves his mouth to my ear and murmurs, “Maybe you should skip the bath,” while he rolls my nipples roughly between his fingers and thumbs.
“Maybe you could join me,” I suggest as my head rolls back. All my attention is on his tugging fingers, I can’t even focus on supporting my own head right now.
“Get in,” he commands.
While I pour the hotel body wash into the stream of surging water flowing from the faucet, Gavin scoots back on the counter and then leans against the wall, paper and pencil at the ready.
“I need to get something down on paper, this is too fucking sexy not to capture. I know it seems weird, but I draw from my imagination, or I copy a photo someone gives me, I never have a real live model as a reference.” He glances away shyly, then looks back at me and says, “You are going to have to embrace the artist in me—even when it seems weird.”
I smile at him as I pull the strap at my right hip, untying that side. “I don’t think it’s weird at all.” His eyes immediately drop to my mid-section, so I untie the left side and let the bottoms drop. Now, I am completely naked, and lit up like a soloist on center stage with this horrible lighting. I’d say I am intensely uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, but he is completely enraptured, so I stand here a few seconds longer instead of diving under the bubbles to hide my imperfect nakedness.
I turn off the faucet and step in. Now, I’m going to be honest here, and admit that my first thought is not about the dead-sexy man watching me right now, it’s that I hope I don’t get a UTI from the one-two punch of the bubbles and the lingering bacteria in the dirty tub. That thought is quickly blurred as I lie back because the water is so hot it prickles my skin and feels almost cold.
“Is it too hot or too cold?” he asks in recognition of the pained look on my face.
“Too hot,” I exclaim as I quickly sit forwa
rd. Gavin, problem solver that he is, goes and gets the ice bucket.
“Some, or all of it?” he asks, then says, “Never mind,” as he dumps the whole thing in. The coolness hits my stomach all at once, then spreads like smoky tendrils down my limbs. It’s an instant relief, and I feel better right away, so I’m able to lie back again.
He assumes his position on the counter, and for a bit, he just stares at me. Then he tucks his head and begins sketching. I’d say he applies himself for about three and a half minutes, looks up again—a few seconds past awkward, then down again for maybe two minutes. After that, he hops off the counter and drops his swim trunks.
The tub is small and narrow, so it takes some commitment on both of our parts to finally get situated. Not to mention, the image of his half-hard dick is burned on the backs of my eyelids and has significantly slowed my response time.
“Did you ever spider swing with anyone when you were a kid?” I ask, because minus the swing set and chains to hold on to, that’s precisely what we are doing. He laughs and pulls me forward, so my naked parts touch his naked parts. My gasp is hidden by his response.
“Yes, I did. I was much smaller than her though, so I was on top… You know, when that first came out of my mouth it sounded a little emasculating, but as I think it through, it’s not at all. It was with my babysitter,” he waggles his eyebrows at me and then places a soapy palm on my jaw to guide me closer to his snickering mouth.
The kiss is pretty innocent—more of a preliminary round before the crazy one hits, but the fact that my vagina is snug up against the bottom side of his cock, shadows his intent a bit. It brings the innocence of the kiss to the next level, which is borderline raunchy.
I am trying extra hard not to rub up against his stiff temptation, but it’s really hard because of the way he is holding and leisurely kissing me. It’s slow and passionate—reverent even.
He disengages his mouth but at the same time rests his forehead against mine, so the valley between us remains narrow. His hand is still cradling my cheek, and for a few beats, all he does is breathe. I get the impression he is trying to slow things down.
