See, I read more than just Harry Potter.
I asked him if he was listening, and he said, "Not in the slightest, keep talking though," because as I gave him this information, I sucked on his neck and stroked his cock until he came, moaning loudly, all over the window, which had steamed up.
I ran my finger through his cum and made a very pretty pattern.
In turn, after his body relaxed, and his eyes focused, he turned his attention to me, and gave me a detailed explanation as to exactly why his home was ultra-eco-friendly, including a dissertation on the finer points of some fancy system for his shower that I didn't pay any attention to. He told me this while lapping at my nipples, and fingering my pussy, so if there was going to be a test on it later, I didn’t think I’d pass. I didn't care.
Wet, naked Ryan.
Sigh.
Afterward, in Ryan's colossal walk-in-closet, he handed me a wife-beater tank and a pair of boxers to wear.
No, it wasn't obvious that he wanted to see my breasts or anything. Perv.
I humored him and put them on without a bra. I only had my strapless one from the dinner anyway. Late October in California was plenty warm enough, and if I got cold, I'd borrow a sweatshirt. He put on a pair of boxers himself, and then put on cut off sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that was very tight, and potentially dangerous for my blood pressure. While I dressed, I fingered the flap in the boxer shorts and commented, "I don't have, you know, boy parts to put here."
He laughed and came over behind me, stroking down my bare arms. "Do we need an intervention on what you call my dick?"
"Probably."
"Say it."
"Dick. You're a dick."
He chuckled. "No. What do you call male genitalia?"
"Um, cock?"
"What else?"
"Member. Shaft. Willy. Pecker. Peter. Johnson. Schlong."
"Can you even say the word 'penis'?"
"Penis." I forced it out.
"You cringed. Why do you avoid the word?" He continued to stroke my arms up and down, giving me major goosebumps.
This was actually a good question. If I wasn't comfortable talking about his, uh, schlong, I wasn't comfortable getting up close and personal with it.
I just looked at him and said quietly, "I'm trying, Ryan."
He wrapped me up in his arms, one on my belly, one around my shoulders, and kissed the back of my hair, inhaling deeply. "You totally are." He paused. Then, "Have we broken all your rules yet?"
"Nope."
"Good. More to look forward to."
"Wait, bastard, you know full well we haven't broken all of my Rules."
"Yeah. I was just testing you. It's my mission in life to make sure that we do." This warmed me in some very special places. "So I have a question for you. You're a professional, intelligent woman. You've been on your own and taken care of yourself. And you're obviously a feminist. Do you think you can be a feminist if you suck a guy's cock? If you suck mine?"
I looked at him, startled. "That's actually a good question."
"Can you answer it?"
"I don't know. I've never thought about it. But that might be part of my problem. My Rules started as a way of me protecting myself. I mean, I'm a badass." He rubbed his nose back and forth in my hair. "I have this thing against demeaning myself."
"So sucking cock is demeaning yourself?"
"I don't know. I’ve never done it. But that's what I thought when I came up with my Rules."
"Are you not a feminist if you have sex with a guy?"
"I see what you're doing here. So what you're saying is that it's a logical fallacy. Being a feminist has nothing to do with having sex with a guy—at least not if you— " I almost said 'love the guy' "—do it on your own terms."
"What about if a guy takes control in the bedroom? Are you still a feminist?"
"I don't know."
"I'm just asking, Amelia. You know I respect you and I'll always respect you. We're equals. I just know what I like, and I take it if you're willing to give it to me. But this is a partnership. We both have a say here.
"And another thing. What happens in our bedroom? Or the hall, or the bathroom, or the car, or the beach, or the—"
"Yes, Ryan, I get your point."
"You don't have to tell anyone what happens between us. Be yourself. I'm not going to share. If you're a feminist here, fine. I just want you as you. But what would happen if you didn't care what other people thought when we're naked? What if you just cared about what you and I thought? And, more important, what you and I felt?"
Fucking enlightened sage again. He was right.
I turned in his arms. "So back to this idea of partnerships. We share profits and losses, eh?"
"That's right."
"Would you like me to talk to you about the Revised Uniform Partnership Act of 1994 and its successor?"
"Lecture me, counselor."
I laughed and followed him down to his living room, where we watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part I.
Naked.
That night, after dinner, he handed me some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and we walked hand in hand, in the moonlight, picking up sea glass and sea shells, feeling the sand on our bare feet, and watching and listening to the constant waves. This was the way I normally enjoyed the beach by myself. Sharing it with Ryan, though, was really fucking special. I wasn't alone anymore.
In the middle of the night.
"Ryan?"
"Yeah." His voice was sleep-sexy and he was groggy.
I leaned into him, my lips against his shoulder. "I'm an emotional virgin. Be gentle with me."
"Always."
And he then kissed me, completely, and cuddled me to sleep.
The next morning
"Show me."
He told me that it looked like there was a swell coming in. I wanted to watch him surf, to see him in action. It was such a part of his life. I wanted to see what he did.
After making love to me, yes, it was making love, slowly and thoroughly, he put on one of his million wetsuits, and I bundled up in borrowed sweats. I walked along the beach, carrying a mug of good Ryan coffee, and watched him paddle out to the waves. There were already a lot of people out on the water, and he joined some other surfers out there.
So. My impressions of surfing.
There’s an awful lot of sitting on the board with your feet dangling off to the sides, waiting for the sets of waves to come in. But once those sets came in, Ryan's surfing was a thing of beauty. I'd always thought that it's beautiful to watch anyone do anything well. This was why we liked watching the Olympics. Ordinarily I had no interest in the decathlon. But watching someone else do it well was magnificent and inspiring.
Ryan was magnificent and inspiring on his surfboard.
When it was time for a wave to come in, he would transition immediately from hanging-out-surfer-guy to active-surfer-guy by flattening himself down on his board and positioning it so that it was headed for the shore. As the wave built up, he would paddle, paddle, paddle like a crazy man with his arms, and then, all of a sudden, get up on his feet and simply ride the wave. Or at least he made it look simple. But he didn't just hang on for dear life like I imagined that I would do.
He dominated the wave. He caressed the wave. He got to know it in intricate detail. He cut back and forth, over the lip and back down again, curving his body every which way, forcing the board to do a zig-zag pattern on the water. It reminded me of the way he was with me. Totally present. Totally exploring. Totally open. But what a workout. No wonder he had such beautiful abs.
I felt like I could watch him, stay with him, and be with him forever.
Body Shots
MARIE SAYS THAT YOU'RE dating the coffee shop hottie.
True.
Hugo's text was just one of several texts and calls waiting for me once I finally checked my phone after I got back from Ryan's house Sunday afternoon. Astonishingly, I had managed to not check my cell phone all
weekend long. I didn't check Twitter, I didn't check my work emails, and I didn't look at texts. I had just put it away and didn't even think to get it out. I guess I was otherwise occupied. This felt like progress.
Ryan had driven me home after I had spent the whole weekend at his house wearing his clothes. When I walked up to my front door, I wore his boxers, his shorts, his t-shirt, no bra, and some flip flops of his. No makeup. I looked ridiculous, but I didn't care. I decided to permanently co-opt his clothes. They were pretty comfy and they smelled good, like him.
After he walked me up to the door, he kissed me thoroughly, and then prowled back to his truck and took off. Then I finally checked my messages.
So this means no time for me?
I always have time for you. As. A. Friend.
Have you told him that you love him yet?
I'm certainly not going to give you that information before I give it to him.
That means you're in love. So cool, girl!
Shit.
Instantly, another message.
Hugo tells me that you're in love with Ryan. I haven't even met him yet. Why am I the last to know?
Uh, correction, Marie. Ryan would be the last to know.
Oh. I get it. Drinks. Tuesday night. Bring him.
Now everyone's bossy.
I called my mom.
"I'd like to ask Ryan to come to Thanksgiving."
"Sure, honey. If you're getting serious about him, I'd like to meet him."
Excellent. Her tone had changed. No hint of a snob this time. And, frankly, I was proud to bring him around my parents. He was a great guy, caring for me, caring for his sister, and building a business that was all his own.
It seemed that asserting myself to my mother may have shifted our relationship from me doing whatever it was that she told me to do, to, now, me doing what I really wanted to do. And actually, now that I thought about it, all of the personal growth and development that I was doing because of him, was part of getting to know myself, for real. I didn't have to do what I thought my mom wanted me to do. The individualization that my therapist talked about was happening; I was starting to become a true adult.
First thing Monday morning, Jake walked into my office.
"I'd like your help on the Chodos matter. We were just served with the complaint and I think we need to file a demurrer. I know you don't like to bring those, but I think there's a chance that we could get the punitive damages knocked out altogether."
Yeah. Back at work again after my weekend of sex, surfing, and the Sun God. Back in the suit after wearing essentially nothing for most of the weekend.
"Is it venued here in Santa Barbara?"
"No, they filed in Ventura."
Bonus. More time at Southwinds. "I'd love to help, Jake. I'll get the file from Neveah and get started."
I remembered to text Ryan.
Marie ordered you to come out with us Tuesday night for drinks, but I figured I'd be polite and ask you instead. Can you come?
Sure.
Beware. She'll probably be … Marie.
I can handle it, Movie Star.
I squeezed in a therapist appointment during my lunch break on Monday.
"So I'm confused about trusting Ryan. He's never done anything to make me not trust him. But I still wonder, after what those women said. Am I making a mistake?"
"Who is to know?" asked my therapist. "Mistakes happen. How do you feel when you're with him?"
"I feel cherished," I said in a small voice.
"Then that is what you need to trust. You're the lawyer. Look at the evidence. The evidence suggests that he is capable of caring, and shows it. He seems to have made a lot of headway with you, with ease. Why don't you try trusting that?"
"Because I have been hiding behind sarcasm and fear all of my life. And I've come to the point where I'm ready to just say, 'fuck it. This is me. If you don't like me, that's your problem. But I am not going to hide anymore.'"
Christian Gray smiled. "I think you're experiencing a real breakthrough, Amelia."
Tuesday night, Ryan and I walked into the watering hole on State Street, holding hands, and were greeted by a screaming, blue-haired Marie sitting in a booth, waving her arms like she was at a concert, next to a scared, but decent-looking guy, with a rather sexy man-bun.
"Here it comes," I muttered.
Ryan gave my hand a squeeze.
We walked over, and I slid in across from Marie, Ryan following. "Hey," I breathed.
Marie looked Ryan up and down and said, "He'll do." And then she declared that we were doing tequila body shots.
"Nuh-uh. No way, sister. This is a school night," I said.
"Just one each, then."
I rolled my eyes. I’d never actually done this. Marie immediately called over the waitress, and ordered four tequila shots with lime.
"Ryan, meet Marie," I said with eyebrows raised, trying not to laugh.
"Pleasure," he said, shaking her hand.
"And this is Jeremy," she said, referring to Man-Bun. We shook hands and then he shook hands with Ryan. Poor Man-Bun looked nervous. "I met him at Tri-County Produce. Okay, so I read this joke on the internet, are you ready?"
"No," I said.
Marie ignored me. "A hot blonde walks into a bar and ordered a Double Entendre. The bartender gave it to her."
I groaned and Ryan laughed. Man-Bun looked like he was in over his head and he knew it. The tequila arrived. "Have you ever done this?" Marie asked.
Shaking my head, I said, "You're the only one weird enough to do this."
"Not true. Okay, first, you lick," and she reached over to Man-Bun, and licked his neck, near his shoulder.
Oh dear. I could see where this was going. Man-Bun was in danger of hitting the table from the bottom, via an erection caused by busty Marie licking his shoulder. She was such an exhibitionist.
"Next, salt." And she shook some salt on his neck, with vigor. She could have melted a snowy street with that much salt. Too bad we were in California.
"Then the shot and lime." She licked the salt off of Man-Bun's neck, taking an indecent amount of time to do so, downed the shot of tequila, and then sucked on her lime wedge, smirking. "Simple. Your turn."
"Marie!"
"Not getting out of this one, sister."
I let out a breath. Fine. This is what happened when you were best friends with a crazy party girl. I leaned over to Ryan, pulled his shirt collar over to the side, and then sucked and licked on the part where his neck met his shoulder. He let out a very quiet groan. Then I picked up the salt shaker and poured salt on my dear Sun God. I turned back and looked at her. "Marie, this is ridiculous."
"Quiet. Just do it."
I leaned over once again and licked and sucked the salt off of Ryan's neck, tasting him, tasting his manflesh, smelling his good, sexy smell, and I may have decided to hang out there, ignoring the next step in the process.
"Amelia," warned Marie.
Stopping for a second, I looked over at her, smiled my "who me?" smile, and downed the shot, reaching for the lime. The tequila actually didn't taste all that bad—I'm not much of a shot drinker—and the alcohol warmed me up immediately. I looked over at Man-Bun, who still looked like he was trying to not have an erection. Marie grinned and clapped her hands. My crazy, crazy best friend.
"Now it's your turn, Jeremy," she said to Man-Bun, and held out her neck. He licked her neck, once. Then salted it, once. Then licked it again, once. Then did the shot and sucked the lime.
Bor-ring.
I didn't think Marie was going to ask him out again.
"Now it's your turn, big guy," she said to Ryan.
I expelled the air I was holding in my lungs.
Ryan, being Ryan, Mr. Pleasure, took his time with each movement. He completely ignored Marie and Man-Bun, looked me in the eyes, and winked. Then he reached over, slowly, languidly, and took his index finger and used it to peel my shirt down my shoulder. He smiled, again, and slowly bent towards m
e, licking my shoulder. He licked it like it was his job to lick my shoulder.
I might have let out a not so soft groan.
Reaching for the salt shaker, Ryan held it aloft over my shoulder, and then, with a flick, let some salt fall on me. Then he reached in for the kill, basically taking me on the bench next to him.
I could hear Marie breathe out, "Oh," pause, "my God."
With a final suck, Ryan pulled back, downed the shot quickly, and sucked on the lime. Then he sat back in the booth.
We all looked at each other.
"I think I need a cold shower," said Man-Bun.
Several drinks later, I stumbled to the bathroom at the back of the bar, way too drunk for a Tuesday night. My designated driver, Ryan, had switched to water, thank goodness.
Once I came out of the bathroom, the room seemed to tilt. I righted myself, and started to head back to our booth, when I was stopped by a blonde woman. Botox, tight clothes, the whole Barbie vibe.
"Are you with Ryan Fielding?"
I looked at her blankly, too drunk to properly respond.
"You should be careful. He'll try and do anything to get you into bed, and then he'll leave you. Just be careful."
Some of the alcohol wore off quickly. "Who are you, some bitch he scorned? Get a clue. He just wasn't into you. There's no need to take it out on someone else. I don't need your fucking warning." Her mouth dropped open and she went to speak, but I continued, drunkenly holding up my index finger, "Not another word."
And then I tottered down the hall to my sexy Sun God and crazy best friend, who were waiting to go home.
Giving
SO HAVE YOU GIVEN him a blow job?
Marie! No.
Why not? It's rule number what? Aren't you breaking them all these days?
Rule 4. And no, I'm not. I have standards.
You are so weird.
Am not.
Are too.
Are we six years old?
Fuck no. We're talking about blow jobs on your surfer hottie.
Or, we're talking about NOT doing blow jobs on my surfer hottie.
The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) Page 14
