Climbing Mount Rushford
Trixie
I’ve only worn a one-piece leotard with tights once before in my life. I believe I was three, and a dance recital was involved. But wearing this outfit—this silly, silly costume on a night like tonight? Something tells me getting this thing off will be just as fun as scraping gum off the bottom of my shoe.
My God, I’m going to have SEX! I’m going to lose my virginity—turn in my V card, get myself deflowered, pop my cherry, give up the passion fruit, lay it down for the man in the most literal way. I’m about to get over one long bout of virginitis, and Dr. Rushford Knight is going to do the honors by way of lancing me with his flesh-covered spear.
I’m so excited that I lunge for my phone and start texting Sunday until I remember that Rush is actually her sibling, and I drop the phone like a viper.
“Who you gonna call?” he sings with a low, sexy growl, and a hard quiver rides through me, straight into the nexus of my being.
“Vagina Busters?” It comes out unsure and overall lame. Crap. So not sexy. I sit back over his lap, and he scoots himself up, cupping my cheeks as he plants the sweetest kiss in the history of ever over my lips.
Who knew Rush Knight was such a swoon-worthy dream behind closed doors? Although a part of me refuses to believe he’s even half this romantic with the denizens he’s bedded. I’m perfectly convinced this honey sweet show is just for me. Those droves of hos were merely mattress hoppers who bounced on him like a trampoline—emphasis on the tramp—until he pushed them out the door.
GAH!
Note to self: Do not envision your brand new boyfriend having sex with hot hos moments before you’re about to give him the gift of a lifetime—a visit to the Trixie Toberman Rose Parade. That bud is going to bloom. And most likely bleed.
Rush narrows those dark brows into a hard, sexy as hell V, and my girl parts start in on a last-minute virginal panic.
Okay. Breathe. Yes. Rush is beyond gorgeous, but that only partially influenced my decision to bed him. I’m a moron in many respects of the definition, but I’m also pragmatic about whom I associate myself with and choose to spend my time with. And have I mentioned the fact I waved the L word around tonight like the white flag of surrender? Clearly, this boy has my good senses hogtied like a calf at the rodeo. I never believed I’d say that word to anyone outside of my immediate family, and there are members inside my immediate family I can’t recall ever saying that word to. I shove all thoughts of my mother right off the bed.
A rumble of a laugh rides through his chest, and I take the bumpy ride along with him. “Tell me again that you want this,” he gravels it out in that bedroom voice of his.
Rush locks eyes with mine, both our chests pulsating in and out in a panic.
“Oh, I want this.” I lick a line up the side of his face and feel the prickly sensation his scruff leaves behind on my tongue. “I’m telling you—I’m seriously impressed by your night moves. You, my friend, have Lust 101 down to a science, and I’m not ashamed to be a devoted disciple, parishioner, all-out worshipper in the House of Knight.”
He moans with approval while making out my features in the dim light. The room is awash in a sea of silver as the moon bleeds over the bed, over his face like a kiss from heaven itself. He’s so unearthly beautiful like this, as if he were a marble statue come to life, some old Italian work of art that garnered the ability to become human for a few short hours just for me. But he’s mine, and we’re going to last far longer than a few short hours. Rush and I are right. I can feel it. They say you know when you know. And well, I damn well know.
“Tonight’s sermon”—he does a quick rolling maneuver, landing me on my back, his full weight resting on mine for less than a second, and I drink down every ounce—“is the fine art of appreciating the female form. The art of worshipping at the proper temple—yours.”
Rush brushes his lips over mine before meandering down my neck, loving me in a line right down to the hollow of my neck, and it incites a riot of feel-good vibrations deep in my belly. He swills his tongue in a circle, and instinctively my fingers grip the sheets. This is happening. Rush and I are taking that next step, that Grand Canyon worthy leap to the other side of our forever. This is forever, right?
He runs a fire line to my ear and nibbles on my earlobe, sending chills up my back, and I shiver. That protrusion in his pants seems impossibly hard, and for a second I’m moved to inquire if he stuck a Coke bottle in them. My God, is that Rock of Gibraltar a part of his anatomy? Is that lap rocket made of steel actually thinking of achieving penetration in my soft, delicate body? In an orifice, that on occasion, outright refuses to entertain a swath of cotton less than three inches long, otherwise known as a tampon? Holy heck, this is not going to end well—not for me at least.
His hands move up and down my body, his fingers pressing in just enough as if memorizing my curves as he rides from my back to my thighs. His hands swim up the front as he spreads his palms over my belly, my ribs, my chest, and just like that, the girls light up like Christmas trees. Just the sensation his hands evoke ignites a fire inside me. His touch feels electric, and suddenly I’m hungry to feel all of him against me all at once.
My fingers fumble with his jersey, and Rush helps evict it. He sits up and yanks off his T-shirt in record time, undoes the buckle on his belt, and loosens his jeans until his boxers sit exposed.
I jump to my knees, fully aware the time has come to follow the leader in this birthday suit reveal. I may not be an expert as far as bedroom shenanigans go, but I darn well know that getting naked is an important part of the equation.
I give a quick tug to my sleeve, and it feels as if the fabric is tugging right back over my skin. I flick off my heels and note the only way for my tights to come off is for my leotard to do a disappearing act first.
Shit.
I tug and pull, and, holy hell, I’ve donned a flipping Chinese yoyo!
“Your sister talked me into this,” I hiss as I become aggressively disheveled, spinning and twisting over his bed like a woman possessed. Swear to God, I’d bet good money Rush were preparing himself in the event my head begins to swivel and I spew green fluids across the room.
“Oh my God!” I howl, enraged by the very sweaty, unsexy might I add, strip tease I’m forced to engage in. “Know this—your sister’s virginity will remain safely intact so long as she dons this cat suit nightly.”
Rush groans. That lopsided grin gets caught in the moonlight, and I can’t help but melt right down to my core. “Can we hold off on all talk of my sister?” He leans in and braces me with his strong arms as if he were about to shake me. A part of me wishes he would—maybe that’s the secret to dislodging this hell from my body.
“My God, it’s a bona fide temporary tattoo,” I howl as I pinch at the sleeve once again to no avail. “I think it’s actually melted to my flesh. The only way to get it off is by fire.”
“Try this.” Rush inches down the fabric just above my shoulder before leaning in to gift my collarbone a string of kisses.
DIES!
“Yes! You’re brilliant. What am I saying? You’re probably an expert at removing all kinds of clothing contraptions off a girl’s body. Turning this cat suit inside out poses no challenge to you whatsoever. I bet you’ve stripped a skank out of a leotard or two in your prime,” I pant as I struggle to lower the hell suit off my arm.
“Not really. Usually the girls strip themselves in five seconds flat.” He winces. “But that’s in the past.” His finger runs a soft line along my cheek. “I promise that you and difficult to remove leotards alone are in my future.”
A short-lived laugh expels from me as the dance of the devil continues. I struggle and grunt and finally free my left arm. Just as I bring my hand up to celebrate the contortionist feat, my left boob jumps out and slaps Rush in the face like a punishment.
I suck in a quick breath. I knew I was feisty, but really? Et tu, Leftie?
“Oh my God!” I try
“Wow.” He backs up a notch, nursing his eye with his hand.
“Did I blind you?” I lean in to offer up some aid and nearly smother him with my boob in the process. “Oh God! It’s like assault with a breasty weapon.”
A dark laugh strums from him. “I’m okay. In fact, that was quite the introduction. He leans in and offers up a tender kiss that ends in a suckle and my head bows back as a rather loud, embarrassing burp-like groan razors out of my throat.
It’s becoming crystal clear that tonight will not be flattering in the least, and if I’m wise, I’ll only commit the choicest of morsels to memory. I’ve heard enough stories to know that the first time equals a parade of horrors starting with awkward nakedness and ending with what feels like someone dropped a grenade in your nether regions.
“I think I can take it from here.” Rush proceeds to peel the evil spandex off me as if he were peeling a banana, soft and easy as not to disturb the rind too much—or in this case, not to lose an eye by way of Leftie. I can’t even imagine how that ER visit would go. Rush would make the evening news and probably become a hero among boob loving men the world over. Some men might actually consider it an honor to have an eye put out by way of a caustic nipple. I’m betting Rush would secretly wear that eye patch with pride.
He peels the suit slowly down my torso as I become fully exposed to him, both girls perky and at attention right in his line of vision—and believe you me, Rushford Knight is more than grazing me with those eyes. Carefully, and albeit awkwardly, I help excavate myself from the tights from hell—yet another chastity belt-like modality that has no business being anywhere near a prom night, wedding night, or deflowering party such as this. Nope. It’s clear I’ve worn all the taboo items necessary to ensure we’d waste prime waking hours losing our sanity trying to figure out the Rubik’s Cube solution to my costume. But alas—I toss my tights to the floor like a seasoned stripper.
And then it hits me as I crawl back on my knees, naked as the day I was born, cool air hitting me in places that quite frankly are feeling a breeze for the first time in nineteen years. “Um”—it comes out unsure as I clear my throat—“I’m still wearing my ears.” I point stupidly at the furry triangles sitting proud at the top of my head. Then it hits me that I’m still in full whisker and charcoal nose mode, too. And how could I forget the rhinestone lashes? Hey, if you’re going to lose your virginity, you might as well go out like a rhinestone cowgirl.
“Keep the ears,” he says it sharp like a command, and that delicate spot between my thighs gives a hard quiver. My breathing picks up at an asthmatic pace, and my mouth falls open because, my God, I just glanced down and I’m suddenly appalled and embarrassed by the size and girth of that thing he has pointed staunchly in my direction.
“Mother F,” I hiss at the sight of it.
Rush touches his finger under my chin and carefully raises it a notch to hook my gaze. He takes my hand and lands it over him, right there on that impossible hardness, and I gasp as if it seared me. Scared me is more like it.
“Oh—oh, wow,” I whisper. “My, what a big thermometer you have there, Dr. Knight. I take it, internal temps are your specialty?”
Somebody kill me quick before I embarrass myself further.
A slow smile flirts with his lips as he tips his head back, his eyes closing ever so slightly. “That’s it,” he whispers as he moves my hand up and down, clearly ignoring my moronic rant. His voice hitches as if the simple act of me touching him like this caused him an ecstasy worthy amount of pain. Somehow, I doubt I’ll be speaking any words once he launches this missile deep inside of me—at least not intelligible ones. In fact, I’m subconsciously doing the math at how far inside of me this chaos might actually touch down. I’m guessing sternum.
Dear God, is he going to put a lung out? What if he grazes my heart and I flatline right here on his mattress? Knox won’t be able to live without me. He’ll hate me for sleeping with his best friend, but he will die and be buried in the same casket before they cover me with dirt.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he says while diving to the nightstand and rumbling through the top drawer. He comes up with a square foil package, and suddenly I feel just the way I did at the gynecologist when the doctor held up his working tools of destruction, set for my vaginal doom.
“Oh, you know, actually—” If he doesn’t want to talk about his sister, then sure as hell he won’t want to dissect my wandering thoughts of my brother and a shared casket. That’s just wrong and freaky. “Frozen yogurt. Fro yo. I was just thinking about those pink slimy little balls filled with perfumy liquid that squirt in your mouth. You know, they kind of look like fish bait—or eyes—depending on your perception of them.” Kill me. Return me to the virgin only woods and let me die a cat lady with far too many flea-riddled felines for it to ever be safe. I want to stab my eyes out with a plastic fork for invoking pink slimy little balls that squirt. And the word squirt? Ah, yes. Trixie Toberman taking down sexy one word at a time.
“Fro yo, huh?” he pants the words out, half-interested, tearing the condom wrapper open with his teeth before getting to the intense task of rolling it on, and I can’t bring myself to look down. Rush’s breathing is labored, the veins along his temples bulge slightly, and he looks strained before he’s even touched me, so to speak. He rubs his hands over his jeans before fully removing them from his body. His fingers dig into the back of my hair as he pulls me in.
“Trixie,” he breathes my name hard into my ear. “You are so damn beautiful.” His hands float slowly down my body, covering each square inch with those large heated mitts, and I can’t help but moan with delight.
Rush lays me back and lands with his elbows straddling either side of my temples. That thorny horny protrusion lies hard over my stomach, touching down at the base of the twins that nearly caused a knock out, and I’m intensely terrified of how the logistics of this is going to work. He scoots back down until his face is inches from mine.
“You do this all the time, r-right?” My voice vibrates in fear as if I were about to have a dental drilling—no Novocaine in sight. Wait, is there such a thing as Novocaine for the vagina? Oh wow, they say necessity is the mother of invention, and I think I just stumbled upon a whopper. Mark Zuckerberg has Facebook, and I’ll have the vagina numbing panacea that will bowl the world over—the female demographic. Of course, I’ll come up with a far catchier name. Anti-penile paralysis, perhaps? I can see the advertising slogan now. Anesthetize your coital canal for hours of apathetic fun! You might be dead downstairs, but you’ll be one hundred percent clear despite the present danger!
I glance down at the missile that’s about to launch inside of me and whimper. There’s no way in hell this is safe. What kind of dingbat comes back for more of what is clearly panning out to be a medieval torture device?
“I don’t do this all the time,” he grunts. “Not anymore.” Rush looks up from kissing me between the girls before drifting down another notch. My knees cinch in the event he gets any kinky ideas.
“I mean, one size fits all, right?” How I loathe clothing that touts that moniker. I, for one, am appreciative of the fact women come in all shapes and sizes. One size fits all is a lie from the seventh circle of retail hell, and every girl knows it.
He rumbles a laugh right over my belly, and I laugh right along with him. “It’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.”
My girl parts and I cringe in unison. “Oh, right. Of course, you will.” My heart ratchets up as if I were up next in the electric chair. “I mean, we’re not quitters, right?” I am so a quitter. Exactly how much self-respect would I lose for myself if I bolted for the door right now in my birthday suit? Zero. That’s how much.
Rush pulls back and takes a scrutinizing look at me. “Whoa.” He rubs his thumb over my lips. “You look petrified, like you forgot the safe word.”
“Oh my God, there’s a safe word?” It speeds out of me so fast you’d think a rat just ran across my belly.
“It’s fro yo.” He gives a slight wink, and I smack him for teasing me.
“What?” A dark laugh strums from him. “We can change it to squirt if you like.”
I cover my face with my hands. “You are terrible!” I peer out from between my fingers. “Do you have your horns trimmed weekly to hide the evidence of evil?”
His deep, thunderous laugh reverberates over my skin as he kisses his way down to my belly. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He buries a kiss just above that fuzzy triangle I didn’t think to shear. It’s as if my girl parts have donned a costume of their own—the seventies. “But I will if I have to.” He runs his tongue over my skin before looking up with a devilish grin. “Kidding.” He pulls my knees apart with his shoulders and buries a quick kiss over that tender spot that’s been calling his name since the day I laid eyes on him.
“Rush!” I scream so loud, mostly in ecstasy but partly because I was not expecting that and I hate surprises.
He slides back up and dips his tongue into my mouth, and I twist my head, disgusted by the fact I’m privy to where it’s just been.
“I knew you were sweet. You taste like sugar.” He melts a kiss over my lips, and soon our tongues are dancing and we’re doing that thing we do so well.
“There’s not a sweet bone in my body, and you know it.”
He gurgles with a laugh. “You’re sweet where it counts.” He lands a kiss over my chest just above my heart.
Rush and I lose ourselves in fevered kisses, soul-melting kisses, so hungry we can’t get enough kisses, wild kisses that are far from ever being tame.
His leg dives between mine, and reflexively I wrap my thighs around his back, my heart thumping so strong and so loud each beat deafens me.
“You ready?” There’s a sadness in his eyes, that lazy grin he wears all but gone. His eyes are glossed over, giving him that stoned look I’ve seen a dozen times before, but this time it’s far more severe. This was a high like no other I’ve ever invoked with him. And sadly, I can’t help but wonder how many other girls have seen this gorgeous side of him.
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