by Tia Siren
Her tits were large and natural, with areolas the size of plums and nipples that stood erect like two pink thimbles. I loved taking her nipple between my lips and suckling her like a baby while I massaged her breast with my hand.
Then, out of the blue, as I imagined her nipple in my mouth, it hit me, the reason why I didn’t want to face Mandy this morning.
I was jealous.
Me, Christopher Kinsey, the guy who claimed to not have a jealous bone in his body, was jealous of a woman.
You had to be kidding me. What right did I have to be jealous? What was there to be jealous of?
I wasn’t jealous of the twins. We’d had more tag teams and gangbangs than I could remember. They were two of my best friends. They were the first investors in KPS. Sharing a woman with them had always been my pleasure in more ways than one.
I was jealous because Mandy woke up lying between them rather than in my arms.
How freakin’ stupid was that?
I tried to deny it at first, because such feelings were completely out of character for me when it came to women.
I had gotten jealous over a lot of things in my life, but never over a woman. I could get jealous if someone had a cooler car or a bigger house or more toys than me. Of course, being a billionaire, that was a problem easily solved, because I could just go buy more shit.
Patrick had accused me of being jealous over McKenzie. In all honestly, that hadn’t been jealousy. I hadn’t want McKenzie. I just hadn’t wanted Patrick to have her. That wasn’t jealousy. That was competitiveness. No, it was vindictiveness. Yes, I admitted it, I could be a dick sometimes.
In fact, the word “vin-dick-tive” often suited me to a tee.
But jealousy was something I had never felt where Mandy was concerned before, because it went against the very nature of our relationship.
There were no strings that bound us.
We were not attached.
There was no promise or commitment.
We’d never talked about a future, and even if we had, what kind of future could we have based on our mutual past?
Was I going to show up at next year’s Christmas party with Mandy on my arm and a ring on her finger knowing that she’d fucked half the men in the room and I’d fucked half the women?
And could she ever get serious about me, knowing the things I’d done and all the people I’d done them to and with?
No way.
We were both extremely open minded, but come on, could we ever go beyond what we were today?
Was I being a hypocrite?
Was I saying that Mandy was good enough to fuck but not good enough to marry?
Honestly, I didn’t know what I was thinking or why I was even thinking it.
Maybe I was just hungover and this was my brain’s way of punishing me, by filling my head with thoughts I had no idea what to do with.
I just knew that the thoughts were not going away, and I was growing fearful of what might come next.
I heard the shower come on in the bathroom and thought briefly about getting out of bed to join Mandy for a little morning delight, but as I listened to the twins’ rhythmic snoring, I felt my eyes growing heavy again.
As I drifted back off to sleep, thoughts of Mandy swirled around my head like wisps of smoke from a slow-burning fire.
I thought about the night we met in that dive bar ten years ago.
I’d had no idea that the gorgeous redhead staring at me from across the bar would still be with me today.
We’d had one hell of a ride.
Please don’t let me fuck it up.
Please, don’t let it be over.
CHAPTER 3: Christopher
December 24, 2006, Louie Louie’s Bar, San Jose, California
“So if we rewrite the boot code, the program should come up much quicker,” Patrick was saying. He had his laptop open on the bar and was pointing to the lines of code that filled the screen, as if I had a clue what the fuck he was talking about.
I was the business and marketing side of our new venture, Kinsey-Palmer Solutions, and Patrick was the coding nerd who wrote the software we hoped would someday make us rich.
It was my job to take the cyber-security program he’d created and pitch the concept of building a company around it to the venture capitalists along Sand Hill Road in Silicon Valley.
Our school pals back at MIT, Terry and Tony Wolf, had convinced their dad to invest fifty grand so Patrick and I could move out here to Silicon Valley and make things happen. This was where the money was. If we were going to make KPS the next Cisco or Oracle, we had to do it here.
I was barely listening as Patrick droned on about improving the code. I was too busy making eye contact with a luscious redhead with big jugs at the other end of the bar. We’d been staring at each other for the better part of an hour, and I was just about ready to make my move.
She had been glancing at me. I had been clanking at her. Our eyes met a few times. She’d look away. I’d look away. Then we’d do it again.
It was all part of a mating ritual between men and women that dated back to the caveman days. She looked at you. You looked at her. She smiled. You smiled. You went over to make small talk. You clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to the cave for a night of doing dirty things you could brag about to all of your buddies tomorrow.
“Chris? Christopher?” I heard Patrick barking my name in that exasperated tone of his. “Christopher, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, I’m listening,” I said without taking my gaze from the redhead, who was looking at me now with dreamy eyes. She slowly traced her tongue across her lips. That was cavewoman talk for, “Let’s go back to your cave and fuck!”
That would have been a great option if I’d actually had a cave to drag her back to. Patrick and I were camping out on a friend’s pullout sofa at the moment.
All the money the Wolf boys gave us was in the company account and being used to pay for computer servers and part-time coders. Until we could find real investors willing to give us a few million bucks to get the company off the ground, we were virtually homeless, living on dollar beer and free bar nuts.
I felt Patrick’s elbow in my ribs. “Christopher, dammit, will you pay attention? This is really important.”
“Jesus, Patrick, just rewrite the fucking code,” I snapped. I drained my beer mug and slammed it on the bar. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and stood up to make my way toward the redhead at the other end of the bar.
“Seriously?” Patrick whined. “You’re walking away? We’re never going to get VC funding if we don’t get the program perfected.”
I waved a hand at him. I loved Patrick like a brother, but he could be a major pain in the ass because he never took time off. If it wasn’t for me pulling him into three-ways or pointing women I’d already fucked in his direction, he’d never get laid.
I put my arm around his shoulders and leaned my forehead to his. I said, “Just do whatever you think is best, man. You’re the brains of the outfit. Just make it work perfectly before our meeting on Friday with the potential investors. Can you do that?”
He sighed in my face. His breath smelled like draft beer and peanuts. “Sure, whatever. Don’t worry. It’ll be perfect by Friday.”
“Good!” I said happily, slapping him on the back. I held up two fingers to the bartender and he set two more frosty mugs of draft on the bar. I tossed two dollars on the bar, picked up the mugs, and gave Patrick a smile.
“Now, if you will excuse me, there’s a young lady at the other end of the bar who appears to be dying of thirst.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Bye, Patrick. Don’t wait up.”
CHAPTER 4: Mandy
December 24, 2006, Louie Louie’s Bar, San Jose, California
I had initially resisted coming to Louie Louie’s on Christmas Eve with my three roommates from San Jose State, but when they reminded me that my folks were off on some Christmas cruise around the B
ahamas and we had no booze or food in the fridge at our apartment, I decided to tag along.
There were worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than flirting with guys for drinks, I supposed. And who knew, maybe one of them would get lucky. Maybe more than one of them. I mean, twas the giving season, right?
I wasn’t a slut or anything. I wouldn’t fuck just anybody, but since losing my virginity to my marketing professor my junior year, I had developed a voracious appetite for sex. It was all I thought about.
Sex, sex, sex…morning, noon, and night…fucking, sucking, licking, tugging, pumping, slamming…you name it, I’d done it. And I wanted to do it again and again and again.
Tessa, one of my roommates, said that I was a nymphomaniac and should see a therapist. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with me, at least nothing clinical.
I just really loved sex. And if the therapist was hot, I’d probably just end up fucking him, too.
It wasn’t something I could control. Heck, I didn’t see the need to control it. I was having the time of my life and was just getting started.
There was so much I want to experiment with, so many things I wanted to try. So far I’d just had straight sex with a few guys from school. Nothing to brag about, just your average fuck and suck and see you later in class.
I thought I might like to try sex with a woman. Tessa was kind of hot, but she was also kind of a prude. I thought if she woke up in the middle of the night with my finger in her pussy she’d freak completely out and probably run off to join a convent. I wasn’t sure why that thought made me giggle, but it did.
I wondered what it would be like to have sex with two men at once. I had fantasized about having a cock in my mouth and a cock in my pussy at the same time. I thought that would feel totally amazing.
And maybe even a third guy’s cock in my ass.
Hmm…I’d have to work my way up to that.
Was that even possible, three cocks at once? I was tall for a girl, and limber, but that might have been more than I’d bargained for. Maybe I would take some yoga classes before taking that one on.
I thought I might even like to experiment with orgies and gangbangs and mild S&M. I had no idea what might turn me on. Once I graduated from San Jose State in the fall and got out into the real world, I planned on tasting every apple on the tree!
* * *
Tessa bumped me with her elbow. We were belly up to the bar because the place was packed with Christmas partiers. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house.
Louie Louie’s owner, an older dude named Louie (duh), had made a halfhearted attempt at decorating the place.
There was a fake Christmas tree in one corner that was missing half its branches, covered in cheap ornaments and garland, topped by a star that dangled precariously to one side. Christmas music blasted from cheap speakers that hung around the room.
Tinsel had been tossed everywhere and kept getting into my beer. The walls were draped with garland and sprigs of fake mistletoe hung from the ceiling by kite string.
A few of the more creative guys had taken down sprigs of mistletoe and were wondering around the bar begging for kisses.
Tessa finished planting a kiss on one of the desperate souls and then turned and shouted in my ear.
“Mandy, that surfer dude at the other end of the bar keeps staring at you.”
“I know,” I said, smiling sideways at her. “My panties are already soaked waiting for him to swim over this way.”
“Oh my god, Mandy, you’re awful.”
“I know,” I said with a smile. “Awful or not, if he doesn’t come down here soon, I may have to try tying mistletoe to my belt.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” she said with a devious grin. “Here he comes.”
“It’s about time,” I said. I drained my beer mug and slammed it on the bar and told the bartender to give me two more. I glanced surfer dude’s way. He was halfway down the bar now. I licked my lips and watched him come. He was gorgeous.
“Here you go.” The bartender set two frosty mugs on the bar and I gave him two bucks.
“Don’t wait up for me,” I said to Tessa, picking up the beers and walking around her.
Tessa just rolled her eyes. “We never do.”
CHAPTER 5: Christopher
December 24, 2006, Louie Louie’s Bar, San Jose, California
The gorgeous redhead at the other end of the bar met me halfway. She was elbowing her way through the crowd, carrying two mugs of beer without spilling a drop. It was as if she could part the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea.
The closer I got to her the more I realized what a prize she was: tall, slender and curvy, with long red hair in a ponytail and green eyes, and a set of tits to die for.
She was wearing a black Van Halen T-shirt and no bra. Her large boobs filled out the shirt perfectly and her nipples pressed through the fabric as if they were already saying, “Hello, Christopher! Nice to meet you!”
We met midway down the bar. I held up the two mugs of beer and said, “I was on my way to ask if I could buy you a beer, but you already seem to have one. Or two.”
“That’s funny, because I was on my way to ask you the same thing,” she said, giving me a smile that sent shock waves to my groin. There was something about her that made my balls tingle, the spark in her eye, the curl of her lip, the way her nostrils flared when she looked at me, as if she were inhaling me, taking me deep inside her.
I knew at that moment that this was not going to be just a one-night stand. There was no way I could get my fill of this girl in one night. Perhaps not in a lifetime.
“I’m Christopher Kinsey,” I said, holding out my two mugs so she could tap her mugs to mine.
“I’m Mandy Pitkin,” she said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mandy Pitkin,” I said.
“Not if I have anything to do about it,” she said with a sparkle in her eye.
She set her mugs on the bar and then took the mugs from my hands and did the same. She told the frat boys sidled up to the bar to help themselves. Then she turned to me.
“Come on, Christopher Kinsey,” she said, taking my arm and turning me toward the door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
CHAPTER 6: Mandy
December 24, 2006, Louie Louie’s Bar, San Jose, California
The weather at Christmastime in San Jose felt like early fall in most places. As Christopher and I walked out of Louie Louie’s, the night air was chilly, but nothing a light jacket couldn’t take care of—if I’d brought a light jacket.
I was wearing a tight Van Halen T-shirt and skintight jeans. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so my nipples were pushing against the fabric like thimbles in response to the night air.
Or maybe they were so hard because of the gorgeous man who was holding my hand as he led me to the parking lot.
Tessa was right: Christopher Kinsey did look like a surfer dude. He was wearing ratty jeans and flip flops and a tank top that had the words “SURF OR DIE’ in big letters on the front.
He was lean and muscular, with shaggy blond hair he kept out of his eyes with the constant sweep of a hand across his forehead.
Even though it was December, his skin held a honey-colored tan and his hair was bleached from the sun. He had a Kennedy jawline and piercing blue eyes. He was, hands down, the hottest guy I’d seen in a very long time.
“This is it,” he said, holding out his hands.
“This is your car?” I asked, a little taken aback.
He gave me a hurt look. “Yeah, I mean, it’s the car I’m driving now, but when my company gets funded I’m going to get something much better. Like a Mercedes or a Lamborghini.”
The reason I was a little hesitant to get inside Christopher’s car was that it wasn’t a car at all. It was a decrepit white van that looked like it could fall apart at any moment. It appeared to be held together by dirt and rust.
Much of the paint had chipped away and the windows were so dirty that
I couldn’t see inside. The tires were bald and one of them looked like it was going flat. I couldn’t believe someone drove around in such a death trap.
“Is there a problem?” Christopher asked, looking genuinely confused.
“No. It’s just that, well, you’re not a serial killer, are you?”
He smiled and let his head hang for a moment. “No. I promise I’ve never killed anyone, and I wouldn’t start with someone as lovely as you.”
“So why are you driving this thing? Is it for work? Are you a painter or a…shit, what are you?”
He gave the side of the van a loving pat. “This thing, as you call it, got me and my partner all the way across country, from Cambridge, Massachusetts, to San Jose, California. That’s over three thousand miles without overheating or breaking down. Do you know how long it took to drive three thousand miles in this thing?”
“I don’t know, maybe three years?”
Christopher folded his arms over his chest and looked at the old van as if it were a shrine to his very manhood. “It took us five days, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes. And that included the time we pulled off to sleep and eat and do other things men do on long road trips.”
I licked my lips to keep from smiling. “You actually slept in that thing?”
“We did,” he said, reaching for the handle to pull back the sliding door. “And that’s what makes this ‘thing’ so special. It might look like crap from the outside, but inside it’s a magical place.”
When the door slid open with a groan, I saw that the floor of the van was padded with thick sleeping bags. There were pillows and blankets and a big cooler with the letters MIT on the side.
Christopher held out his hand. “Come, my lady. Let me show you how real mean live.”
I giggled as I put my hand in his and climbed into the back of the van. I arranged the pillows and settled back on them as Christopher followed me inside and slid the door shut.
