by Liz Crowe
"Oh yes," she hissed as he licked his way up her inner thigh then flicked his tongue over her bare clit. "Somehow I knew you'd be good at this," she groaned as he slid his finger inside her. Her hips angled and she draped her long lean legs over his shoulders digging her heels into his back. Her smell swirled in his brain and his body took over as he sucked and finger fucked her to a loud, operatic orgasm. He stood slowly, and she wrapped her legs around him, tugging him into her orbit. "Now, about that first order of business." She sighed and threaded her fingers in his hair. He angled into her, let the head of his cock have full contact with the heat of her glorious pussy. "Remember? Fucking me?"
"Yeah," he said, leaning over her and grabbing the seat to brace himself. "I remember." He thrust hard, and let her low moan of satisfaction fill his ears and his brain. She grabbed his ass, met him thrust for thrust, but he held back, counting backwards from twenty, and mentally reciting baseball stats while watching her face. There was nothing he loved more than the shape of a woman's lips, the look in her eyes as he fucked her, really, really satisfied her. And this woman – Lindsay, he reminded himself – was a classic multi-orgasmic example of exquisite older womanhood. She knew what she wanted, and took it. And he was happy to be taken, if it meant quieting the increasingly unhappy noises in his head.
"Oh God," she yelped as he spread his legs to brace himself and leaned over her to suck one of her hard nipples into his mouth. He reached down to stroke her clit, sensing she'd come again that way, less from the actual penetration. He'd been deflowered by an older woman, a high school teacher actually. Their affair hadn't ended in a sordid news-worthy story but in a mutually satisfactory parting of ways when he graduated. She'd taught him a lot, and the string of older women he'd been drawn to since had only added to his skill set. Most women could not climax from pure penetration. There had to be some kind of friction against her clit, and he knew just how to give it. So he rubbed that hard bud of her flesh and let her grip him as he pounded into her. She came just as he knew she would, long, loud and sweet, dragging him with her. He grunted, and let go of the bike, trusting it to hold them up as they shuddered in each other's arms, their tongues tangled with a kiss. The gloom of dusk settled fully into night as his vision clouded over from the intensity
"Mm hmm," she sighed as he slipped out of her and stepped back, hands on his hips. "Just as I suspected." She leaned back on the bike, her hard nipples pointed up in the dark, her legs still parted and the glistening pulse of her sex shining in the moonlight.
"How's that," he said, tugging up his trousers.
"Never mind," she giggled, hooking her finger in his belt loop and tugging him close. His brain was still foggy, but he knew he should go, take the bike back, and face his empty, lonely condo again--alone, to contemplate his unsure future. She cupped his still half-hard cock. He smiled and tucked her long hair behind her ear, letting her continue. "I think this should be an appetizer. To be followed by a full-fledged four course meal with gourmet dessert." She nipped his lower lip.
He started to step away, knowing he should leave. "I've been known to serve it up that way," he put his arm around her shoulders, laid a well-practiced kiss on her, then tugged the bike into a dark corner, praying no one would steal the god damned thing while he stayed here and fucked this woman's brains into complete oblivion.
But she handed him a helmet, put hers back on and patted the seat. "Your place lover boy. Take me there." He shrugged. Here, there, wherever, this was gonna rock.
Chapter Two
"Take 'em off baby. C'mon." Lindsay giggled and rolled over onto her stomach, gripping the camera. "You are just this side of photo shopped. Lemme see it."
Craig rolled his eyes, picked up his guitar and tried to ignore her, but he knew she would not be. She was fucking insatiable, and he'd spent the better part of the last three months playing walking dildo for her. His cock was rubbed raw, but the distraction did manage to shut up the constant mental reminders that he should not be here, but back in school. That alone was worth it. He strummed, sang, and she snapped his picture constantly. He had on shorts and nothing else. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, but he ignored it in favor of staring at Lindsay: the amazing lean line of her bare legs, the way her long black hair draped over her shoulders as she clicked away, keeping the camera between them.
He already regretted agreeing to a video camera in the bedroom. That night, she'd come over to his place with it, along with some of the most amazing pot he'd ever tried. They drank cheap wine, smoked, and had gymnastic sex that he barely remembered the next morning, other than her smell lingering all over his face. But the camera was there, blinking, ominous and a little intimidating, when he awoke the next morning nearly stumbling over it in his quest for coffee. HHe'd stood, his body quivering, staring out the kitchen window, half of him wondering how he got to this odd point in his life – nearly twenty-four years old, no college degree, making decent money selling motorcycles, playing in a half-assed rock band, and fucking a woman nearly fifteen years his senior, but unable to stop any of it.
"Craig, sweetie, humor me," she purred, rising from the bed in her full naked glory and running her hands through his hair, down his face, and settling on his lap. She set the guitar aside and slanted her lips over his. He drowned in her kiss, tried very, very hard not to make this into anything more than sex. He loved every single one of the women who'd taught him, who'd been drawn to him like bees to a bright flower. But eventually he'd let them go. Lindsay, however, made his whole body shiver and his ears get hot. He wanted her, all of the time. Love? Not likely. But it would do for now.
He smiled at her, stood and slid his shorts off, fisted her dark hair when she got to her knees and sucked him down her throat. He groaned at the absolutely incredible sensation when she slid her expert fingers under his balls and stroked him there, then inched her way towards his ass. He thrust into her mouth grunting with the simple exertion of getting off, yet again. His brain clicked in for some reason at the last minute and he groaned and bent over her, trying to stop about ten seconds too late. He gripped her hair harder, but she kept up her exquisite suction then her finger slid deep into his ass.
"Fuck!" he cried out, and pounded down her throat, furious at himself but helpless to stop. He came for what felt like an hour, groaning with the effort-slash-pain-slash-pleasure.
She released his cock with one last lick, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grabbed that infernal camera again. "Craig," she sighed, "show me."
He sighed, ran his hands through hair, his cock still hard and throbbing. "Jesus. Whatever," he flopped down onto the couch and caught his breath. He heard the camera clicking away but ignored it, reaching for his guitar as a sort of shield. He plucked out a tune, sang, his voice croaky with exhaustion and frustration.
She climbed around him, had him sit up, move the guitar so it was just covering his crotch. She kissed him a lot, ran her hands up and down his bare torso, teasing his nipples to hard peaks then backed off to take yet more fucking pictures. She set the camera down and lit a joint as he strummed and tried to convince himself to make her leave. He'd never been to her place once in all their torrid time together. But had managed to fuck her in every room of his condo, in his cubicle at the dealership, in the rooftop pool, after hours on top of another motorcycle in the dealership. He took a drag, held it in, and then resumed playing. She climbed up on the bed, draped her arms around his neck, and held the joint to his lips. He smoked, played, and before he knew it he was naked, with a cowboy hat on his head, holding the guitar and doing whatever the hell she wanted him to while she snapped away with her infernal fucking camera.
"You putting me on the internet or what?" he gasped at one point after she'd reached down to stroke him again. He grabbed her neck, forced his tongue between her lips, making her moan and mold herself into him. He let the emotion carry him, as he always did. He knew his own weaknesses with women – knew he would love them, fuck them, whatever t
hey wanted, as long as he could get something in return. Something beyond the physical. He had not found it yet and doubted he would with this woman, but she was kind of addicting.
"You wish," she giggled as she pushed him back on his bed and straddled his hips, rocking into him. He yanked her down, pinched one of her nipples and kissed her hard, letting her get off on him, rubbing her clit against his still half-hard shaft. She moaned, pulsed and sighed, then sat up, her grin evil and infectious.
"I am feeling used right now. Sort of dirty." He said, his hips already moving again, involuntarily, his cock pulsing with need but his brain shutting down, making him take her arms and shove her off. She flopped over, frowning, but he rose, and made for the kitchen, ignoring her. This whole thing was making him insane, restless, and courting insomnia. He swam for hours, sold bikes, paid his bills and played music. Lindsay occupied his nights. He hated himself, but he could not stop, no matter what he did.
Chapter Three
"Hey," he answered his number two sister-in-law's call by rote, wondering how many of them were on the other line this time. "Sort of busy," he wasn't at that moment but was not in the mood for their crap.
"Craig!" Grace shrieked in his ear. "When did you start modeling?"
"What?" he half ignored her, one of three then-girlfriends who'd taken one look at him as a toddler and been instantly infatuated. They had coddled him, fussed over him, and he had barely had to lift a finger to do anything most of his growing-up years. He never did laundry, cleaned, or prepared food his entire life until he went to college, and even then they'd been at him reminding him to brush, floss, wash, wear condoms. He groaned, determined not to blame the phalanx of women on the other end of the phone for his own lameness. He winced when he heard Brian's voice. His oldest brother was a successful engineer, had two kids and was married to the woman who'd started the phone call.
"Craig," he said. "The girls, they saw a … a ... book cover. And, you, you're…."
"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" he rolled his eyes when Lillian, one of the still-just-girlfriends took the phone.
"Sweetie, we didn't know you were modeling."
"I'm not." He growled, worry setting up a distinct home base in his chest.
"Well, you're on a book cover. I hope you're getting paid."
"Holy shit. How do you, I mean…" he clapped his hand over his eyes, remembering that night, with the camera, and the guitar and the hat.
"Are you gay?" his bold youngest brother blurted into his ear.
"No. I'm not gay." He opened his laptop, and pulled up a browser, immediately firing up a search engine.
"Well, your naked body is on the cover of a bestselling man-love novel. 'His Guitar Cowboy' is climbing the charts."
He tried not to yell. "How do you know it's me…I mean…."
"Your face, you numb nuts. Your pretty boy mug is there, along with your chest, arms, hands, guitar, and legs. You know, we can imagine the rest, along with thousands of other eager readers. Seriously though, you know we will support … whatever sort of lifestyle you choose, you know, relative to your, um, sexuality."
"I'm a lot of things, Rick, but gay is definitely not one of them." He Googled the utterly ridiculous book name then tipped over backwards out of his chair when he saw it. "Holy fucking shit." He sat on the floor, staring at the improbable sight of himself, holding the guitar and apparently hitchhiking on a country road looking to get fucked in the ass or something.
"Craig? Hey? You there?" the voices of his siblings kept pouring from the phone. He hung up without another word, groaned and leaned back on the bed. Nice work Robinson. Not only are you on a gay book cover you didn't get paid for it. That bitch! He set his jaw, climbed up and turned the computer off.
* * *
"So," he sipped his beer and stared at Lindsay attempting to keep his face neutral. The lightning from a spectacular storm lit up the room. "I hear I'm famous."
She looked up from her infernal, constant yet fruitless efforts at Sudoku. He always ended up grabbing the goddamned thing and solving it in about fifteen minutes. She set the book aside and put her feet in his lap. He ignored them.
"Honey," she wiggled around, digging her toes towards his crotch. When he didn't respond, she rose gracefully to her feet and stood over him. He averted his eyes. He knew his own weaknesses and was not about to get distracted by her lush body or her many skills.
"What the fuck is up with me on a book cover?"
"Oh, um," she walked away, fiddled with her hair. He tore his eyes from her, realizing she was putting on a hip-sway show just for him. "That."
"Yes, Lindsay. Last time I checked, I get paid for 'stock photos' used on any public site." He sipped, tried to stay calm. He had not known this little fact until today, when he looked it up. But he was determined to call her on it. She'd used him and made money off his image. He was on the cover of a book about men fucking each other.
"Lindsay, my family saw me on the cover of a bestselling gay romance book. Please tell me you aren't shopping that video we took anywhere."
She kept staring out the window.
"Well, anyway, you owe me money." He stood, threw the empty bottle into the bin and glared at her. "And I still need an answer about the fucking video."
She whirled around, her blue eyes snapping with fury. He met her halfway, gripped her arms. She leaned in, kissed him, but he pulled away, using every ounce of willpower he had "I trusted you," he choked out. "I…love you." He had no idea why he said this but once it was out he couldn't take it back.
She laughed, and he stepped away felt his face heat up alarmingly. "No, you don't. You love fucking me."
"Yeah, well, I did, anyway." He ran a shaking hand over his eyes and dragged a hard reality up from his gut. "But now I realize that you," he grabbed another beer and tried to get his temper under control, "are a bitch and can get the fuck out of my condo."
She swallowed hard, put her hands on her hips. "Okay, since we understand each other now." She grabbed her purse and started for the door. He sensed his heart shattering at the sight of her actually leaving. He squared his jaw, realizing just how played he'd been.
"Guess so." He said.
She turned at the last minute, giving him a final, teasing glimpse over her shoulder. He bit down on his tongue so hard it drew blood to stay quiet. Fuck her. He stood in the doorway, watched her hit the elevator button as she glared back at him. Then, before he could stop himself, he was at her side, shoving her into the lift, up against the mirrored wall. "Maybe I'll let you work it off," he ground out before slanting his lips over hers. She gripped his hair, wrapped her long arms around him, and he fell back down the rabbit hole, once again with his cock getting satisfaction and the rest of him becoming more and more detached.
"Hit the stop button," she muttered before pulling him into another kiss, as she slid her panties down and off, then turned around to present her ass to his gaze and touch. "And take out what you think I owe you however you want."
He stared at her, hit the button then ran his hands down her sides, gripped her hips and tried to talk himself out of it. Lindsay was too much; he had to get away from her. But she spread her legs wider, looked back him through a curtain of long black hair and he was gone. The inane elevator music silenced or perhaps it was the roaring in his ears, but he unzipped and sighed as he slipped into the warm sweet grip of her body. Leaning over her, he put his hands on hers and threaded their fingers together, moving his hips slowly, loving and hating it at the same time.
He pulled her hand lower, and they stroked her clit together as he moved faster and their breathy moans filled the small room. "Gonna come baby. Fuck me harder." Her voice lit a fire at the base of his skull.
He let go of her hand and let her keep rubbing herself, gripped her hips and did just that, coming loud and long as the room dimmed and brightened around him. They stilled, their breathing calmed and he slipped out of her and zipped up his jeans.
"Nice,
" she said, turning around and leaning back. "So, not mad at Lindsay anymore lover boy?"
He picked up her lacy scrap of underwear and handed them to her, hit the button for the garage level and kissed her as an answer. When the doors slid open, he stayed put. She ran her hand down his face, but suddenly all he wanted was to get away from her. She was grabby, needy, and while his body valued her willingness to fuck him pretty much anywhere, anytime, he was getting uneasy about the whole thing. Not knowing anything more than her name, that she could afford an expensive motorcycle, and that he was not allowed to go to her house was not cutting it any more. He leaned into her hand, grabbed it and kissed it.
"Dinner tomorrow?" he asked as the terror of being alone that night overcame his disgust at himself for letting her continue to fuck around with him.
"No, my sweet. I'll call you." She turned and left him without another word.
* * *
The next day at work, his mind wandered. "My man," the annoying customer slapped his shoulder, making Craig want to punch the guy right in the nose, but Craig smiled and let the blowhard bullshit his way out of yet another purchase. The guy got off on visiting the dealership, loved to test drive, but never fucking bought anything. Craig half listened, stressing over the utility payment for the next month. He owned his condo, thanks to his inheritance from his dad, but he'd pissed away a shit ton of money on the band, his instruments, food, booze, drugs and women. An embarrassing shit ton, and he had no idea where it went.
