Her body is something straight out a wet dream. Or a wet nightmare, more accurately. Because it’s the kind of body men would kill for. It’s the kind of body that once you see her and feel her and get your fucking rocks off by getting close to her, you’ll be ruined for anything else.
What makes it even worse is that she’s pure as the goddamn driven snow. You can just tell by the way she moves. She’s got this insane way of coming across both as innocent and horny as fuck.
It’s a lethal combination.
I hired her, of course. But I avoided her for most of the day, putting together the harmony of the song I’m working on. It’s coming together but, even so, I kept getting distracted. Who wouldn’t get distracted? Just knowing she was … in my house.
I’d paced around, played with the riff, adjusted the goddamn equalizer. Paced some more. Tried to ignore my demonically rock-solid hard-on. It didn’t want to be ignored. It had one thing on its mind.
Sadie.
I’d never felt so big or so mean. So needy and hypnotized.
I’d finally given up on the song for a while, and went into the house.
Where I’d almost lost it right then and there.
She’d been on her hands and knees, her hands all soapy, her skin aglow with a light gleam of sweat, her breasts all creamy and firm and spilling out of her shirt.
I’m so fucked.
And then, words don’t even.
That bikini.
I started to come just looking at her. Not coming exactly but riding a weird sure thing, where you know you’re going to come but you can hold on to it and you’re existing in this state of pure, white-hot anticipation.
I’ve never experienced anything like it.
She tastes like a dream. Like a sweet, exotic angel in the sunshine.
She tastes like my worst nightmare because now I’d addicted to that rare, perfect elixir of her body.
And now she’s lying on top of me. I just came in her mouth but I’m hard again. My cock has realized its purpose and here it is. Downtime is not an option, apparently.
I want to fuck her so bad it hurts.
I know she’s a virgin. I don’t know how I know it but I do. She just has that quality about her, of utter freshness. There’s an awkwardness there, too. She’s innocent and naïve but all that’s overridden almost completely by sheer lust. Because she’s hot as hell, as though she just discovered the beauty of her own body and loves it.
I love it too.
I love it.
I don’t ever want her to climb off of me. I’m holding her round, firm ass in my hands as she kisses me. My fingers play, touching her warm, slick folds. She’s writhing softly on top of me and the lips of her pussy press against the base of my cock. I’m so close. I could so easily position her, slide my hot cock right on into that juicy nirvana.
She’d let me. She wouldn’t stop me. I know this, yet I don’t do it. Not yet. It’s not just that I don’t have a condom with me. There’s more to it than that, and this is a whole new ballpark for me: I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t want to rush it and scare her off by doing anything she might regret.
Not that she seems like she’s regretting much of anything right about now. That squirming little body is burning up. She’s doing this soft, rhythmic grind against my cock. She’s breathing in quiet huffs. She might be about to come.
She is about to come.
She’s looking into my eyes now. Those clear, sky-blue eyes have this tender, transfixed glow, like she fucking loves me or something. I know that look. They all look at me like that. What’s different about this look is that I feel it. In my head and my heart and my cock. I want her to look at me like that. I want to drink in her adoration, and earn more of it. Her sun-yellow hair frames her face and lights up my world. Silken ropes of it feather along my skin.
I’m so fucked.
“Elias,” she whispers, like I’m the goddamn ruler of the universe and she’s worshipping at my altar.
So I give her what she wants. I’m almost surprised by what comes out of my mouth. “That’s it, sugar. I’m gonna touch you and hold you and make you come again, just like you like it, sweet baby. You’re so sweet. So damn beautiful. I’m gonna take such good care of you. Kiss me, Sadie. Yeah, like that. Give me your mouth.”
She does but she’s speechless by now. I pull her knees forward a little, opening her, so she’s straddling me. I dip my tongue into her mouth as my fingers dip into that snug, slippery pussy. I glide my fingers across her clit, into her pussy and her ass. She’s so tight but so damn wet. I go deeper than I did before. I pull her closer, rubbing her clit with my cock, pressing the little nub with my thumb in soft glides as I suck on her tongue.
She’s coming.
She’s whimpering into my mouth. Her body’s bucking gently against me.
I can feel the tightening of her pussy pulsing around my fingers. Those rhythmic clenches are so strong and so luscious, I can feel them against my cock.
Oh, fuck. I’m coming.
I’m coming.
Holy hell, she feels so damn good. Hot surges of my cum wet her stomach, and mine, creating a slick stickiness between us, like glue. I wish it was glue. I wish I could keep her here, all to myself. I want to fuck her and use her and kiss her whenever I want.
My hands are on her ass. Her hips. Her skin is so soft. So smooth. I cradle her head against my neck. My fingers trace along the lines of her body. I carefully brush a strand of her hair back from her face.
And I just hold her like that for a while.
It feels so good, just us, here, in the sun. Tripping on our own kind of drug. Riding the high of our own rush and letting it calm, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
After a while, I say her name. “Sadie? You okay?’
“Yeah,” she breathes quietly. “Don’t move yet. I just want to stay here.”
After a minute, she lifts her head, looking at me. She’s sort of drowsed-looking, drunk with the after-effects of her pleasure.
The blue of her eyes matches the sky.
Her gold-spun hair is dazzling.
Damn, she’s beautiful.
She kisses my lips softly. “Elias Hayes,” she murmurs and I almost panic. Does she know me? It’s strange, but I realize I don’t want her to. I want her to want me for this. For me. Without all the hype. If she doesn’t know who I am – which seems to be the case – she must be living in a goddamn bubble or something. She must be sheltered beyond belief. Secluded from the wider world by a lack of resources to connect. That must be it. I’ve seen her house. The goddamn thing’s practically falling apart.
I’m about to suggest we go back to my place and eat something. I know if I kiss her back, if I let this go in the direction it inevitably will, I know we’ll end up fucking – and I can’t believe I’m saying this – but it’s not the right time.
I can’t believe I’m saying this either, but I want it to be perfect.
Just then I hear the unmistakable sound of the deep, loud bass beats of a car stereo.
Son of a bitch.
The sound is coming from my own driveway. I glance over and see his yellow Corvette in the distance but I already know who it is. The one and only person I told about the location of my new property, sworn to secrecy: Vaughn.
Sadie hears it too. “You have visitors,” she says.
He’s on the far side of the house, but she reaches for her clothes. I feel unreasonably upset by this. I don’t want her to get dressed. I want to keep her here, naked, with me, alone.
Fuck it. I’m getting carried away. Get a goddamn grip, Elias, I’m thinking. I help her, grabbing her shorts from where I’d tossed them in the grass. The bikini’s a lost cause, unfortunately. She’s standing there, still naked. She’s covered in my cum, practically from head to toe. I experience such a rush of caveman-like satisfaction at this, it’s insane. Like I’ve marked her as my own by coming all over h
er naked body. Just seeing that makes me hard again.
Jesus Christ.
It’s like she’s reading my mind. She sidles up to me, brushing her lush breasts against my chest. “I guess I better wash off a little,” she smiles at me, weaving her fingers through mine.
Holy hell, I’m fucked.
I hear voices in the distance, like Vaughn’s talking to someone. That asshole. He’s not alone. I gave him strict instructions not to tell anyone where I lived. The last thing I need is the goddamn paparazzi setting up camp outside my new house, already. It took them all of a day to swarm the entrance of my Nashville apartment, which is annoying as fuck.
The other thing that’s annoying as fuck is this: if I take Sadie back to the house with me, Vaughn – and whoever’s with him – will see her. They’ll see her wheat-colored hair and her blue eyes. They’ll watch her, in her little jean shorts and her tank top – which she’ll have to wear with nothing under it since I ripped her bikini to shreds. They’ll see those unbelievable breasts and the way her nipples poke through the fabric of any top she happens to be wearing.
She’s standing knee-deep in the water, splashing handfuls across her breasts and stomach. She’s leaning forward and I can see her wet pussy between her long legs. I pull my shorts on, shoving my rampant hard-on in, somehow, willing it to go down.
Damn it. There’s no way in hell. Not with her little ass wriggling as she washes herself. She leans all the way forward to pick up her shirt.
I’m going insane.
All I want to do is fuck that sweet little pussy until she screams. I want to hold her down and slide my hot, bursting cock into her, and fuck her so hard and so deep she cries and comes and begs for more as I fill her with my hot cum. I want to possess her and own her.
Even so, I’m relieved when she says, “I better get going. It’s getting late.”
We’re dressed now but I feel almost panicked. If Vaughn walks over this way, he’ll see us. But I don’t want to let her go, either. The thought of waiting until tomorrow to see again her is almost unbearable. And I remember now why Vaughn’s here: I have a show tonight, in the city. I’d forgotten about it.
I’d forgotten about everything except Sadie and her face and her hair and her body.
Then I have a radio interview tomorrow morning, I remember.
“Sadie,” I say. “I won’t be around tomorrow until later in the afternoon.”
“Oh. Do you still want me to work? I can just let myself in if you do.”
“Sure. Whatever you want to do.” I hear the urgency in my own voice. “I want to see you tomorrow. Wait for me. Don’t leave ‘til I get home.” Goddamn it, I sound like a lovestruck teenager. But I don’t fucking care. I want to hear her say it.
“Okay.” She smiles and I can feel it in my chest, like a tight, heavy longing. “I’ll wait for you.”
I kiss her. I touch my tongue to her soft lower lip. She’s so new at this, she kisses with her mouth closed. I open her lips with mine, dipping my tongue into her mouth.
She pulls back, laughing lightly. She lets her hand slip from mine and I watch her wave as she walks away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she chimes in that sing-song voice and I think I’m about to lose my mind but I force myself to stand there, to let her go. You’ll see her tomorrow, you fool.
I am so fucked.
Tonight, I’m half wrecked and half enlightened. It’s a weird mixture. Everything looks a little unworldly, like the earth shifted on its axis this afternoon or something. The trees look greener. The steamy, humid air feels sublime on my skin. Invisible music seems to filter right out of the day and into my head. I have so many ideas. Tunes, coming together. It’s the most amazing feeling.
I’ve figured something out: stellar orgasms change a person. They just do. Not only that, but stellar orgasms delivered by someone as beautiful and hot as Elias Hayes transform a person. It’s true. I don’t feel like a prim, proper schoolgirl anymore. Not that I ever really did. But now, I’m sort of walking around in a haze of realization. And of simmering, hundred-proof desire.
Now that I know what Elias can do, with his eyes and his hands and his body, it’s all I can think about.
I understand things. I get what they were trying to protect us from. Ourselves and all our rich, crazy, flawed and beautiful desire.
I want him because the minute he walked into my life, a light switch turned on. Everything flooded with color. My body woke up. And the music in my head got louder. I no longer feel like I’m simmering with motivation; now, I’m on fire with inspiration. Spilling with it. I want to use all that, tune into it, then get the hell out of dodge.
Because here’s the thing: I figure if I’m planning on writing songs for a living, I need to know what it all feels like. Lust, sex, love, heartbreak, all of it.
Lust: check.
I hear the soft sound of my own laughter as I walk along. Damn.
Part of me is addicted to Elias, yes. But a bigger part of me is addicted to myself. I love what he does to me. I love how he makes me feel. What I want to do is immerse myself in all his glory, to take everything he’s willing to give. So I can experience to the deepest depths what it means to be free and young and alive.
I’m going to see him tomorrow. And I know just what I’m going to do.
My house is in sight now. Dusk has begun to color the sky.
Momma’s cooking dinner and Daisy’s on the phone. I can tell who she’s talking to by the way she’s curling her hair around one finger, giggling at the things he says. Trevy must’ve finally called back.
I go into my room. There’s no sign of Frannie and I remember she had the afternoon shift today at work. I pick up my old guitar. I remember the day Daddy bought it for me, the very same day I sang him his favorite Elvis song. He took me down to the thrift store, where they always have a few second-hand guitars, and he bought me one for ten dollars. He told me I had the sweetest voice he’d ever heard and one day he just knew he was going to hear me sing at the Grand Ole Opry. I was eleven years old. Even then we didn’t have the money for singing lessons but I sang solos in the choir at school and there was a piano in the side room of the St. Mary’s chapel where they used to let me play. There, they’d only allow us to sing hymns. But when no one was around, I taught myself. When I did manage to get into Nashville every now and then, I’d collect old song sheets that sold cheap in the music stores. Everything I could get my hands on from bluegrass to country to hillbilly to rock ‘n roll. I’d memorize them all and play them over and over until they were in me. Until the songs began to take on curled, subtle little differences that were all mine.
I grab a piece of paper and pencil, and walk out to the bench where Elias sat. I wonder what it would be like to play with him. To sing with him. Maybe one day I’ll ask him if he wants to.
The songs pour out of me, one after the other. Out of that guitar and onto to those pages. Pure songs, original and layered, melodic and catchy.
All about him.
It’s hot summer and I’m walking to his door. Will he love me. Will he come back for more.
I sit there, immersed. I tell Momma not to worry about me, that I’ll be in later on. The house goes quiet but the night is alive.
Where will this road lead us and where will it end.
I write and I strum, until I have them down: the first three songs of my new album. The one that’s going to take me all the way to the stars, I can feel it.
Hot summer lovers. Hot summer night. The touch of his hand, so true and so right.
Then Frannie’s home and Momma calls me inside so she can lock the door. As I lay in my bed, I can still hear the music in my head.
Tell me where this road leads us and where does it end.
My show sold out weeks ago.
They all sell out. People camp on the streets the night before the tickets even fucking go on sale.
I’m in Nashville. I’m at a co
ncert hall called The Blue Note that can hold around a thousand. I usually play bigger venues, but Vaughn books these smaller shows every now and then. Some fans prefer them. I prefer them. Sure, there’s something mind-blowing about forty thousand people screaming your name, but the smaller shows have an intimacy to them that makes you feel the vibe in a different, more personal way. You can see their faces. You can smell the energy. There’s an immediacy to it that’s raw and real.
There’s a goddamn party going on in my dressing room. Trevor, my bass player, brought a whole bunch of chicks along and I can’t think. Usually I’d be into it. I’d be laughing right along with them.
Tonight their laughter is abrasive.
One of the girls walks up to me and sits on my lap, weaving her arm around my neck. She has long red hair and is wearing a very abbreviated cowgirl outfit. She’s moving. Barely grinding her ass against me. On any other day, I might have enjoyed it. I would have enjoyed it. I’d have let her get me hard, then taken her into some empty room and fucked her. She obviously wants it. I can feel her heat and I know she’s wet for me. She starts kissing me, holding my face between her hands. My reaction is bizarre but I have to move. Her cheap perfume is gagging me. I lift her off me as I stand up and walk over to the corner, where my guitar is sitting on its stand.
Something fucked-up is happening to me.
That didn’t even turn me on. She’s not an ugly girl. She’s got nice skin and thick red hair. But I can’t do it.
All I can think of is her. Her hair and her skin. That blond silk and that naked golden beauty in the sun. The way I’d come all over her open mouth, her full breasts, her smooth stomach.
Damn it.
I want to do it again. Now. I want to see her. I want her to be the one sitting on my lap, kissing me. Getting me hard. I want her to be the one I take into some empty room. But no. With her, I’d take her to a five-star hotel. Give her champagne. Make her laugh. Then make sweet love to her all night long until she can’t remember anything but me and how good I make her feel.
Hot Summer Lust Page 5
