by Score, Lucy
There was nothing leisurely about the way he was looking at me.
“But?”
“But I don’t think I can this time. Maybe the third or the seventeenth time.”
“I’m good with that.” My lipstick was on his mouth, and it was freaking hot.
“Bed?” he asked.
“Yeah. Hurry.”
He didn’t put me down, merely jogged up the stairs with me clinging to him. I was no waif-like flower. I was solid with healthy curves and muscle. And being handled like a package turned out to be an incredible turn-on.
So did being tossed on the bed like a suitcase. I was working my jeans free on the first bounce.
“Strip. Everything,” he insisted, standing at the foot of the bed and tearing off his shirt. I obliged, and we both raced for nudity. He won and celebrated by tackling me to the mattress.
I couldn’t be bothered to look around and take in the scenery, even though I was in the forbidden paradise of Jake Weston’s bedroom. Not with his foot-long sub staring at me.
We tangled with each other, rolling and gasping for breath. Our hands were everywhere. Our mouths were fused. My heart raced. I was galloping into heart attack territory with the adrenaline coursing through me. And I didn’t care. All I wanted was an orgasm like the one I’d had less than an hour ago. I wanted Jake to chase it down for me and present it to me on a silver platter.
“Your tits are perfection,” he groaned, pressing his face to my chest and nuzzling in.
I’d had him pegged as a boob man. He latched on to a nipple, and I writhed next to him. Reaching between us, I found his cock ready and waiting.
He pumped himself into my hand as he devoured my breast. I threw a leg over his hip and angled the head of his penis against me. Every time he thrust into my hand, he nudged against that needy bundle of nerves that had never been more alive.
It was more than enough stimulus. In seconds, a ninja orgasm snuck up and blindsided me.
“Jake!”
“Mmmph.”
The world went cotton candy-colored with glitter and rainbows as I dry humped him to victory. I was so wet I worried about long-term damage to his mattress. It was like the rainy season in Costa Rica down there.
“Need you,” he groaned, releasing my breast.
We rolled closer to the side of the bed. I was on top of him, kissing the ever-living shit out of him. Blindly, he reached into his nightstand. The drawer crashed to the floor but not before he grabbed the tail end of another roll of condoms.
“Stay right there, baby,” he said, sliding me down his thighs far enough that he could roll the condom on.
I helped. And by “helped,” I mean I stroked his shaft with the desperate violence of the sex-starved woman that I was.
Then he was grabbing my hips and lifting me up. With eager fingers, I gripped him, lining the head of his erection up with my desperate-for-another-orgasm greed hole.
Notched in place, Jake stared up at me and gave one swift thrust.
I probably screamed. Why else would Homer start barking in the backyard? But it didn’t matter if the neighbors were waking up to screaming and barking. If they called the cops and reported us for disturbing the peace and unmarried sex—I assumed that was still a law on the books somewhere. It didn’t matter if Jake and I were sentenced to death by stoning.
The only thing that did matter was how beautifully full I was, impaled on his stone-hard cock. We froze like that for long seconds before I started to move. I wasn’t a reverse cowgirl—my quads weren’t strong enough—butthole-waxing, walk-in closet sex-toy-having kind of woman. I was experienced but not expert-level.
But something about Jake Weston groaning beneath me turned me into a wanton sex goddess.
And this wanton sex goddess was riding the stallion beneath her as if they’d both die if she—I—didn’t.
His hip thrusts hammered into me rhythmically as I rode him. Two bodies united in purpose. His fingers dug into my hips, and for once, I wasn’t concerned with how much flesh was there to hold on to. Or whether my boobs were bouncing too much or if I should have done more than just shave my nether region.
No, I was too busy ravaging and being ravaged.
Nothing had ever felt this good before. And I guessed nothing ever would. I could accept that. I could accept the fact that my sexual experience would peak at age thirty-eight at the hands—and penis—of Jake Weston. I was willing to have nothing but mediocre sex for the rest of my life if I could have him like this now.
His hands were at my breasts now, cupping and stroking, busy thumbs rubbing over my at-attention nipples.
I dropped my head back and released a long groan from my throat. Perfect. Everything was perfect.
“You were made for me, baby,” he gritted out.
“Don’t make this weird.” I gasped for breath.
“You don’t make this weird,” he countered.
“Stop talking.”
On a dirty, guttural growl that had my vagina standing up and applauding, Jake shoved and rolled. He came up on his knees. “I want to have you every way possible,” he said, pushing me onto my belly.
Grabbing my ankles, he pulled me back against him. I scrambled eagerly to my hands and knees. “Is this good with you?” he asked. I felt him teasing me just outside my entrance. The tip of his shaft nudging, waiting for permission.
“God, yes.”
Carefully, slowly, enticingly he sank into my flesh. “Oh, yeah, Mars. Yeah, baby.”
He pulled out and just as slowly thrust back in. His hands, those broad palms, caressed my back, my hips, my ass cheeks. And all the while, he fucked me.
It felt like…poetry. The perfection of my body welcoming his, embracing his. I was better because he was inside me.
And the way he moved in and out of me. It was like worship, obsession.
I could feel sweat forming on our skin. Hear our ragged breaths as we embraced a more reckless speed. He rolled his hips against me on a long, deep thrust, and I pushed back against the mattress to take all of him.
He leaned forward, hinging over me, one hand gripping my hair. His lips moving against my ear.
“I love this, baby. You’re perfect,” he whispered. He was losing the steadiness. Abandoning the finesse. Now, he was a beast in rut, and I was the object of his lust.
He released my hair and grabbed my breast, palming it as it bounced and wobbled from every hard thrust.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered on a rasp. “Touch yourself for me, Mars.”
I obliged, circling my clit with eager fingers. Dipping my head, I looked under me. I saw his hand working my breast. Watched his dick tunnel into me, his balls slap against my thighs. Over and over. Faster. Harder.
His grip on me was punishing, and I fucking loved it because I was coming apart at the seams. My fingers blurred at their work, and I couldn’t hang on any longer. I was going up in flames.
“I feel you, baby. Let it happen,” Jake breathed.
I let go, flinging my body into the epicenter of the explosion. My body was light and heat. I could feel the orgasm in my fingertips and toenails. Those deviously talented little inner muscles clamped down on him so hard he groaned.
I rode it out, spiraling out of control.
“Can I come on you?” The question was far away but desperate. I could hear the clench in his jaw, the rawness in his throat.
Oh, God. Yes! YES! HELL YES!
“Yep.”
He pulled out of me, but before I could complain, Jake shoved two fingers back inside me. He grunted, and on one long, sinful groan, I felt him come across my back. Hot ropes hit my skin, branding me.
“Fuuuuuuck,” he rasped. I squeezed his fingers with my muscles and was rewarded with more of his orgasm. He kept coming, kept fucking me with his fingers. I don’t know if it was the same climax or a surprise second one, but it rolled through me, and I pushed and jerked my way to Heaven against his hand, covered in his release.
49
Marley
“I feel like I should apologize.” Jake’s voice was muffled by my hair. His face was pressed into my neck. I hadn’t moved except to collapse onto my belly. He’d gotten a warm, damp towel from the bathroom and cleaned us both up while I languished like a limp piece of lettuce on his sweaty, tangled sheets.
“Apologize for what?” I said to the mattress.
“I feel like that’s kind of a big no-no, making an ask like that the first time you have sex,” he said.
“An ask like what?” I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
“Uh, you know. The, uh, coming on you thing.”
“Technically it was the second time,” I said, holding up two fingers and nearly blinding him.
He kissed my fingers and rolled me onto my back.
“I’m serious. Did I fuck up?”
I gave him a lazy smile. Every muscle in my body was loose and happy.
“I think you clued in on our compatibility and went with it.”
“Marley,” he said. “Manspeak, please.”
“Me liked.”
“You sure? I didn’t want to take the gift of sex and piss all over it.”
“Gross. That wasn’t piss, was it?” I joked.
“As long as you’re sure I didn’t take it too far. I got a little carried away,” he confessed.
I cupped my hand to his face, delighted by the stubble I found there. “I’m sure,” I promised.
“Good.” He dropped a kiss on my bare shoulder. “You hungry?”
Those truck tacos were long gone, lost to the calorie furnace of sex. “Starving,” I admitted.
He slapped me on the ass. “Meet me downstairs. I’ll whip up something for us. And by whip up something, don’t get your hopes up too high. I mostly microwave and dump things out of a can.”
“Good enough,” I told him.
Whistling, he pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants—hallelujah, Lord—and disappeared with a wink.
I lay there, still lettuce-limp, enjoying the way my body felt after a thorough round of sex. Downstairs, I heard Jake open the back door and the scrabble of doggy toenails on the floor. They had their own conversation while Jake made a ruckus opening and closing cabinet doors and drawers.
I took my time looking around his room. High ceilings in here like the first floor. The same fancy wood trim. Same hardwood floors. He could do with a rug in here, I thought. Oh, hell. And drapes. I hoped there weren’t any peeping eyes beyond the windows because if there were, they’d gotten one hell of a show.
The window bowed out and was framed in by a dusty window seat. Its bench could use a thick cushion.
The room looked as though he’d plopped furniture into it and decided to worry about the rest of it later. There was a dresser pulled slightly away from the wall on one end as if something had rolled behind it and been retrieved.
Where the giant pile of dirty laundry resided in the corner, I pictured a deep chair and side table. A quiet place to read or nap on winter days.
The only other thing in the room was a very large picture of a crucified Jesus hanging on the wall next to the door. I had a feeling that had come with the house.
I got up and stretched. Before beginning my quest for the bathroom. One door led to a walk-in closet. There was more clothing on the floor than hanging up. I found a bathroom through the other door and cleaned myself up. The toilet had a pull chain flusher. The vanity, a coating of dust.
Grinning, I combed my hair with my fingers, trying to reform Wilma’s shape and style. Jake Weston wasn’t so perfect after all. He really was a slob.
I gave up on my hair and went in search of clothing. I didn’t want to put Mom’s sweater back on my recently sexed body. I mean, I was already going to have to buy the woman a new one to make up for debauching the old one. So I helped myself to a floor t-shirt that passed the smell test.
I padded downstairs and headed into the kitchen.
Jake was still shirtless and stirring something on the stove. Homer was snarfing down his dinner. He paused to grumble and wag his tail at me before diving back into the kibble. A domestic scene that caused my lady heart to pitter-pat.
“What’s cooking, Chef Weston?”
He looked up and skimmed me from head to toe. “Now, that’s a pretty picture,” Jake said.
The man was good with flattery. I had to give him that.
I pulled out a barstool and sat across from him, resting my chin in my hands.
“I hope you like SpaghettiOs,” Jake said, pulling the sauce pan off the stove and dividing its contents between two bowls.
“SpaghettiOs?” I asked in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve had a can of SpaghettiOs since college.”
“I got some Lebanon bologna, too. Other than that, your only choice is some kind of furry Chinese takeout that’s so old I don’t remember ordering it.”
“I’ll stick with the Os and the bologna.”
“A wise choice. We can eat on the couch,” he said, pushing one of the bowls toward me.
We dined on childhood favorites on his couch while watching reruns of Cheers and Parks and Rec on his gigantic flat screen.
“So how am I doing so far with this dating thing?” he asked, taking my empty bowl and adding it to his on the coffee table. I guessed they’d sit there for a week or two.
Oh, right. We weren’t actually dating. I was just grooming him to date someone else. He’d be coaxing orgasms out of a new woman and making her canned food by Valentine’s Day, I predicted.
I ordered the canned pasta to stay in my stomach and not projectile vomit across the room.
I cleared my throat. “Good.” Great.
Homer trotted in and shoved his head in my lap.
“You’re in his spot,” Jake explained and slid me a couple of inches closer to him. Homer hopped up onto the couch, circled the cushion, and flopped down with a heavy sigh.
“You’re doing great,” I admitted. Eh. I’d worry about the stickiness of our consummated fake relationship later. I snuggled up against his side and rested my head on his shoulder.
He pulled a throw off the back of the couch and handed it to me.
“I think I’m ready to meet your parents,” he said while I was busy spreading the blanket out.
“You already have,” I pointed out, baffled.
“No, I mean like dinner and talking. Not just picking you up and being charming for five seconds.”
Okay, it was one thing for me to get a little wrapped up in our arrangement. But I didn’t want my parents falling for the guy only to have us fake break up right before I left town.
“Seriously?” I mean, I guess I owed the guy the complete girlfriend experience. Even if it hurt to deliver.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I want this to go the distance.”
He didn’t realize how real he was making us sound, I told myself.
“You know I’m not an expert on relationships, right? Obviously, none of mine have worked out,” I reminded him.
“You’re more experienced than I am.”
“Meet the parents. Got it. Anything else?”
“Okay. What about gift-giving?” he said, pausing the show on Ron Swanson’s frowning, mustachioed face.
“Gift-giving?”
“Yeah, like how do I know what to buy you and when? What’s the budget for birthdays and holidays? How does being a couple at Christmas work? Do I buy your family presents?”
“Uh. Those are valid and very specific questions. And that’s all going to depend on the relationship. For instance, you and your girlfriend might decide that she buys for her family and you buy for yours. The main thing to remember is it’s important to talk about things like that in advance. You don’t want to go all out and buy her diamond stud earrings for Valentine’s Day when she just gives you a coupon book for massages and hugs.”
“It all comes back to communication, doesn’t it?” Jake asked with a yawn. His fingers stroked my arm under
the sleeve, leaving the skin deliciously sensitive.
“Pretty much. Yeah.”
He was quiet for a minute. The silence was punctuated by Homer’s nasally snores and the beat of his tail as he dreamed good dreams.
“Why are you leaving, Marley?” Jake asked.
I blinked and shifted to look at him.
“Because I don’t belong here. I want something bigger. Something more than Culpepper can offer.”
“Do you like teaching? Coaching?” he asked.
I thought about it. About the wins. The makeover. The girls. Most of the rest of the students. Floyd. Vicky. Haruko. Jake. “Yeah. I do,” I decided. “But it’s not the plan.”
“And there’s no way this could, I don’t know, end up being what you want?” he asked.
I snorted. Find what I’ve been looking for in Culpepper? The place I couldn’t wait to leave as soon as that diploma was in my hot, little hand? “Trust me. Culpepper and I are better off apart,” I told him. “Why do you ask?”
I wanted it to be because he liked me. Because he’d miss me if I were gone. But he’d replaced me once. What were the odds that he wouldn’t do it again?
He gave a shrug. “No reason.”
He hit the play button, and we turned our attention back to Leslie and Ron.
50
Jake
I woke from the best night of sleep of my life to an empty bed. My bliss instantly evaporated, and I bolted from my cocoon. She’d been here. She’d gone to bed with me. We’d argued good-naturedly about the quality of my linens and pillows. To be fair, she had a point. I was nearing forty with a good job, and these cheap-ass sheets were rough enough to exfoliate.
It was time to upgrade.
Uncle Lewis was going to fucking love Marley if her influence got me into a store with sheets and curtains and shit.
I heard a clunk from downstairs and a short bark followed by a laugh.
She was here.
I dragged my sweats on and noticed, possibly for the first time, the giant mound of laundry in the corner on the floor. Maybe it was time I did a little growing up elsewhere, too.
