He shakes his head. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”
“No, I’m being honest. The other night was impressive, and sometimes, riding the roller coaster more than once isn’t a bad thing. I could ride yours again.”
He barks, laughter exploding from his lips. “Are you serious?”
I lift my brows. “Yeah, I think I am.”
Foster licks his bottom lip, and I stare at his thick lashes hooding his eyes as he contemplates his feet. A silent question hangs in the air, filtering the atmosphere like moonlight when the sun sets, creeping into the forefront.
“If I’m being honest,” he states, stepping closer until his chest teasingly touches my own, “I wouldn’t mind riding you again either.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Definitely.”
My tongue flirts with the opening of my mouth. “Do you want to…”
“Still be friends?”
“Yes.”
“But something else, too?” he suggests.
“I’m open to it.”
His breathing becomes heavier and visible with the rise and fall of his chest. “Friends who kiss?”
“Or more—”
Foster’s mouth crashes upon mine, hard and fanatical, as an agreement in theory is made into reality. Our tongues collide, desperate to feel and taste what the other has to offer, exploring a familiar and exciting memory.
His hands pull and squeeze my hips while mine thread through his soft and somewhat damp hair, releasing the scent of his shampoo. My shirt rises at the sides as Foster’s thumbs explore upward under the garment.
“Still friends?” he questions, dipping his head and grazing his lips along the delicate skin of my neck.
“The best kind.” My fingertips search for his naked flesh at the hem of his sweatshirt.
“No expectations?”
“None from me,” I pant. “Except for the occasional high five or fist bump.”
Foster lifts the shirt over my head, tosses it to the floor, and then raises me onto the granite countertop. I reach for the bottom of his sweatshirt, pull it off his body, and let gravity take it, falling next to mine.
“I don’t know if I told you before,” I say, palming his firm chest, “but you’re really fucking hot without your clothes on.”
“No”—he undoes my bra—“you didn’t mention it.”
“Well, now, you know.”
He slides my lingerie down my arms. “Your breasts are like something out of a magazine. They’re anatomy perfection.” He cups one with his hand. “And just the right weight.”
“I take them to the booby gym weekly.”
“I bet.” Lowering his head, he tauntingly licks my nipple. “Do you work these out, too?”
“They’re kind of part of the package.”
Foster continues to tongue and massage my breasts as I explore his tight arms and shoulders with my hands. Trailing his fingers down my front, he slides a hand underneath my pants and into my panties, searching for my opening. I spread my legs, allowing him to deftly touch me in a sensual and surprisingly skillful manner.
Lifting his head in line with my own, he presses our lips together, and I moan into his mouth as he continues to evocatively touch me.
“You get so wet,” he murmurs. “So, so wet. I want to kiss you.”
“You already are.” I smile, humored.
“Down here.” He pushes a finger inside me and then slides it outward before slowly entering my cavity once again. “With my mouth.”
“Are you always this…step-by-step?”
“No, but I need to make sure that it’s okay.”
“It’s definitely okay.” I lick his ear. “Does this mean that you will expect me to give you head in return?”
“Only if you want to.”
Then, the words, “I think I want you to fuck me,” cross my lips without a thought.
“You have an interesting way of expressing yourself.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Nudging him backward to create some space between us, I hop off the counter, landing next to him. He stands motionless in front of me as I unbutton and then unzip his pants. With both hands, I grab the waistband of his jeans and boxers and shimmy them down his legs. He steps out of them, standing completely naked before me.
“Still impressive,” I comment, referring to his erection.
“Thanks. Glad it works for you.”
“Me, too.”
I slip my hands into the sides of my pants and drop them along with my panties to the ground. Placing my hands at my waist, I tilt my head with an expectant look upon my face.
“Still nice.” He purses his lips. “I’m surprised you don’t have any tattoos. I thought that was part of the artist uniform.”
“Who says I should be that much of a cliché? I’m naturally a masterpiece.”
“You never did get around to that dye job, did you?” he asks, focused on the space between my legs.
Playfully, I swat at his bicep. He catches my arm, bends at the knees, and throws me over his shoulder.
“This is extremely caveman of you, Fozzie.”
“Sex is a very basic human function, Evelyn.”
Draped over his body, I pat his ass as he walks us back to his bedroom. The shades are drawn shut, but the faint purple light from an early dusk peeks along the edges of the window.
Foster drops me onto the bed before dragging my backside to the edge of the mattress. Pulling my legs around him, he lowers himself to his knees. His mouth hungrily connects with my pussy—wet and flirtatious, licking and sucking. His dexterous tongue presses and circles around my clit, like a man on a mission.
“Still friends?” he asks between a lick and a suck.
“Yeah.” I bite my lip, trying to steady the electric sensations tapping their way through my system, as he plunges his tongue inside me. “I’ll make you one of those friendship bracelets, like we used to do at camp.”
“Perfect.” He draws his tongue through my folds. “I look forward to it.”
Foster continues to tease and taunt my sex with his mouth, bringing me an unexpected physical enjoyment, as we meander this gray area of friendship with no rules, other than the ones we’re making up each step of the way.
“Fuck me, you’re really fucking good at this,” I comment, running my fingers along his scalp. “You’re like some kind of clit whisperer. Do you practice this shit?”
“Yes. I exercise my mouth at the gym, the same way you do your breasts.”
I laugh and sit up, resting on my elbows. Our eyes connect, playful and giddy.
Foster kisses my inner thigh and then raises his brows with a silent question to which I easily agree, nodding my head. Rising from the floor, he steps toward his bureau and withdraws a condom.
Coming to my knees, I meet him at the foot of the bed and take the contraceptive into my hand.
“So, you’ll take it from here?” he asks.
My fingers lightly skim down his hard-on. “Is that a request?”
“Or merely a suggestion.”
Ducking down, I teasingly draw my tongue along the underside of his length, circling my lips around the bare tip, needing a taste.
Once.
And then twice more.
He moans.
My body responds.
Ripping the wrapper, I take out the condom and roll it over Foster’s erection.
Nudging me backward by the shoulder, he directs me down onto the bed. His hands follow the shape of my outer legs, from my hips to my ankles, grabbing and resting them on his shoulders.
He slowly guides himself into me, his eyes never wavering from where our bodies connect, mine consuming his, observing the entire process. Most guys do like to watch, but in my experience, they aren’t usually this blatant about it. I don’t mind. It’s just Fozzie, and there’s no reason to be shy or pretend that it’s inappropriate.
With my legs positioned steadily at his shoulders, Foster
licks his thumb and then begins to rub my clit while steadily pushing in and out of me, causing my skin to flush from the inside.
My breathing rate increases.
Whimpers of pleasure fly across my lips.
He slams into me harder and then glances in my direction with a look so primal and exceedingly sexy that I lose all sensibility.
Screaming out cries of pure physical bliss, I let go of any resistance and give him the power to make me orgasm. My legs turn to jelly, my flesh tingles, and a heat runs through my veins as he continues to enter me with an intense vigor.
Foster tightens his grip around my ankles and squeezes firmly when he drives into me a final time, grunting with gratification.
When both of our panting returns to a more measured rate, he collapses onto the bed next to me, where we lie side by side, staring at the stark ceiling above.
Out of nowhere, he positions his palm about a foot away from my face.
“What?” I ask, winded.
“High five?”
Slapping my hand with his, I say, “That definitely deserves one.”
“Knock, knock,” Chandra announces just outside my cracked bedroom door.
“Hey,” I call out from the entrance of my closet. “Are you getting ready to leave?”
“Yeah. I’m heading to the airport now.”
Dropping my shoes into the suitcase on the bed, I join her near the threshold where she’s standing with a roller bag resting at her side.
I throw my arms around her neck and say, “Have a safe trip.”
She pats me on the back. “You, too.”
“I will.” Backing up, I finger through the strands of hair near the front of my face. “And tell your family I said hello.”
“Will do. Tell the same to yours. I’m running late, and I need to get going.” Chandra grabs the handle of her bag and begins down the short hallway. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” she calls back to me.
Then, moments later, I hear the door click shut after she exits the apartment.
Exams wrapped up yesterday, and we’re both leaving for the winter break between quarters. She’ll be visiting her family in India for the first time in three years. I, too, will be spending the holiday with my family, but unlike Chandra, I plan to return well before the New Year since my father is heading promptly to Europe on business, with my mother accompanying him. They will then be celebrating the turn of the year with family friends in Madrid, and I’d rather ring in the New Year on my own terms instead of being a part of the charade I’m required to play in their presence.
I finish packing the rest of my things for the trip on the Caribbean Sea. Then, I zip up my suitcase and roll it to rest near the front door, in anticipation of being picked up by the driver my mother arranged to arrive in about an hour.
Just enough time to run a quick errand.
Slipping my arms into my jacket, I scurry back to my room to retrieve the two sixteen-by-twenty-inch frames wrapped in brown paper that are resting just inside my closet. I shuffle out my door and down the steps, and then I begin the six-block walk toward Foster’s apartment.
While I’ve seen him at work this past week, we haven’t spent any social time together due to exams. Yes, we’ve progressed to booty-call buddies, but neither of us has made the gesture to get together like that for a few days, both being so busy.
The past weeks with Foster have been…interesting. When I first met him, never would I have imagined in my wildest and craziest dreams—and there are many—that he and I would morph into hook-up partners. But that’s what we are, and somehow, we’ve managed to remain cordial coworkers as well. In our off hours, we get naked for a roll in the sheets, and it’s had no effect on our friendship. The sex is just that—sex.
Foster has made it clear to me that he has no interest in dating anyone, which is fine by me. In my mind, I’m calling our sexual trysts nothing more than a good dose of banging therapy. What girl wouldn’t want to fuck out all her frustrations with a guy who looks great with no clothes on?
Added bonus—Foster is really great in bed, possibly the best sex I’ve ever had. And there’s no need to impress him with any crazy erotic moves, like if I were his girlfriend. Of course, it pleases me that he seems to enjoy it as much as I do, but I’m in it for me, and he’s in it for him. No pressure.
But it’s hot. Fucking hell is the sex ever hot.
No wonder I keep going back for more.
The way he bent me over the other day, pulled my hair, and made me come twice, almost back-to-back, really got my attention. The spanking turned me on more than I’d expected. Then, there was another time on his couch. Okay, so it was multiple times spanning into the wee hours of the morning. He should probably just burn the thing from all the sins we committed on the cushions. The kitchen is a whole other story. I’ll never look at the countertop the same way ever again. Eating out doesn’t always have to take place outside of one’s residence.
Damn, his tongue is something special.
It will be missed while I’m away.
Now that the quarter has ended, I likely won’t see him again until returning to work at the beginning of the next school term. The items in my arms aren’t pressing, but I got them back from the framer just yesterday and thought they would make a nice gesture as a Christmas present. Part of me was hesitant at first about giving him anything at all, wondering if it might be crossing some line in our friendship and arrangement, but I decided to push that aside. I gave one to Chandra and Wolfgang yesterday, and they’re friends, so I perceive no problem with giving something to him as well—as friends.
Turning the corner at the bottom of the hill, I spot Foster’s building near the middle of the block. I had considered calling, but I figured a drop-by would be more casual. When I spoke with him the other night at work, he mentioned he wasn’t going out of town for the holidays, and his only plans were to spend Christmas at his grandmother’s farm. If he’s not home, I’ll just leave the gift outside his apartment.
Knocking lightly on his door, I promise myself to only count to thirty before deciding he’s not home and leaving. When I mentally reach the number nineteen, the wooden entrance opens to reveal my comrade between the sheets and coworker of superior intelligence in a pair of dark denim jeans and a white T-shirt underneath an unzipped hoodie. He’s wearing his glasses, shielding his tired red eyes. I’m sure exams have been rough on him. I look like hell myself.
“EJ.” He squints. “Hey, I thought you were leaving today.”
“I am.” I tighten my grip around the frames under my arm. “Can I come in for a minute?”
“Sure.” He steps back, allowing me to enter the apartment. “You got a new hair color. Are you going for au naturel this time?”
“Yeah. I need to look good for holiday pictures with the family. Thought it might be best to avoid any freak-show comments from the ’rents.”
Shutting the door, he asks, “So, did you come by to get one for the road? It’s a little early for a booty call, but I can accommodate, if need be.”
“Good to know.” I laugh. “But not this time. Can I take a rain check?”
“Sure.” He steps in closer. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, I’m not staying long. I have a flight to catch.” I pull the frames out from between my arm and body, holding them outward in his direction. “I wanted to give you these.”
He cocks his head. “Did we say we were giving each other gifts?”
“No, we didn’t.” I push the items in question closer to him.
Transferring the gifts into his hands, he says, “I didn’t get you anything.”
“That’s okay. It doesn’t need to be reciprocal.”
He stares at the paper-covered squares and then peeks at me a few times, shifting his gaze between the items in his hand and me.
“Go on,” I urge. “Open them.”
Foster carries the gifts to the granite island in the center of the kitchen and begins to
tear the wrapping from the top frame, revealing an image from the first shoot I did in his presence at the fountain a few months ago. Without him, the project would have been a catastrophe and I never would have received the high mark.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” I stagger, “for helping me. And I thought maybe your walls could use a little color.”
“Thank me? For what?” He taps his fingers on the glass. “All the sex?”
I lean my hip on the counter. “Do you usually have girls thanking you for that?”
“No, but there’s a first for everything.”
“Well, today isn’t it.”
“Damn,” he whispers. “So close.”
He stares at the image matted behind the glass, one of my favorite shots from the series—a silhouette of fountain water rising from the pool below. The lighting catches the spray in such a way that, in contrast to the surrounding darkness, it appears almost angelic. It’s a moment caught in time, humanizing the flowing substance in a spiritual way.
“It’s more than water,” he utters quietly after staring at the image for some time.
“What?”
“More than water. That’s what you said when you were taking these that night, that there was a story beyond the simple elements of hydrogen and oxygen, and I just needed to look deeper.”
“You were listening,” I say, surprised he recalled the details of our conversation.
“Yeah.” He turns his attention to me, a smirk playing along the edges of his mouth. “Plus, this big brain of mine remembers everything.”
“Shit, I’d better start watching what I say around you.”
“It’s a little too late for that. Your mouth is a ticking time bomb.” He sets the frame on the counter. “Thank you, but you really didn’t need to give me anything. I was happy to help.”
“Well,” I say mischievously, “I didn’t want you to think all the sex we’ve been having was payment for the assistance.”
He lifts a brow. “Well, if it were, you’ve overpaid.”
“True.” I edge the other frame closer to him. “Don’t forget this one.”
Like with the first gift, his hands pull at the brown covering to reveal the next picture—an image of vibrant color, bubbles, and illumination surrounded by mystery and temptation. It’s warm and striking, and it displays a life of its own.
More Than Water Page 11
