by Artemis Hunt
*
Dinner is one long protracted affair. Brian finds himself seated in between Mr. and Mrs. Buchner, who quiz him on everything from business to the planet Saturn. (“Are the rings around it really made of ice?”) Lori keeps giving him glances from lowered eyelids and Lance Buchner turns out to have a stutter.
Brian figures out that Lori is marrying Lance for his money, since there is nothing remotely interesting about him. Or his stutter. Either that or the sex has to be fantabulous.
He finds himself studying Sam now and again. She is really beautiful when she laughs, and she does this often when Cassie and Caleb say something funny. Her teeth – which he remembers in braces during middle grade, and which had been a constant source of amusement for him – are now perfect and pearly white. Kudos to her orthodontist, whoever he is.
After dessert, the band strikes up a lively tune from the sixties. It is clearly meant for ballroom dancing.
Lori taps her wine glass with a knife.
“Listen up, everyone. I would like to make a toast . . . to my future parents-in-law, the Buchners.”
She’s totally sucking up to them, Brian thinks as he raises his glass.
Lori gushes on with more pleasantries and superlatives that she probably doesn’t mean, and then her face turns sly.
“And now, to lead off our dance for tonight, I would like to invite my sister, Samantha, to the floor. I hear she is quite the dancer.”
Applause all round.
Adele beams. “Oh yes, she is. That’s my baby girl.”
Sam’s face is engaged in the very act of petrification. Her eyes bulge as they shoot lasers at Brian. If looks could kill, he’d be blasted off to deep space by now.
Lori claps her hands. “Oh come on, Sammie. We are waiting.”
There are cries of encouragement and shouts of ‘Hear, hear!’
Lori starts up a chant, which is soon joined by everyone at the table. “Sammie, Sammie, Sammie, Sammie.”
Brian has to stifle his laughter. Well, fuck yeah. He got her into this. He supposes he owes her big time.
Her face is still glowering as he gets up and walks to where she is seated. A hush ripples through the guests.
He mock bows. “May I have this dance, milady?”
She takes his proffered hand and gets up, clearly unnerved.
“You are going to embarrass me, aren’t you?” she hisses.
“Why do you always think the worst of me? Just follow my lead, and you’ll be all right.”
“Your lead?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? I took ballroom dancing lessons when I was in juvie.”
“You were in juvie?” she says, aghast.
“No, but it’s a good story.”
They take to the dance floor amidst claps, whistles and cheers. Brian spies the cunning look on Lori’s pert features. On Sammie baby, you’ve got one helluva bitch for a sister. And in that instant, both pity and resolve strengthen his spine.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he says.
She obeys, and he lifts her other hand.
“Now when my left leg moves forward, your right leg moves back. And vice versa. And then you move forward, and I move back.”
“OK.”
He begins to lead her. One step forward, one step back. She treads on his toes.
“It’s OK,” he whispers. “Smile and look radiant. No one will notice if your footwork isn’t perfect.”
She treads on his toes a couple more times. He smiles at her encouragingly.
“You’re getting there,” he whispers.
The look of surprise in her eyes suggests that she had no idea that he could actually be nice. He winces internally. Hey, I’m not that bad. I just don’t want people to know it.
By the second stanza, she has gotten the hang of the dance steps. It’s time to introduce more fancy moves.
“When I tell you to pirouette, you pirouette.”
The tightening of her hand on his shoulder indicates that she is nervous.
“Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Don’t think about getting every move perfect. Let yourself flow into the music. Relax.”
With that, she visibly relaxes and actually looks as though she’s enjoying herself. He smiles at her.
“Now pirouette,” he murmurs.
She takes her hand off his shoulder and makes several rotations before coming back to him. Their audience applauds.
By the third stanza, both of them are laughing and completely in tune with the music. He leans over and dips her head back, and she flexes her shoulders gracefully. It’s like magic.
“Those Zumba classes really paid off,” he teases.
“You actually remembered.”
“I have an elephantine memory . . . when I remember to use it.”
She smiles, and he can see the fire in her eyes. They match each other move for move. They are both far from technically perfect, but their passion and enjoyment is contagious, and more than once, he hears whoops from their audience.
She catches on so fast that he finds himself wondering about her in bed. He can well imagine teaching her a few new sexual tricks and having her master them . . . on him . . . in a matter of minutes. His cock grows hard again at the thought. He inwardly groans. She’s having some wild effect on him, and if he doesn’t watch out, he’ll find himself fucking her. Or trying to, seeing as she would probably club him on the side of the head before he can get beyond first base.
He wonders how much of why he is so attracted to her is because she doesn’t want to have anything to do with him sexually. Once he has had her, would he continue to find her so engaging?
The song winds down to a finish.
“Now put on a show and kiss me,” he says.
She does not hesitate. Their mouths clash in a desire-soaked tangle of moving lips and tongue. Her hands creep around his neck and draw him to her forcefully. He falls onto her aggressively, be damned with who is watching. He explores her mouth, swirls his tongue around and across it, tastes her sweetness and the red wine that still clings to her mouth.
He scarcely hears the applause that has broken out amongst their audience until they come up for air. Her face is flushed, her hair is disheveled, but her eyes are misted over with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. There’s a softness brimming in them that calls to mind candlelight dinners and red, red roses the texture of velvet.
An unbearable lightness buoys his stomach.
No. You mustn’t. You don’t believe in relationships, remember?
He steels himself and tears his eyes away from hers before he can fall into them. There’s a tightness in his throat that makes it hard to draw breath.
His gaze closes in on Lori’s face – as black as a raincloud.
He murmurs, “Uh oh, I think we’ve stolen the thunder from the bride.”
10
After saying goodnight to Cassie and Caleb, they trip back to their room at three in the morning, a little drunk.
She’s giggling, trying not to get her heels twisted around one another. He’s laughing. His skin is flushed and he’s obviously high on alcohol.
She inserts their old-fashioned key in the lock. He leans against the corridor wall and lights a cigarette.
“Why do you that?” she asks. “Smoking is so bad for you.”
He inhales deeply and lets out a cloud of smoke. “And here I thought we were getting along so well together.”
“It’s just a comment.”
“They’re just my lungs,” he deadpans.
She pushes open the door, suddenly self-conscious. They are alone again. In a room with a bed.
He strides in and stubs the cigarette in an ashtray on the table. He starts tearing off his clothes in a completely oblivious way, not even looking at her as he throws his jacket, shirt, silk scarf and belt on the bed. He wrenches off his shoes and socks.
She clears her throat.
“Excuse me, but I think we should discuss our sleeping arrangements.”
; He turns to face her. He is dangerously handsome. His pants are unzipped and his thatch of pubic hair sprouts from his crotch.
He says, “It’s easy. There’s nothing to discuss. I’ll take the bed and you’ll take the couch.”
“There isn’t any couch.”
“Tough. Then you’ll just have to share a bed with me.”
Even though his words carry a seductive languor, his demeanor towards her is not sexual. He is merely undressing himself as he would any other day in his apartment when he’s alone. Before she can say anything, he drops his pants. His penis is semi-hard. He flashes her a grin as he turns to walk towards the bathroom. He has a deeply sexual swagger to him.
She understands now that he is not putting on a show just for her. His sexuality is as much part of his genetic makeup as his cockiness and extreme self-confidence.
When he comes back, naked, she has already changed into her nightgown. Before this trip, she and Cassie had gone shopping.
“You’re going to make him sleep on the floor without a pillow,” Cassie said gleefully.
“I can’t do that. That’s mean.”
“That’s your trouble, Sam. You don’t know how to play bully. Just think of all the things he did to you in middle grade, and comeuppance will come naturally.”
Sam doubts it. She fingers a pretty black silk nightgown – bordered with lace.
“Oh, that’s a nice one. The idea is to tempt him, make him hard, and then shove him away to let him painfully sleep on the floor.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get him hard for me. We don’t even like each other. Besides, that’s not the point of the whole weekend.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but these are fringe benefits. Play the coy seductive, torment him to distraction, then pull away at the last minute.”
Sam doesn’t think she can ever do that. She’d probably snag the lace nightgown on some hook and tear it to shreds before she can get sexy.
And now she’s wearing that very nightgown. Not that he can see it, because she has consciously covered herself up to the neck with the blanket. Only the table lamps are on, and the entire room has taken on a cozy, romantic hue which is only too apparent.
“Move over,” he says, his knee treading the mattress.
“No. I’d really like you to sleep on the floor.”
“After all the tonsil tennis we shared?” He scoots into the bed and lifts up the blanket, which she clutches all the more tightly to her chest. “Relax, I’m not going to touch you with a ten foot pole, although mine is more like ten inches, give or take a few.”
She wonders how he can be so cavalier about his nudity. She makes room for him by displacing herself to the edge of the bed. If she rolled to her left, she would fall off and land on the floor with a thud.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says, twisting his body so that his back is to her. Within seconds, she hears his breathing grow deeper.
Damn him, but he is soundly asleep.
How is she expected to sleep now, cramped up like this?
She switches off her lamp. She is very aware of his warmth permeating the air space under their shared blanket. She can imagine Cassie asking her in the morning, “So, did you make him sleep on the floor?”
‘Uh . . . no.”
“What? You mean you slept with him?”
“Not exactly. He muscled his way onto the bed and promptly fell asleep.”
“With you beside him? And he wasn’t even tempted to . . . you know . . . grope you?”
Come to think of it, her situation is kind of miserable. Here she is, with a handsome and incredibly sexy man, who is stark naked and lying in bed with her. And he falls asleep without so much as making a pass at her.
She listens to his breathing. Her mind tumbles with all sorts of possibilities. And always she comes back to his kisses, the feel of his hard body against hers, the smell of his aftershave mingled with his intoxicating, extremely male scent.
Her entire body stiffens. Moistness trickles within her core, and she feels a rush of inexplicable need, as if her insides have turned into gooey mush.
Oh, oh, oh!
Her hand moves to her swollen sex, all plump and ripened by the hormones coursing in her bloodstream. She’s about to do something embarrassing, but she’s helpless to prevent it.
She closes her eyes as she slips her fingers underneath her panties. Her clit tingles at her own touch. She delves her fingers through her cracks, squeezing her clit in between. A soft moan escapes her lips. Her pussy is exquisitely wet, which lubricates her scissoring movements. She wriggles and digs her fingers in deeper, prodding the soft petal folds of her clit and inner labia.
Her breathing rhythm escalates even as her heart slams against her ribcage. In her mind’s eye, she can see only Brian’s face, hovering above her as he fucks her repeatedly.
The pleasure that peals in her pussy lifts her body and arches her back. She twists her neck against the damp pillow as her orgasm crests through her. Her muscles contort explosively. She coils and recoils, her body a whiplash of sensory overload. The sheets beneath her hips are a veritable mess of intermingled creams and sweat.
Oh Brian, Brian!
She would be mortified if he ever found out she masturbated while thinking of him when he was beside her. She would never live it down, especially with his caustic, razor tongue. She can well imagine him using his tongue for something else more inappropriate – much is the agony of it.
Her shudders dissipate slowly, like a wave breaking apart into froth.
Her body aches with the afterglow.
He is still immobile next to her, deep in slumber. She watches his steady breathing, not daring to touch him in any way lest he awake. She knows that if she just ventures a hand forth, she would touch his smooth back. Or his well-shaped buttocks.
Go to sleep, Sammie, she berates herself.
She finally does. But her dreams are filled with images of Brian fucking her.
*
Brian wakes up sometime in the morning. The blackouts are drawn close to keep the light out, but from the intensity of sunshine shining through the slit in the curtains, he can tell that it’s late morning. Possibly eleven o’ clock.
His body aches mildly from too much dancing. He smiles as he remembers last night. He can’t recall having such a fabulous time in years. The party had been in full swing, and he vividly remembers Sam’s hair tossing here and there as she whips her head back and forth in Zumba dance moves. Sam laughing delightedly. Caleb and Cassie having a wild time.
Sam’s warm body is splayed next to his and her hand is unconsciously flung across his back. He turns slowly, displacing it. She does not wake up.
Shit, but he’s got an incredible boner.
He watches her in the semi-dark for a while. Her shuttered eyes. Her sweet face. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. The blanket is down to her shoulders, and he glimpses the pretty negligee she is wearing, all black lace and frilly patterns.
Now what the fuck is he going to do about his boner?
He can well visualize his hand reaching out to her warm body to wake her. Then he would roll himself to straddle her, and he would kiss her madly and get her worked up into an aroused state. And he would close his mouth around her nipples, and press his erection against her wet, wet pussy.
And enter her oh-so-slowly.
He can almost feel her sweet, velvety walls closing around his shaft.
But of course, they had made it clear that they were never going to fuck each other.
He groans. Now what is he going to do about his stiffy?
The only thing he can, of course. Under the blanket, he grasps his diamond hard column of flesh. It is so hard as to be almost painful. He takes a deep breath and starts to polish it with firm, deep strokes. He concentrates on the head, oscillating and jerking his hand back and forth. His arm rapidly gains momentum. He starts to pant with the furious effort.
Ahhhhh.
He arches his bac
k and tips his head against the pillow. His mind is filled with visuals of him stabbing Sam with his prick. Grinding his hips against hers while his mouth explores everywhere else within reach.
Sammie, oh, Sammie. You have no idea. Absolutely fucking no clue of how hot you’re making me.
His hand is a blur of movement. Back, forth, back, forth. God, how he misses jerking himself off. He used to do plenty of it when he was fourteen. Back when he was still this pudgy little kid who hadn’t gotten laid. After he was yanked out of school and put into a stricter missionary one – where the boys practically had to shave their heads and do a punishing hundred pushups before they start their lessons – he developed a body that he could be proud of and which caught many an eye.
He never really had to jerk off much again.
He lets himself come explosively. He quickly whips back the blanket to release his ejaculation. His cock jettisons his semen upward. How high he will never know, because he has his eyes firmly closed and fixated on his memory of Sam throwing her head back while being held in his arms . . . on the dance floor.
His spurt of cum seems to go on forever.
When he opens his eyes, the blanket and sheets are stained with glistening white patches. OK, maybe allowing himself to come on the bed wasn’t a good idea, especially with Sam next to him. So she’s going to wake up, look at all this gooey mess around her and say –
“What the hell are you doing?” She sits up, her hair mussed and sexy. She wildly looks around. “What’s all this?”
He lies back on the bed. He can’t help it. He starts to laugh.
His shoulders quake with laughter as tears spring into his eyes. The situation is beyond ridiculous. Here he is, giving himself a hand job while the woman he has been fantasizing about for the past three days – yes, he admits that he has – wakes up in bed beside him and yells at him for messing up the sheets.
He should just take her, press her down onto the bed and fuck her. He’s certain that some part of her wants him at least. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be giving herself so readily to his kisses.
But he doesn’t.
