by R. K. Lilley
Her knees got too weak to hold her up, and I took her to bed, pushing her face down and pulling her hips up as my pace quickened and I rutted in her, earnestly now.
She started gripping me harder with her release, and it sent me over. I didn’t know what I wanted; I wanted everything, because I pulled out still twitching to come on her ass cheeks, moving up to thrust my twitching cock into that little groove at the bottom of her spine.
I made a huge mess, and neither of us cared. I fell asleep still on her back, but I was pretty sure she passed out first.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We developed a pattern, if you could call it that, over the next few weeks. Sometimes she’d stay over and sometimes not. But we spent a lot of time together. Enough time that I barely got any work done.
I tried to work, several times. I went into my office, put on my thick black editing glasses, and even opened up the writing program on my computer. If she wasn’t around, I’d just sit there, in a daze, my mind full of her, where she was right then, the things we’d done, the things I wanted to do when I saw her again, where she lived, why she lied, why I let her and never said a word.
If she were around, she’d inevitably end up knocking on my office door. I’d tell her to come in. (Because who wouldn’t?) She’d pop her gorgeous blonde head in and smile. She’d tell me how handsome I looked in my glasses, or ask me if I wanted her to make lunch.
Once she just came and straddled me where I sat, smiling into my face and told me how my eyes made her melt.
That got to me. I’d never heard anything like it in my life. “My eyes?” I asked her, blinking slowly, pulling my glasses off to set them on my desk.
She nodded, using her fingertips to rub against the scruff on my jaw in a way that had it going slack. “Yes. Sometimes they’re so brown, and sometimes I think they’re more hazel, but they’re always, always, so warm. They’re by far your most dangerous weapon, Dair. When I first met you, I’d have sworn it was your body, but no, I changed my mind. It’s your eyes.”
I just kept staring at her. I had no words. I knew I should be saying something sweet back to her, and I felt it, and wanted to say the right thing, but I just had no inkling what it was.
Something was happening inside of me, something directly related to the way this girl was making me feel, something in the way she was helping me to change, but I had no appropriate words for it yet.
Not even one.
I had lots of the wrong ones, though, so I said those. “You’re silly,” I told her, and immediately wanted to take it back.
Luckily, she didn’t take offense, in fact, laughed instead.
“Yes, I am. And that I definitely blame on your body.”
She was so much better than I was at finding appropriate words. Those ones made my day. I tried hard to return the favor and make hers.
With my tongue.
The sex with Iris was amazing. Out of this world. It never slowed down, not for one day of those short weeks.
But nearly every night she went out by herself.
And often, more and more, actually, I followed her. It was always to a different place, but for the exact same thing. I was one hundred percent sure she had a gambling problem, but at the moment it seemed to be making her money.
I wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Sometimes I had myself convinced that this thing between us was real, that we had some profound connection that actually reached across age boundaries. That I was smitten enough, and she was mature enough, to make this work into something permanent.
I couldn’t analyze that thought process for long, though. It didn’t hold up against my logical brain’s theory that every sad, lonely old man who had found themselves in this position had told themselves the exact same thing. There was a reason we did this: Because it felt infinitely better than the truth.
And the fact that she still slipped away, lying to me about her whereabouts, nearly every night, was hardly comforting.
As long as I ignored all the little lies, which I told myself firmly they were, things between us were going very smoothly.
Until every insecurity I had about her seemed to come to a head one morning a few weeks later.
It all started with one simple word, and the fact that I had such a hard time saying it to her.
That word was no, and I had never successfully used it on her before.
She’d stayed the night again, an incredible night, where she hadn’t even gone out by herself, but instead stayed in and had dinner with me, followed by lots of something even better.
My mind was stuck firmly on that something better as I showered, Iris still tucked away in my bed, sleeping peacefully. I’d have loved to be there with her, in fact I’d overslept I’d been enjoying my own peaceful sleep so much.
The problem was, I had company coming, company that I didn’t want her to meet. And vice versa. It was just…awkward.
I’d been booked to do a magazine interview months prior, one that featured photographs of me taken around my house. The interview would happen about a week after the photos were taken, which was scheduled for this unfortunate day.
I’d recommended the photographer they were using myself, as she was a local contact and somewhat of a friend.
Well, it was more complicated than that.
The photographer happened to be a very beautiful forty-one year old woman that I’d been planning to ask out just as soon as I got over my general bad attitude towards getting back in the dating pool. We’d worked together a few months ago, on my headshot, and we’d sort of hit it off.
We’d bonded over the fact that we’d both just escaped from bad marriages.
This photographer, Lourdes, and I had done a bit of flirting, and it had been my impression that she might not be averse to dating me.
I had no intention of asking Lourdes out now, not after everything that had happened, but I still couldn’t stand to see her reaction to finding a girl like Iris ensconced in my house.
She’d think I was a creep and rightfully so. I was determined to avoid that. But how, well, that was beyond me. It wasn’t like I could kick Iris out, or even ask her to leave for a few hours. What would I say? What excuse could I make?
I finished showering and got dressed, in a foul mood.
I put on a deep navy suit with a dark gray dress shirt and a navy bow tie. I always felt a little smothered in suits, but I rarely had to wear them, so I couldn’t complain. This one had been picked for me, every piece of it, and sent to me by the magazine doing the interview piece, so I couldn’t even grumble about that.
She was stirring on the bed as I approached it.
“I, um, have a thing today,” I said awkwardly, completely lost on what to tell her. I had no idea how to navigate this. Above all else, I didn’t want her to think I was kicking her out of my house, even though I basically needed to and fast.
She blinked sleepy eyes at me, sitting up, the sheet wrapped around her naked body. She took in my attire with a close, narrow eyed perusal. “Okay. I’ll grab my things and get out of your hair,” she finally said.
In terms of things she could say, that seemed at the top of the list of ones that worked in my favor.
Still, I felt like shit, and apparently I wasn’t in any mood to work in my own favor.
She hadn’t even asked for an explanation. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to give her one.
“I’m dressed like this because there’s a photographer coming over to take pictures for a magazine interview I’m doing next week.”
Her brows shot up, and she smiled. “That’s amazing.” She dropped the sheet, got out of bed, and moved into the closet, completely nude and comfortable with it.
I kept my distance. I didn’t even own the suit I was wearing, and I could see us getting it very dirty in a hurry. If I were smart, I’d have taken her quickly before I showered, at least tried to get her out of my system for the time she’d be gone.
I made my way into
the doorway of the closet after one long minute of debating what to do.
She was still naked, and digging through her big yellow purse, and then the small suitcase she’d taken to bringing with her overnight.
No matter how I nagged, she still kept everything packed. She wouldn’t even hang up her nicer clothes. It was infuriating, but one thing I’d learned fast about Iris: she never gave in unless she wanted to.
I didn’t see what she pulled out of her bags, too focused on her bare skin, as she moved around on the floor.
It would be so easy to take her like that. Just a button and a zipper away. If I was very careful, I could keep my borrowed suit pristine, I told myself.
I adjusted myself, moving my errant erection carefully away from the front zipper of my slacks, intending to carefully set it loose from its suddenly tight confines. I squeezed my tip hard in an effort to get myself under control.
Iris straightened suddenly and caught sight of my dilemma. She grinned wickedly. “Should I be hurrying? What time will the photographer be over? Do you even have time for any of that?” She waved a hand at my crotch.
I shook my head, saying, “Maybe.”
She laughed. “What does that mean?”
I’d gotten myself dressed before I’d woken her for just this reason. I really didn’t have time. I’d used all of it up sleeping in too late. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”
She was studying my face with probing eyes, her expression closing off.
“And I need to be gone by then?” she asked very slowly.
I nodded, jaw clenched, hating the way she was looking at me.
“Well then, we really don’t have time. I’ll just need a minute.” She moved into the bathroom.
I counted to one hundred, watching the slightly ajar door.
She turned some music on, something on the old little iPod she carried around, I thought, since I recognized the song. It was one of the songs she played on repeat all the time, the one about the drunk chick waking up in the kitchen. She must have hooked it up to the small speaker in there, because it was blasting.
She was going to leave without another question, just like I needed her to, but it didn’t feel right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I went into the bathroom and instantly regretted/loved it when I found her putting on makeup standing up, wearing nothing but a neon orange thong and those damned white gladiator sandals of hers, her body moving slightly to the beat, even while applying her mascara.
I pulled up a chair, watching her. I knew she’d get ready and go quickly. She never took long to go from looking naturally beautiful to utterly polished. She’d be out of here in ten minutes, tops.
I couldn’t stand it.
I sat and sulked, hands on my knees, stewing until I was close to boiling over.
“Why are you wearing those shoes at eleven in the morning?” I said loudly to be heard over the music. “And why so much makeup? Where are you planning to go?”
She took that little mascara brush thingie away from her lashes and met my gaze squarely in the mirror.
I looked away.
“I’d answer you, but unless I’m mistaken, you want me out of here before your photographer shows up. You don’t want her to see me, right?”
I swallowed, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. She’d grasped the situation right away and too clearly.
I felt like a scumbag.
It wasn’t that I was ashamed of her. Not her. Someone her age, though, yes, I was ashamed of that.
“It’s not you—” I began.
“It’s not you, it’s me? Is that what you were going to say? Are you asking me to leave here for good?”
I felt the moment when I broke out in a hard sweat.
My hands gripped hard into my knees. “No, please, don’t do that. I’m not saying that at all. I was going to say that it’s not you I don’t want her to see.”
“What is it then? Why do I get the feeling that you want me out of here bad, like I’m on some kind of a timer to get out of your house?”
I shook my head, over and over, trying to fish for a lie.
I’d always been a terrible liar.
“It’s not you…it’s your age.” I knew right away that I shouldn’t have said it. The whole thing had gotten away from me, and I knew after that statement there was no going back.
“You don’t want her to see my age?” she asked tonelessly, applying gloss to her lips. “Want to tell me exactly what that means?”
“I’m too old for you. You’re way too young for me. The photographer is a friend, and she’s going to think I’m a complete creep if she gets a load of you.”
She twisted her lip-gloss shut slowly, then set it down very abruptly, turning to look at me. I tried hard to keep my eyes on her face, but she was topless, and I only half succeeded.
She leaned a hip on the counter, hands on her hips, utterly unconcerned with her lack of clothing. “What about me makes you look like a creep?”
I shook my head, determined that I wouldn’t give her more of an answer than that.
I was only digging a deeper hole with every word. Even my socially awkward self could see it.
She walked to me, but slowly, one of her favorite songs playing loud in the background, her hips swaying to the beat.
I kept my hands determinedly on my knees as she moved between my legs, one of her hands reaching up to grip my hair. “Tell me, Dair, what is it about me that makes you look like a creep?” she said it quietly, tipping my head back while she leaned forward, her heavy tits dangerously close to brushing my jaw.
“Because there’s only one reason people our ages get together.”
“And what reason is that?” Her voice was so quiet I nearly didn’t catch her words.
I shut my eyes. “To use each other.”
“That’s the only reason, huh? I suppose I can guess how you would use me. My body is the only thing you could possibly be interested in, I presume? Is that how it is?”
I winced and shook my head. “That’s not how it is. What I meant is that’s how it will look.”
I felt her moving against me and couldn’t keep myself from opening my eyes and glancing at her.
I moved my hands from my knees to the sides of my chair as she swung one long leg over my knee, straddling it loosely.
She started to dance, gyrating against me, naked breasts shoved into my face until I panted.
She swung her leg until she was standing back between mine. She twisted to face away from me. Her head went down, her ass up and shaking.
The song played on, the singer’s words making me blink and wondering if I’d heard correctly, but I didn’t ask about it, and the singer went on to sing about getting called Peaches when she got this nasty.
As though that damned song wasn’t enough to make me feel like an old fart, I was pretty sure Iris was twerking at me.
It was as though the very mention of our age differences made her want to throw it in my face.
She was young. I was old.
She was wild.
I was tame.
What on earth were we doing here? How the hell would we ever fit into each other’s lives?
The answer was simple and bleak. We didn’t and we wouldn’t.
“You worry way too much about how things will look,” she said, turning back around to move her breasts against my face. I gripped my chair and tried hard not to start licking anything.
We did not have time for any of this. I needed to tell her to stop. I needed to do the impossible and tell her no.
“We’re running late,” I said stiffly, not quite holding back a half nuzzle into her cleavage.
It was abysmal, but the best I could manage in terms of turning her away.
She straddled me, still standing, her hands sliding up her body to push her breasts up and together and into my face.
I was doing good right until one of her pert little nipples rubbed against my lips.
I g
roaned, shifting restlessly, hands keeping their death grip on the sides of my chair.
She pulled slightly away, and I groaned again.
One of her legs went up and over my shoulder, her knee perching there, calf draped behind. Her hand in my hair guided me forward until my face was buried in her lower belly, then slightly lower.
She started moving, some obscene dance that had my face inching lower, then away, then lower, until I was biting at her thong to keep her from moving away from my face.
In my defense, I did keep my hands to myself.
My tongue, now, that was another story.
I started licking, my tongue lashing out against her skin every time she brought it close, lower every time, until I was thrusting it against her clit with her movements.
Her breath grew ragged, but she pulled away nearly as soon as it did.
She went to lean against the counter again, not bothering to fix her panties, which I’d tugged down past her pussy with my teeth.
My hands were on my fly, carefully trying to free my pulsating cock, when she spoke.
“Your doorbell just rang. Twice.”
I cursed fluently.
I stood, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’ll go get it while you get dressed.”
She shrugged, drawing my eyes back to her chest. “Sure.”
“Listen, I’ll introduce you to the photographer on your way out.”
She shrugged again, but something in her eyes was getting to me. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I was being a jerk. I’m sorry. You don’t need to leave. You should stay.”
“No, that’s okay. I need to go. I have plans.” She shot me a smile that was all teeth.
I didn’t like it.
“What are your plans?”
“Why, I’m planning on doing what twenty year olds do, Dair. I’m going to go be impulsive. Hell, tonight I’ll even go to a rave.”
I didn’t know what part of her statement to take more exception to. Wait, yes I did. “Twenty-four, you mean,” I said, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
She rolled her eyes, fully adopting this new harder persona of hers.
