Tell Me More

by Janet Mullany

  “You’re a very sensual woman,” Willis said.

  “Is that a euphemism for greedy?”

  “No. You enjoy things. You show it.” He reached to refill my champagne glass.

  “This is all perfect,” I said, indicating our picnic. “Other than your yearning to cut down trees and build ugly houses.”

  “Heck, they won’t be ugly. I’m working with a green architect.”

  “Green with pointy ears?” I lay back on the blanket, eyes closed, and chortled at my own joke, a little drunk on champagne and sunshine.

  “You’re a funny girl.”

  “Woman.”

  He shifted toward me. Oh, this was so damn easy. Too easy. Without opening my eyes I separated a segment of orange and stuck it in my mouth. His face hovered over mine as I chewed and swallowed—I could feel his breath on my lips—and he moved in and licked juice from my chin. I was impressed. An enthusiastically chomping woman would not be a particular turn-on, or so I’d think, but he managed to take the moment from slightly comic to erotic with one light touch of his tongue.

  His tongue touched my lips and he reached for the orange in my hand, loosening my fingers from the few segments that remained. He fed them to me before taking my hand and licking the juice from my palm.

  “Nice,” he murmured.

  I closed my hand around his chin, smooth from a recent shave. He smelled, very faintly, of lime, something subtle and expensive. I wouldn’t have expected this from the brash Willis I’d first met.

  “More orange? Champagne?”

  I opened my eyes. “You.”

  He looked surprised. Maybe he expected to have to seduce me, or maybe he didn’t expect me to be quite so direct. But he didn’t think too long, particularly when I sat up and stripped off the long-sleeved T-shirt I wore and began on the buttons of his shirt. His hands flew to my breasts; I wore a pink cotton bra with a little lace, what I considered suitable for a lunchtime seduction.

  He reached into the picnic basket. Yes, condoms for dessert. My bra was tossed carelessly aside as he nuzzled and kissed my breasts and I pulled his shirt from his jeans.

  He had enough muscle and hair that he didn’t look like a pretty boy, but I noticed a certain awareness, a flexing of his pectorals, as though he was posing for my admiration. I suppose the equivalent for a woman was to suck it in.

  “I like your chest,” I offered, feeling that all that time at the gym should be acknowledged. I stroked his biceps and glanced down. His erection pushed against his jeans.

  He dipped a hand beneath my skirt. I propped myself on my elbows to watch his mouth at my breasts, his hand working between my spread thighs and my skirt bunched up at the waist. I liked that he played around my underwear, sliding his fingers under the elastic, stroking the dampened fabric of the crotch with his thumb. He took his time and when he slid a finger inside me I clenched on him hard, my breath short.

  He raised his head from my breast. I wondered for a moment if I’d burn in the warm sun. “Am I going too fast for you, honey?”

  “No. It’s great.”

  I reached for the button of his Levi’s and slid his zipper down. White Jockeys, not my favorite (was there ever a more stupidly designed piece of underwear in the world?) but I didn’t intend to look at them for too long. I shoved his jeans and underwear down and his cock sprang into my hand.

  He lost his concentration, his hand slowing on my clit, and I bounced my hips at him. What the heck were we going to do about our cowboy boots? Mine, it appeared, were going to stay on. He paused from regarding his dick approvingly to unzip my skirt and pull it and my underwear down. He raised himself onto his knees to stroke the condom over his penis, gazing at himself with adoration, jeans and underwear lodged at his calves. I was excited but at the same time I was an observer, taking notes for later.

  He levered himself over me, and I saw we were about to embark on classic missionary style. And, yes, his boots were staying on, too.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he said, staring at my nakedness, my cowboy boots, my darkened nipples. “I want to fuck you so bad.”

  Willis was losing his cool a bit, I was pleased to see. His mouth was half-open, lips wet, eyes hot. His hand stroked his cock, up and down. I don’t think he knew he did it, but when I reached down and touched my clit his eyes widened.

  “Now,” I said.

  I loved the sight of his cock sliding into me, the juicy, rude sounds of our fucking, the warmth of the sun on my skin. The scent of the lime shaving product he used mingled with those of sweat and oranges and champagne. Beside my head his arms flexed as he pushed inside, withdrew, pushed again, and my hips rose to meet him. He murmured to me how good it felt, how wet and hot my pussy was, how he couldn’t last, but he’d lost me. I tried to recapture my own rhythm, but it was like watching someone run away from you, and while the experience was pleasant enough, I couldn’t catch up.

  Willis was way ahead of me now, lost in his own excitement, sweat breaking out on his forehead and chest before he dropped onto me, out of breath.

  “Wow,” he said. “That was great.”

  He rolled off me and reached for a paper napkin. Condom disposed of, he turned back to me. “You okay, honey?”

  The best answer, it seemed to me, was to take his hand and guide it to my clitoris.

  “You want more?” he asked with a grin. And then he continued, “Oh. I thought you’d…you know, you seemed real close.”

  “Close but not quite there.” I added, “It’s the way I work. You were great, but the first time, with someone new, it’s not always easy to figure out what they want. Don’t feel offended.” Just rub my clit, you idiot.

  “No, no, I’m not offended.” He shook his head with such vehemence that I didn’t believe him. “It’s just that generally gir—I mean women…come pretty easily with me.”

  “I will, too.”

  I pressed the great lover’s hand a little more insistently where only minutes before he had dabbled and played with such skill. He looked pleased at my praise but pulled up his pants and zipped up in a way that suggested today’s fun was over and his cock needed time to recover its hurt feelings.

  Then he gave me an orgasm with very little effort on his part, as I’d predicted, and a lot of heaving and gasping on mine. I couldn’t help thinking he saw it as the consolation prize for the girl who didn’t appreciate the finer points of the Willis Scott III penis.

  I rolled away from him and scrambled to my feet. “I need to pee.”

  He blinked at me and it occurred to me that maybe I should have said something in praise of his technique but my bladder was about to burst.

  After taking advantage of the privacy of some scrub oak nearby, I stepped back out into the open meadow. Sunlight drenched and warmed me, caressed me, and the long grass brushed against my boots with a soft shushing sound. A small breeze brushed my nipples erect. I stretched out my arms and circled, taking a few dance steps, feeling the old familiar stretch, my body drawing itself up and in, taut, strong.

  Willis watched, arms folded on his knees. I’d forgotten what it was like to have an audience, to see admiration and wonder. I tipped my face back to the sun, eyes closed, orange and yellow and red sparking behind my eyelids.

  “I’d like to make you look like that.” I heard the brush of grass against denim as Willis approached.

  “Like what?”

  “Ecstatic.” He bent to kiss my nipples. He slid his hands down my sides, over my hips, my butt, and then knelt to kiss my mound.

  I didn’t need to be told to open my legs. He held me, strong gym-toned arms around my knees, and his tongue parted and flicked, small nibbles and sucks and the occasional graze of his teeth. I gripped his shoulders hard, my legs shaking, and came with the colors of the sun flaring behind my closed eyes.

  “Nice?” he said, grinning up at me as I opened my eyes.

  “Ecstatic,” I said, trying to get my breathing under control.

  He stood and reache
d for my hand, drawing it to the front of his jeans. “I’ve never seen a woman so comfortable with being naked. With being watched.”

  “I was a dance major.”

  “Yeah. You’ve got great muscle tone.” He groaned a little as I squeezed his erection. He put his other hand on my hip, stroking, assessing.

  “What would you like me to do?”

  He blinked and looked at my mouth. “Uh…”

  I dropped to my knees and undid his jeans to reach his cock, and darted my tongue out to catch the drop of liquid that welled from the slit. He groaned again, and put his hands to my head, and I breathed him in and took him as deep as I could. His fingers dug into my shoulders, moved to grip my head, to guide me. This time it was he whose legs shook and who cried out, his hips jerking as he spilled warm and salty into my mouth.

  I released him and wiped a dribble of semen from my chin.

  “Wow,” he said. “It’s great in the open air.”

  “Like salami sandwiches,” I said as we strolled back to the blanket.

  “What?”

  “When you get up to a high altitude—higher than this, the top of a mountain, maybe—terrible food tastes great. Salami on white bread, for instance.”

  “You’re a funny girl. Woman.” He picked up and handed me the bottle of mineral water that he’d abandoned by the picnic gear. It was a polite gesture, I suspected, that I might want to rinse out, but I took a large swallow and suppressed a belch.

  “Was that better than a salami sandwich?” I asked.

  “Never even thought about a sandwich of any kind,” he said. “Not once.”

  A small breeze raised goose bumps on my arms. “Maybe I’d better put some clothes on.”

  He looked at me with appreciation as he fastened his jeans. “Don’t want you catching cold, but it’s a pity. I like looking at you. I think you like it, too.”

  I made a noncommittal noise as I dressed. There was a speculative quality to his voice and I wondered what he was going to suggest—a strip show at the next Realtors’ Association breakfast perhaps. Generally I found that once I’d admitted to my time as a dance student all sorts of odd things went through guys’ minds, the first being speculation as to whether I could put my feet behind my head (easily) or what I could do with a pole (nothing out of the ordinary).

  Willis, looking thoughtful, packed up the picnic basket. He tossed me another orange, which I caught with a minimum of fumbling and stowed into my purse for later, and then I finished off the champagne. Pretty soon I’d need a nap, relaxed by sunshine and good sex and good food.

  “So,” he said with a studied air of nonchalance as we walked back to the jeep, “I wondered if you’d like to do something on Saturday. Something special.”

  “He said what?” Mr. D. sounded, well, shocked.

  “Isn’t it more to the point what I said after?” I cued up my next CD. “I think you’re rather like me. You’ve had a lot of sex but it’s been fairly conventional. Vanilla. Nothing kinky. And one thing I’ve realized since meeting you is that there are all sorts of possibilities open to me, and maybe this is the time for a little exploration. I’m not saying I’ll never fall in love again, because that’s plain dumb. But I’m single and it’s a good time for me to experiment. Didn’t you tell me once this is one of the kinkiest things you’ve done? I’m sure you’ve done other stuff, too.”

  “Well, when I was younger…”

  “Yes? I think you owe me a story.”

  “We don’t know that the king told Scheherazade any stories.”

  “Afterward, I’m sure he did. He’d proved his point, and she would have demanded it. Three years of stories without even maternity leave? She would have wanted a story and a foot rub when she’d had a really tough day with the kids.”

  “I’ll tell you a story another time, I promise.” He paused. “And what did you say to his proposition?”

  “What do you think?”

  “So tell me all about it,” Kimberly said. “Did you make this coffee? It’s god-awful.”

  “He’s nicer than I thought.”

  “Details. Details.” She tapped me on the hand with a plastic spoon.

  “No foreskin. How are you managing with yours?”

  “It’s not mine, and I’m woman enough for it. Come into my office and give me the dirt.” She led the way, swaying on cowboy boots that were far sexier than mine, scarlet leather with black embroidery.

  “No, you give me the dirt.” I closed the office door and sat in my usual place. Her office was the only one in the station that had a decorative quality to its mess.

  “Patrick’s real sweet,” she said. “Never thought I’d go for sweet, but he’s just that. And the foreskin is actually sort of useful. Adds bulk. Never a bad thing, not that he needs bulk, but it’s a nice little bonus. He’s funny, too.”

  “I’ve always thought he’s depressed, but I don’t see much of him.”

  “You can be funny and depressed. A lot of people are. Did Willis take you somewhere nice yesterday?”

  “We had a picnic.”

  “A picnic?” She stared at me. “That doesn’t sound like him. Will you see him again?”

  I shrugged. “Possibly.”

  She gave me a long searching look. “What’s up with you, Jo?”

  I resisted the urge to squirm in my chair. “Nothing, other than taking your advice and trying to learn how to date.”

  “You’re different these days. Secretive. I don’t mean in dick details, but you seem distracted. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She frowned. “Maybe it’s too soon. You were with Hugh for a long time.”

  “No, it’s time.” I hastened to reassure her. “I know I was resistant to the idea at first but I think you were right.”

  She leaned forward and patted my hand. “I’m saying this because I’m your friend, honey. I think you’re keeping something from me and I don’t want you to be hurt. Anytime you want to talk, I’ll listen. Okay?”

  “Thanks. You’re a good friend.” I was touched by her concern but there was no way I would tell her about Mr. D. or what Willis and I would be doing this weekend.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s double-date. Patrick’s taking me to the Shamrock Club Saturday night—it’s some sort of Irish place with traditional music and Guinness. Why don’t you and Willis join us there?”

  “I’ll ask him, but we’re probably doing something in the evening and I’m not sure how long it will last.”

  “You have fun.”

  What an opportunity I was missing. I was badly in need of fashion advice. Kimberly, what should I wear to an orgy?

  7

  SO WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO AN ORGY? ALTHOUGH, Willis assured me, it wasn’t an orgy. Oh, no, no, no. Just sex among friends.

  His friends. Another couple. Great folks. I’d love them. One way or another.

  The cowboy boots had been quite a hit with Willis but they were awkward to get in and out of. Not that I’d necessarily take them off. I eventually settled on kitten heels and jeans— I looked good in them and I didn’t want to look as though I were dressing for an orgy even if I was. Jeans with cowboy boots, as Willis had so amply demonstrated, were not great for spontaneous sex, and I didn’t want to picture myself sitting on the floor, undignified, wrenching off my boots with my jeans around my knees, and holding up the activities. (“There in a second!”)

  Maybe it would be the sort of house where you shucked your shoes in the hall, or, more likely, your panties.

  I topped the jeans with a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and beneath everything was some of my good underwear. I was sure Mr. D. would approve. I toyed for a moment with tidying up my pubic hair, but why bother? I didn’t think, if all went according to Plan A, that I’d have the panties on for long, or, if I chose Plan B—“If you like, you can watch. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I had been assured—it wouldn’t matter anyway.

  Sparkly earrings,
yes. Perfume, definitely; I hoped our hosts would not have an allergic reaction.

  Willis eyed my living room as I grabbed my black suede jacket and a small clutch purse. “Very nice. And a cash flow with the apartment. Great neighborhood. How much equity do you have? Have you considered—”

  I stopped him with a kiss. “Stop being such a Realtor.”

  His hands closed on my butt. “Yeah, it’s time to play. Let’s go.”

  I guessed from his hyper attitude and the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw that he’d been at work that day. His tie was loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up despite the chill of the evening, and when we got to his car, a shiny BMW this time, I saw his suit jacket folded neatly on the backseat.

  The house we drove to was in the suburbs, where too many people tried to live their dream of a house in the mountains. Although the lots had pine trees you could see the neighbors’ lights and hear their dogs bark.

  Willis put the car in Park and turned to me. “Don’t be nervous, babe.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “You are. Body language. I’m an expert.” He leaned to kiss me and I slid down in my seat, wanting the moment to last, the sweetness of his mouth and scrape of his chin.

  “Okay.” Ever businesslike, he slipped off his tie, folded it and laid it on top of his jacket on the backseat. “Let’s go. Relax. They’re great folks. They’ll make you feel right at home.”

  The woman who answered the doorbell was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like I was, but her breasts were probably twice the size of mine. “Willis, honey, great to see you. We’ve really been looking forward to this, haven’t we, Jake? Jake?” she called over her shoulder and pouted. “He’s watching the game. I’m Cathy. May I take your jacket?”

  To my relief she didn’t recognize my voice, but led us downstairs to a basement with a huge flat-screen TV and expensive-looking leather furniture.

  “Hey, Willis. We’re in overtime,” the guy hunkered in front of the TV said without looking at us. Willis sat beside him on the couch.