by Deena Bright
Hooking my thumbs into his waistband, I free his erection. It’s large, larger than any I’ve ever seen, thicker than I ever dreamed possible. It’s even bigger than that night on the couch; his arousal and excitement is clearly evident. Intimidation overcomes me. I hesitate; he groans. I can’t do this to him again, but I’m not ready to take that on. Surely, I’ll give him release; I’ll let him finish. But I can’t allow him to penetrate me now, not tonight. I’m not ready—maybe that’s greedy and selfish—but I just can’t, not tonight.
I position myself further down his body, grasping his penis in my hand. I stroke it slowly, releasing the grip, petting him lightly. His hips begin to move; his breathing increases. I use one finger to tickle and massage his shaft as my other hand kneads the flesh of his testicles, rolling them in my hand. If he wants to tease one another, then the game is on. I stop touching his penis and move to the sensitive area between his legs. I tickle it lightly, increasing the pressure and releasing it. I traced the line of his crack, dipping my fingers slightly in and around his hole.
“Janelle,” Briggs begs. It’s one word; it begs so much. He wants me. He needs me. I’m torturing him equally so. I take his penis into my mouth. He gasps with delight and surprise, whimpering as I suck him slowly. Moving as far down his penis as I can handle, I work my way slowly back up, allowing my hand to follow my mouth, applying a squeezing and releasing pressure as I do so. His hands grip the sheets as his hips move to help me.
With his penis still in my mouth, I whisper, “I know Briggs, I know.” The vibrations from my words increase his desire. I suck and pump harder; his hands stay on my head, playing with my hair, not pushing or directing me in any way. Briggs relinquished complete control to me, allowing me to please him as I know how. My other hand reaches for his. I hold it tightly in my own. He thumbs the back of my hand as I suck him harder, further down my throat. It’s intimate, too intimate. This is just sex. I pull my hand away, putting both of my hands on his penis, speeding up the process.
Briggs gasps; I know it’s a warning. He’s getting close. I move faster, wanting to taste him, swallow him. “Janelle, I’m going to…” he warns.
“I know, I’m ready,” I reply, hungrily, taking him further down my throat; he fills my mouth and calls my name. There’s so much empowerment in knowing that I can make a man like him beg for me and scream my name. I’ve never allowed a man to finish anywhere near my mouth before, let alone in it, but I’ll never tell him so. I’m not comfortable with him knowing how much I truly wanted to please him, to seduce him.
I kiss a trail back up his body, taking in its beauty. When I lie slightly on him, he wraps his arms around me. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear and staring at me, he asks, “How’d I get so lucky? You’re amazing.” He kisses my forehead and holds me close to him, tickling my bare back.
I have no idea how to respond, which causes me to get irrational and panicky. I love fooling around with Briggs, but that’s all this is. Isn’t it? My divorce papers aren’t even filed. What the mother Hell am I doing? I’m guilt-ridden for allowing myself such fun and pleasure. Women aren’t allowed to experience such sexual satisfaction; that make us whores. Liking sex and craving it is even worse. Knowing that I’m leaving for New York and am going to be gone for a few days gives me a sense of relief. I need a break from my own sexual temptations. Earlier today, I was disappointed, because Leo hadn’t kissed me. Now, I’m naked in bed with Briggs. Society doesn’t allow this, frowns upon a woman finding her sexuality, her sexual being. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t been pleased sexually in quite some time and therefore felt unwanted, undesirable—to my own husband. But now, now, I’m completely immersed in this man’s desires and wants.
Why is that wrong?
I don’t know why; I just know it is.
I spent so much time pondering my own guilt, I hadn’t realized Briggs had fallen asleep, so peacefully and silently. I stare at his profile, taking him all in. His jawbone is strong, defined. Stubble’s growing in; I trace a line over his cheek, feeling the prickle. Could I have a life with Briggs Alexander, soon-to-be ESPN superstar, or is this just something that I have to let fizzle out as quickly as it sparked?
“HOLY SHIT! NICE work!”
I sit straight up in bed; my bare chest exposed. Realizing it, I grab for the blanket, covering myself and Briggs, too.
“Char, what the fuck? What’re you doing here?” I whisper angrily, trying unsuccessfully to not wake Briggs. He stirs, rolls over, and snuggles against me, moaning happily with pleasure. I shove him off, embarrassed.
“Well, nice to see you too,” she pouts with hands on her hips and lip out. “I wanted to get breakfast; the door was unlocked. I wanted sausage, but looks like you’ve had some already.” She strolls up to the bed, lifting the covers, looking underneath at Briggs’ naked body. “Holy Bratwurst is that fucking incredible.”
“Char!” I scream, covering him up. Briggs opens his eyes, looks at my face, senses my tension and rolls over to see Char staring down at him.
Briggs looks at Char, looks back at me, and then says, “Did you invite a friend?”
I yell, “No!” at the same time Char screams “Yes!”
Oh Jesus Christ.
“That’s it, get out. Go in the kitchen. I’ll be out in a second.” Char backs out of the room, staring at us, giving me a two-thumbs up. She looks positively gleeful. I’m dying, truly humiliated. Living in this pool house sure has its privacy issues.
“Your friend, I take it?” He rolls over, trapping me in the bed, kissing me on the nose. “I’m glad she’s here. I want meet your friends.” He nuzzles my neck, licking my earlobe.
“Oh my God, Briggs, get off. This is awful.” I try to shove him off of me. He doesn’t budge an inch.
“Why? Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks, looking hurt
“No, not you. I’m… I’m… I don’t know, embarrassed of myself. I can’t be doing this shit. I’m married.” My response worsens the situation. He looks even more pained. “Briggs, I don’t know. I have to go out there.” I get up, pull on my robe, and meet Char in the kitchen.
Char’s sitting on the counter, flipping through an old Cosmo magazine. She peers at me above the magazine with raised, inquisitive brows. I’m immediately on the defensive, “Don’t start in on me, why are you even here?”
Hopping down off the counter, she explains, “I told you. I want breakfast.” Her curious face morphs to concern. “Janelle, what’s up? Why on earth are you so angry? You’re not really mad at me, are you?”
Honestly, Char has walked in on me and Marcus a thousand times, and even with a few random make out hookups in college. Never have I felt this vulnerable, this embarrassed, or this remorseful.
“Not now… let’s talk about this later… at breakfast.” I promise her.
“Did someone say, ‘breakfast?’ I’m starving.” Briggs says, walking down the hallway, wearing only his boxers. He stops, nods to Char, and picks up his jeans and shirt off the living room floor. As he steps into his jeans, it hits me that it really is a shame that he has to cover up such magnificence. He should get some type of permit to be naked, or just in boxers, at all times. I’d sign a petition allowing that. “Hey Janelle’s friend, I’m Briggs.” He waves at Char, his cocky grin splaying on his face.
“Char,” she coos. “It’s nice to see you… so very… nice to see you. Yeah, I said breakfast,” she confirms, staring at Briggs in a carnal, lustful way. “I’m suddenly hornier… I mean hungrier than I ever been in my entire life,” Char swoons, not taking her eyes from Briggs.
Before Char and I left, I had to explain to Briggs that I needed some girl time with Char, admitting that we had girly topics to discuss. He asked if he could see me that night or the next day, but I told him that I needed to get ready for my trip to New York. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t told him about the trip in the morning. Promising him that I’d call when I got back on Wednesday, I nearly had to push him to th
e door. While I was saying “goodbye” to him at the door, he leaned in to kiss me, but I dodged him, offering him my cheek. His face questioned my actions, but he didn’t let on that he was confused or hurt. He said “goodbye” to Char and left, leaving me feeling awful and regretful.
“Oh my God, tell me that it was the best sex you’ve ever had.” Char’s grilling me for details on the drive to our favorite hole-in-the-wall breakfast joint.
Explaining that we didn’t have penetrable sex, she just looks at me and waves me off. “Why would you even bother with the cake without licking off the icing?” she questions. When it comes to my escapades, it seems like I’m always disappointing her, but always going beyond my own comfort zone at the same time. How can two people be so sexually different?
“Bitch, you need to understand something right now,” Char explains. “Women are entitled to explore their deepest desires and their sexuality, finding their limits and pleasure. How can you not see that?”
“I just don’t,” I admit. “I have a hard time buying into it, especially because I’m filled with my ‘good girl guilt.’ A woman’s supposed to be with one man, monogamously and faithfully,” I counter, knowing that she’ll never agree with me.
“Really? How’d that work out for you—that monogamy business?” she asks, sarcastically.
“Low blow,” I say, rolling my eyes. But I know I’m right. Monogamy. That’s how it’s written, what’s expected. It’s what I believe in, but lately, what I believe and what I want aren’t exactly the same any longer. I’m struggling. I’m just overly grateful to Jasper right now for his unexpected, but much needed, trip to New York. I get to spend the next few days hiding from my life, from my mistakes, and from the men that I’m making those mistakes with. The next morning’s flight could not come quickly enough. This getaway plane can’t take off fast enough.
JUST AS I’M packing up the last of my luggage and piling it by the door, I spot Leo outside in the yard, fertilizing the grass. Seeing me through the window, he flashes those dimples and waves. I wave back at him, motioning for him to come around to the front. Leo walks around to the front of the house as I meet him at the door, walking out to see him.
“Is your brother pissed at me for not getting much done yesterday?” he asks as I nearly skip down the walkway, oddly happy to see him. “I’m going to be really busy this week with work, so I won’t even be able to stop by until Thursday or Friday,” he explains apologetically.
“Not at all; he’s so caught up in Garrity Advertising and golfing that he probably didn’t even notice.” I reassure him. “The girls called me today and asked if you would come play with them next time they’re over. They’re your biggest fans.”
Laughing, he says, “They were fun. I’ll come by for sure. I hate that my niece and nephew live in Arizona; I only see them once a year, if that,” his eyes darken and look away.
“Well, you can borrow mine any time; sometimes, they’re too much of a handful. But they’re definitely smitten with you.” I pat him on the back. “Nice work, Prince Charming.”
“I’m glad my approval rating is up with the 6-year-old crowd, any chance they can talk to the 25 or 26-year-old crowd for me?” he smiles, pushes against me, and says, “better yet, tell them to put in a good word for me in the 29-year-old crowd.” His dimples are twitching; his smile’s contagious. Holy Moly, what does he mean by that? He laughs and starts to get up.
“Leo, I have ask you something.” I say, stopping him. “I’m worried I’ll offend or embarrass you though.” I don’t know why I want to bring up this subject or why I’m even going to go through with it, but I just have to know. My curiosity is getting the best of me.
“Alright, I’ll bite; you piqued my curiosity,” he turns to face me, focusing on my eyes. “Shoot.”
“The other day, you said that you weren’t waiting to… you know… but that it just hadn’t happened yet. I just don’t get it. You’re really… really… good looking.” I pause, hoping that I’m not offending him or embarrassing him. “You’ve grown up so much since your senior year. Aren’t girls just throwing themselves at you?” Truthfully, I just can’t figure this out—can’t wrap my brain around it.
He chuckles, bashfully. “I mean, I’ve dated. I’m just not sure what women want. I can’t figure THAT out,” he admits, turning to look at me. “I’m not just going sleep with every girl I’m attracted to; I want the real thing. I’m not looking to have sex for the sake of getting laid.” His sincerity and honesty is surprising. I just cannot even believe that I’m having this conversation with Leo Cling—and I’m the one who brought it up.
“Girls want the same thing that guys want, Leo.” I explain.
“Miss Garrity, that is the farthest thing from the truth, trust me.”
Shocking me again and simultaneously cracking me up, Leo explains that he spent some time trying to figure out what really made women tick. He even went as far as to read the Twilight series, Fifty Shades of Grey, and even The Hunger Games to figure out how a woman’s mind worked. Every time his sister would post on Facebook about her new favorite book or author, Leo downloaded it to his phone and read it—never admitting to her that he did so. “And believe me that was the most confusing research I’ve ever done, contradictory in every way,” he complains.
I can’t help but laugh my ass off at him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t take any offense at all, laughs right along with me. “Leo, those books are fantasies, well Fifty and Twilight are, The Hunger Games isn’t even a love story, you moron.” I admonish, smacking his arm. Wow, his really solid arm.
“Well if women want a guy to tie them up, beat them with sticks, or even suck the blood out of their necks, then I really don’t think I’m the guy for them.” Leo confesses, jokingly. “But I can probably fight off predators who want to the kill the woman I love, and even sacrifice my life for hers.” Man, what the fuck is hotter than a well-read guy? Apparently, I have to add “a guy who likes to read” to my list of turn ons.
Why aren’t women flocking to this man?
“You’re missing the point,” I argue, getting into full teacher mode. “Take Edward Cullen for example, if he and Bella were a real adolescent couple, she’d freak her shit if he started telling her where to go, who to talk to, and snuck in at night to watch her sleep. She’d have a restraining order on him in 10 seconds flat.” I explain. “Trust me Leo, I knew how women work, especially adolescent girls. They would never put up with that type of control freak.”
Wanting to explain myself further, I add, “The same with Christian and Anastasia; she’d deem him a crazy-ass freak job, and she’d spend hours making fun of him with her sexy roommate and hot artist friend.” I have this overwhelming sense to convince him that I’m right. I really need to convince him. Continuing, I say, “It’s the fantasy, Leo. The fantasy of the forbidden, having what you cannot… or should not have.” And holy Godiva, am I starting to learn that the hard way.
Leo smiles, and says, “Money, they also love a rich man.”
I can’t deny that. Women do love a man with money.
Aren’t I currently doing the same thing? I want Briggs. If I’m being honest, I kind of want to take Leo for a test drive too, but I know that there is no way that actually having them would be a well-thought out plan.
“Leo, that shit’s not reality. Reality is falling in love with the best friend, the one who saved you, gave you bread, wanted to eat poisonous berries with you, kept you warm at night,” I explain to him. Women want someone who loves them unconditionally. “Women want a man to take control, not be in control; that’s the flaw in those stories.” I desperately want him to believe me, and in turn, believe in his own desirability.
Leo looks at me, studying my face, my reactions. “I think you’re wrong. How could they be so popular with women if those stories aren’t dead on?”
There’s something refreshing about arguing with a man when it doesn’t turn into a full out battle. He argues his case, calmly an
d rationally. He’s intelligent and well-spoken. “Nobody wants the Jacobs and Peetas; women nowadays are pining for the rich, dreamy Edwards, and Christians—Hell, even the Travises and the Kellans.” he argues.
Jesus Christ, he reads Indie authors too? Who knew I could be attracted to a vagina-reader? But I am. Damn, I bet his sister, and I have a shit-ton in common. We devour the same books and book boyfriends. “Nobody wants the good guy,” Leo sighs.
I do. I do.
Arguing sensibly with a man without either person getting offended or hurt is always a hard task. However, arguing lightly and easily with a man about literature and life is refreshing, fun, and a turn on too.
I really love a well-read man, especially a well-read chick lit man! “Dreaming Leo, the key word is dreaming.” How could I explain this in a way that made perfect sense, made him agree with me? “Okay listen, suppose I get into bed tonight, what would I rather have in my bed, a cold, cement-like statue, or a warm, soft puppy dog?” I question, trying to analyze this in a way that he sees my point and agrees with it.
Feeling compelled to continue to try to convince him, I add, “Nobody on this planet sleeps next to statues, but many women sleep next to their loyal puppy dogs.” Why did something make perfect sense to me, and not to him, or anyone else for that matter? “We dream of the unattainable bad boy, but when we go to bed at night, we want the warm, predictable, puppy dogs, the Jacobs and the Peetas, not the hard, cold vampires and dominants.” I say.
He just shakes his head. “I’ve been the loyal best friend, the good guy, and I’ve never gotten the girl,” he admits. I look at him, frowning. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not looking for sympathy. It’s a cold hard fact; girls dream about and want the bad boys, asleep or even awake.”
“Augustus!” I shriek. “Augustus gets the girl.”
