by Amiee Smith
There are so many layers to what Lynn just said. I want to pull them all apart so I understand every aspect of her life and mind. But now is not the time.
“And what did you figure out?” I ask.
“I’m still really cute. I’m still really smart. I’m usually pretty nice. But now I can wear a single digit size and run miles and miles. And I’m confident enough to say ‘yes’ to hooking up with Nick Willingham in the back seat of his car. But I would have gone for it no matter what size I’m wearing.”
“Lynn, I hope you know I didn’t have sex with you because you’ve lost weight.”
“What took you so long to make a move?”
“I thought you weren’t into it… too shy. Turns out, you were quietly assessing the room for material.”
“I totally do that.”
“When you write the character who looks like me, please don’t make him anything like Michael Ahmed.”
Lynn sighs, “Oh, Michael Ahmed. When I rushed, my big sister told me to watch out for him. She said he’s nice, but he wears his privilege around his neck like a birth defect. My house and his house had mandatory study hours, and you could sign up to tutor a subject you were good at. I was the writing tutor. We became friends.”
“I think I know the answer, but I need to hear you say it.”
“OMG, Nick. I’m not a cheater. I never wrote any of his papers.”
Lynn laughs. She knows what I’m asking. I play along.
“Like you write my papers?”
“Not papers, Superstar. Epic novels.”
Lynn gives me a cheesy grin, breaking away to do a twirl. The skirt of her dress whirling around her thighs. I snort-laugh. Damn, my horny girl. She’s such a clown. A very sexy clown. I’ve never dated a woman who can keep me hard and entertained all at the same time.
The song ends and we move off the dance floor to get a drink. While we wait at the open bar, my brother approaches with Brit.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had a gig,” Lynn says, hugging her friend.
Brit is styled up in bright pink Louboutin stilettos, black leather pants, a white tank, and a structured gold jacket. Her skin is neither light nor dark. She’s mixed race, but I’m uncertain of her ethnic origins. Her brown curly hair spirals down her back. She’s very tall and has three silver hoops in each of her ears and one tiny hoop in her nose. While not Pasadena Club appropriate, she’s all couture. I’m willing to bet her outfit costs more than what the average American contributes to their 401K… in a year.
“I just sang a hook on a track for a funk band. Alex said it was an open bar and a DJ and I was in. Are you here with your parents?” Brit asks.
“Yeah. They are somewhere around here,” Lynn says.
“You look fabulous. I haven’t seen you in a formal dress since Jen’s wedding,” Brit says.
“Definitely not my normal Bay Area attire.”
Brit laughs. “Do you remember when I was at Cal, I lived in a purple North Face fleece and Doc Martin boots?”
Lynn giggles. “Yes. That was your Bay Area style. Lately, I live, work, and sleep in my Patagonia jacket and yoga pants, so it’s nice to get dressed up.”
“But you work all the time. I tried to get a hold of you yesterday. It’s not like you to work on a Saturday night. What were you up to?” Brit asks.
“Sorry. I didn’t get any of the messages… until this morning,” Lynn says tentatively.
“So, you did get stoned and disappear into another world. I assumed you left for San Francisco this afternoon. How long are you staying in town?” Brit asks.
“I haven’t booked a flight yet, but I’m thinking I’ll head out Tuesday.”
“Ah… I really need you to read my dissertation. I’ll email it to you tonight. Let’s go out for a drink after dinner tomorrow and you can give me your notes,” Brit says.
“I don’t know, Brit. My plans...”
“Come on, you’re a fast reader. Please, Lynn?”
“Ladies, what are you having?” I jump in.
I’ve spent enough time with Lynn to know she’s not super stoked to help Brit with her dissertation. I know her delighted face, the way her eyes get wide and sparkle. And there is no sparkle or delight in those brown eyes.
Also, I want Lynn to spend tomorrow night with me. She told me this afternoon about her dinner plans with her friends, but I expected us to spend afterhours in bed together.
“I’ll have the Cab,” Brit replies, dropping the subject of her dissertation.
“I’ll have the same,” Lynn says.
“I’ll do the IPA,” Alex says.
I order three glasses of red wine and a Lagunitas for my brother. Moving away from the bar, we gather at one of the high cocktail tables positioned around the dance floor.
“I heard you closed a forty million dollar deal tonight,” Brit says to Lynn.
Lynn glances at me for confirmation. I nod. Her smile turns downward and she stares into nowhere, her fingers playing with her rose quartz crystal.
“I can’t believe he based his decision on someone he hasn’t seen in ten years,” Lynn says.
“Maybe he was trying to impress you?” Alex asks.
“That is not the way,” she mutters.
Trying to impress Lynn, puts me and Michael in the same game. Which probably doesn’t bode well for our business deal. Though I hope I’m doing a little better than he is.
The DJ plays “Hella Good” by No Doubt. The bouncing intro brings back a rush of high school memories of cruising the streets of Pasadena in my old 4Runner and listening to KROQ with my water polo buddies.
Back then, my life only overlapped with Lynn’s in the classroom or at a random house party. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if we’d hooked up then? Would we still be together? Would she have been by my side at dinner tonight?
“This song is dope! Let’s dance,” Brit says.
For the next hour, we dance and say goodbye to our respective parents. On the surface, Lynn and I appear to be just friends hanging out. Every time she gets close, I want to grasp her hand or caress her arm, but I resist. Again, now is not the time to go public with our relationship until we figure out how to do this without disrupting both our lives.
The DJ calls last song and we meander toward the exit of the club. Lynn stops by coat check to get her jacket and purse.
“Ugh. I have to grade midterms tonight. I think I’ll drink a bottle of wine while I do it. What are you doing?” Brit says to Lynn.
“I’m going to get stoned and tie Nick up,” Lynn says, searching her purse.
After locating a lip balm, she glances up. My brother and Brit stare at her.
“What? Wait? When did this happen?” Brit asks, wagging her finger between Lynn and me.
“Let’s talk tomorrow. I’ll drop a text to the group tonight to confirm dinner,” Lynn says.
Our car pulls up to the curb.
“You better. I’ll pick you up at the Westin at 5,” Brit states.
“She’s staying with me. Alex, give Brit my address,” I say.
I guide my horny girl into the back seat of our limousine.
CHAPTER 17:
LYNN SCOTT
The entire ride to Mount Washington, I imagine Nick letting me tie his hands behind his back while I give him the best blow job of his life. He’s far too alpha to let me do it, and I’m probably too chicken to try, but it’s still a fun fantasy.
I’m shocked I said it out loud to Brit and Alex… and I guess, Nick. But he appeared unaffected by my wine-induced, somewhat impulsive oversharing of the thoughts I reserve for my stories and late nights with my vibrator.
Nick was talkative while we danced at the Pasadena Club. Now he’s quiet. Inhibited. His long fingers resting on his thighs. Maybe he wasn’t ready for me to tell anyone about us? Not once did he say we’re together. I want to stress and overthink it, but that’s not the way I do hook-ups.
He wants to call what we’re doing
dating, because he’s a nice guy. But hooking up is hooking up… even if I’ve developed a little sweet spot in my heart for him. A little one.
I’ve spent years learning how to control my impulses… well, for the most part. I know how to keep my emotions in check so I don’t turn clingy after getting laid. Even if it’s the best lay of my life. Even if it’s with the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Even if said man makes me feel adored and cherished… when we’re alone. I can handle it. I’ll be gone by Tuesday.
The thought of Nick naked, in his kitchen, preparing me a post-sex peanut butter sandwich, interrupts my previous thought and keeps me occupied for the rest of the trip. By the time the driver pulls into the driveway I’m aroused and starving. Nick may not be down to have sex tonight, but I’m going to get off with my travel-friendly vibrator… after I eat.
Hunger twinges at my belly as the driver opens the door of the executive sedan. The Pasadena Club’s menu for the party did not include a vegan option. I ate an undressed salad and a few bites of a plain baked potato, while everyone around me feasted on prime rib and salmon. The club is not known for progressive cuisine.
“Nick, does my Airbnb include kitchen access?” I ask, dropping my purse on the table behind the sofa.
“Yes. Anything you want,” he says before disappearing to his room.
I go into the guest room and change out of my dress and bra. I reach for yoga pants and a T-shirt, but the silky white chemise with matching thong that Raquel picked out catches my attention. When in Nick Willingham’s world, attire matters. It’s silly to let it sit in the bag, unworn. Right?
After slipping it on, I stop by the bathroom to remove my makeup and take my hair down. I return to the living room and retrieve my phone from my purse. I need to text the girls to confirm dinner tomorrow.
In the kitchen, I pull out peanut butter and slice an apple. I assemble a sandwich with sprouted bread, avocado, tomato, arugula, and a sprinkle of pink salt. I find an unopened bag of kale chips in the pantry and pour a glass of water before sitting on the end barstool with my dinner. I spoon peanut butter on to the cut-up pieces of apple and text the girls.
Sunday, 10:19 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] I’m in town. Down for dinner tomorrow. Riding with Brit. Love you.
I finish my food and put my dishes away. Nick enters the kitchen in nothing but black cotton pajama pants and carrying a steno notepad. He’s quiet, setting up the Volcano and grinding our respective strains. My phone chimes. I walk to the other side of the island and sit in the barstool before reading the messages.
Sunday, 10:35 p.m.
Brit Palmer: [To group] I’ll pick you up at NICK WILLINGHAM’s house at 5:45.
Sunday, 10:36 p.m.
Jen Manning: [To group] WHAT?!
Sunday, 10:37 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] Thanks, Brit. Did you go home with ALEX WILLINGHAM?
Sunday, 10:37 p.m.
Jen Manning: [To group] WHAT?!
Sunday, 10:37 p.m.
Brit Palmer: [To group] I’m grading papers. Alex is a friend.
Sunday, 10:38 p.m.
Dana Sandoval: [To group] Y’all got some explaining to do…
Sunday, 10:39 p.m.
Claire White: [To group] Oooh the handsome Willingham men. I expect extensive details tomorrow. Going to bed.
Sunday, 10:39 p.m.
Lynn Scott: [To group] Excited for dinner. Good night.
I close the text app, Nick hands me a filled bag.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says, filling a bag for himself.
He stands on the other side of the island. The notepad rests on the countertop. He tears off the top sheet.
“Run the trails tomorrow. I drew you a map. They are safer than running in the street like you did today,” Nick says.
He passes me a piece of paper with impeccable all caps penmanship, detailed directions, and a freehand drawn map of how to get to three different trails. At the bottom of the map it says: “Call me if you get lost.”
“This is awesome, Nick. Thank you.”
Goddess, he’s so thoughtful. I wish there were more words to express my appreciation.
We finish vaping in silence. He stores the Volcano in the cabinet.
“I also brought you this,” Nick says.
He retrieves the black necktie he was wearing tonight from his pocket. My heart jumps. Part excitement. Part fear. I’ve never done anything kinky with a lover. Receiving the tie, I meet his gaze. There is lust and something dark in his hazel green eyes. Nerves? If I give it too much thought, I’ll miss the moment. I rise and turn the modern, low-back barstool around so it’s facing away from the kitchen.
“Sit here.”
“No blindfold. I want to see everything,” Nick says, sitting on the barstool.
“Should we pick a safe word?” I ask.
Behind his back, I loop the tie around his strong wrists.
“I’ll tell you when I’m ready to fuck you.”
I accept his answer. Even tied up, Nick wants to be in charge.
I dim the lights in the kitchen and come up behind him. The weed kicks in and fills my mind with a steady stream of possibilities. I stand there, pondering how to start.
“I’m getting sleepy, Horny Girl.”
Nick swims before work. On the car ride back, he said his alarm will go off at 5:00 in the morning. My stalling is cutting into our playtime.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” I whisper.
“Write it,” Nick whispers back.
It’s exactly what I need to hear. I trail kisses down the nape of his neck and he immediately groans. I suck and pucker my way over his shoulder, stopping to run my tongue over his golden muscles and a tiny scar. Leaning in close, my tight nipples drag over his back through the fabric of my chemise. Nick gasps.
“Fuck, Lynn.”
Arousal rushes to my core. Powerful. Sensual. My inner thigh aches with need. The thin fabric of the thong, completely moist. I take a deep breath and walk around so I’m facing him, but I don’t make eye contact. One look at his gorgeous face and I’ll abandon my plan, untie his hands, and beg him to ride me in his bed.
I run kisses down the center of his chest, stopping to flick my tongue over a nipple. Nick groans and attempts to move. I pause. With him sitting on the barstool, we’re almost at eye level. Cradling his jaw in my hands, I kiss his delicious mouth. My lips slant over his again and again. Nick tries to control the kiss with his tongue, but I pull away to whisper in his ear. The tips of my breasts, teasing his chest through the thin lingerie.
“Nick, this only works if you trust me.”
He hesitates. I nuzzle my nose against his neck until his body relaxes.
“Thank you. Now, I’m going to fuck you with my mouth.”
“Lynn—”
“No more talking. Moaning is okay.”
I step back so he can watch me push the straps of the chemise off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, circling my feet.
“You’re beautiful, Lynn.”
“So are you, Superstar.”
Grazing my hands over the muscles of his inner thigh, I spread his legs a bit wider. Through the thick cotton of his pants, I feel the hard defining lines of his physique. This man is a machine. And for now, he’s my machine.
I give his balls gentle tugs with one hand and pinch and twist my nipple with the other. Feeling a bit bolder, I lift my breast and bring it to my own lips, giving the nipple a little suck. Initially, I’m doing it for Nick’s viewing pleasure, but the sensation of my tongue against my own nipple is so magnificent, I linger a bit. My tongue darting over the stiff bud.
Nick’s moan reverberates throughout the space and the tip of his erection presses against the slit of his pajama pants. Pleasing him is as satisfying as his touch. The horny girl in me kicks in and I want to see how much I can get away with.
I want to be the woman who wrecks sex for him.
I free Nick’s fully erect shaft from his pants. I bend at the waist, taking all of him in my mouth. His tip grazing the back of my throat. My mouth bobbing up and down, swiftly. Nick bucks in the barstool, and his toes curl against the floor. His godly body; tense with need. He tries to stand, but I wrap my fingers around the top of his thighs and lean in, taking him deeper into my mouth.
A muffled whimper escapes from the back of my throat. This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. I want to appreciate every minute. I have no idea where this thing between us is going to lead, but I want him always to remember me. I want him to jack off to this memory in his high-end shower. I want him to fuck his ex-beauty queen wife and fantasize about my mouth covering his length, willing him to shoot his load in the back of my throat.
Nick groans loudly. The salty taste of precum coats my tongue, signaling me to slow down my deepthroat work on his dick. Pulling way, I delicately run my teeth over his shaft. Nick gasps. I’ve never felt more sexually powerful than I do right now.
I step back. Though I have yet to look at his face, I sense his intense stare. Dipping my two middle fingers into my mouth, I run them between my breasts, down my tummy, and under the waistband of my thong to my clit.
I rarely finger myself anymore, instead favoring the sensation of my vibrator. But standing here, in front of this gorgeous man, in this lacy white thong (and very high), makes the stroke of my fingers against my engorged nub more invigorating than ever before. I can’t stop. My eyes close. Moans of pleasure fall from my mouth. I’m so close to the burst of bliss I crave so much.
