by Sara Ney
“She might be seventy-five, but she kept the wine flowing like a lady boss.” Like a sorority girl with an unlimited bar tab.
Abbott sticks a leg out, bending it at the knee, calf flexing. “That may be true…but she got us the rest of the day off, didn’t she? And you gave me that gross kiss while I was eating a hot dog.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to make up a bullshit excuse to your boss.”
“You didn’t call your boss, you had that intern kid do it.”
Taylor? He’s not really a kid, but yeah—sending him that quick note and telling him I’m playing hooky just made life more difficult because the nosey fucker wanted details. Lucky for him, he grows on me every day, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say we were…
Friends.
“Let me see the text you sent him.”
“What? No.” No way am I showing her the exchange between Taylor and me.
“Why?”
“Uh—because it’s private?” Plus, her name is all over those damn messages. She was the first thing Taylor brought up when I said I had a lunch date and wasn’t coming back.
If she checked my phone, this is the shit she’d see:
Taylor: You had lunch with your “neighbor” didn’t you?
Me: Yeah, so?
Taylor: And now your taking the rest of the day off?
Me: *You’re
Taylor: Don’t change the subject by correcting my grammar.
Me: Yes, I had lunch with my neighbor and now I’m taking the rest of the day off, if you really must know.
Taylor: To do something WITH her, or to do HER?
Me: Don’t be a pervert.
Taylor: Um, CELLO, it’s a valid question—the bosses are going to want to know. Honestly, if you told them you were courting a Margolis, they’d probably not only bonus you this quarter, they’d make you partner just to get their foot in the door with that family. Quite frankly, so would I.
Me: Why are you like this?
Taylor: Oh puh-leez, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it helping you at work.
Me: No, actually, I haven’t—not once. And you wouldn’t be talking like this if you met the grandmother.
Taylor: Is she a total queen?
Me: One hundred percent a bigger queen than you.
Taylor: Not possible.
Me: I can hear you flipping your hair. My point is, she would eat me alive if she caught a whiff of this conversation.
Taylor: The queen or the granddaughter?
Me: The grandma.
Taylor: It’s a grandma—how bad could she be?
Me: You obviously haven’t googled her.
Taylor: Google on company time? Me? Never.
Me: Please, Jarod in IT sees all the stupid shit you’re looking at during the day, because instead of googling, he’s spying on US.
Taylor: Well, the shit that comes across my desk is boring. No offense, but until someone gives me an actual chance to prove myself, I have to occupy my time in other ways that don’t involve math, measurements, or angles.
Me: Point taken.
And on and on it goes, and no way can I show a text thread like that to Abbott. She’d skin me alive, leave my dead carcass, and then feed the rest to Nan.
No thanks.
The booze makes it easy to be flirty. “But you can come over here and try to convince me.” It’s a line I’ve used on other women a million times that always works when I want someone to make the first move.
It doesn’t work on Abbott, who eyes me suspiciously.
“I don’t think so, pal.” Her smile is flirty, too. “If you want to show me, you can slide on over here and whisper it in my ear.”
Whoa. That sounded…innocuous, but also sexy as fuck, and if she thought I was eye-fucking her before when I wasn’t, I sure as hell am doing it now.
My gaze scans the room.
Desdemona is curled up on her kitty bed, snoring in a way I’ve never heard a cat snore, not that I come in contact with many.
Strangest feline I’ve ever met.
Abbott pulls her leg down from the sofa, setting her foot on the floor—first one, then the other, spreading her knees, grin on her face. Arms go behind her head, hands intertwining.
She’s daring me to.
Don’t do it, Brooks.
Do. Not. Do. It.
Hands to yourself, bro. She tastes like hot dog, remember?
Keep the mouse in the house—she wants to relationship you.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I home in on those boobs, and while I’m not a vain man, or a greedy man, or a selfish man—
I laugh at that last one: not a selfish man? I am a selfish bastard or I wouldn’t be daydreaming about getting my ass off this couch, crawling on my hands and knees to Abbott’s side, and slowly removing those workout pants she’s wrapped up in.
What will she sound like with my mouth on her pussy?
What face will she make when she comes?
Only a selfish bastard would be asking himself that.
I clear my throat when Abbott crosses her legs again. Uncrosses them.
It’s a telltale sign she’s turned on, fire no doubt burning between her thighs.
Desdemona doesn’t move.
Abbott holds her breath.
Aw, fuck it—I’m going for it. It’ll be Christmas in a few months and this will be the gift I give myself since I haven’t fucked anyone in weeks, not since befriending my neighbor.
She’s ruined me.
That’s the last coherent thought I have when I ease myself off the couch and fall to my knees, just like I had in my mind moments ago. Take the few paces to her side, push her legs apart with my giant hands. They look huge on her slender thighs, tan against her light-colored leggings.
“Brooks…” What are you doing?
“Shh.” We’ll worry about it later; let me worship you now.
Her head hits the back of the sofa, dark hair fanning against the soft cushions. Tongue darting out when I hook my fingers in the waistband of her pants, resting them there while I lean forward, mouth and nose buried in her warmth. Buried against her tummy.
I feel her fingers bury themselves in my hair, raking across my skull—fucking bliss.
I moan.
My balls tighten.
Hands move, inching those pants down. Abbott blessedly lifts her ass off the couch so I can drag them further without struggling like an asshole.
Down they come, past her thighs, over her knees, down her calves. I pull them completely off and toss them to the carpet.
One less thing…
Her panties are the same color as her leggings; is that a coincidence or did she plan it that way in hopes we’d fuck?
Nah, that doesn’t seem like Abbott—she’s not a schemer.
You never know with women, though. They’re far too cunning to be completely harmless.
“Let me worship you.”
17
Abbott
“Worship me?” The words escape my lips in barely a whisper, for I can’t find my voice.
“Yes.”
He wants to go down on me.
Correction: he is down on me, and now he wants to put his tongue inside and give me an orgasm.
Let me worship you, let me worship you…
Sexy, seductive words making my stomach reel and insides sizzle.
“W-What are we doing?” My question has his head lifting, and he stops to look me in the eye. I can’t believe I’m actually stuttering.
I never stutter.
When Brooks raises his eyes, tearing his gaze from the lower half of my body, they aren’t glassy, or dilated, or hazy; Brooks is not drunk. Which means Brooks knows exactly what he’s doing and he wants to do it with me.
“Do you not want this?” His quiet question lingers, putting the proverbial ball in my court, and I bite down on my bottom lip, a habit I seemed to have developed only recently—since spending all my free
time with him.
If he just wants to be friends and not dedicate his downtime to being with me, he has a piss-poor way of showing it.
Dinner. Movies. TV.
Everything but sleeping, and everything but sex, my leggings somehow no longer on my person.
In a heap on the carpet.
Legs being spread apart with two large, warm hands grazing my bare skin. Warm. So, so warm. Large thumbs plucking at the elastic of my underwear.
I’m not quivering, you’re quivering…
I will my thighs to stop shaking—stop it! Stop!—but it’s impossible since no man has had his hands on my body in months. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like, and it feels…it feels…heavenly, those slow, gentle strokes along my skin.
It might have been forever since I’ve had sex or fooled around, but the sensations all come back to me. The place where I want his hands? Comes right back to me. The tingles. The want. The need. The heavy breathing and heavy petting all come surging back as I watch him kneel before me, readying himself to go down on me.
If I wasn’t seeing him between my thighs, with my own eyes, I would never have believed it.
Brooks Bennett is about to down on you, Abbott. Enjoy it, girl.
Me: No freaking way will that ever happen. He’s going to realize what he’s doing and stop it.
Oh, it’s happening, just you wait and see.
Me: Wanna make a bet?
Also me: watches as Brooks Bennett’s shoulders shrug, nose pressing into the apex of my spread thighs, mouth breathing heavy into my pussy.
Pussy.
God, that word. I hate thinking it, let alone saying it out loud, and I can’t believe, of all things, that’s what crosses my mind. But what the hell am I supposed to call it? My kitty cat? My crotch? My vajajay?
What does a woman call her V when face-to-face with the P?
“Goddamn your pussy smells fantastic,” he groans.
See? I chose the right word for this occasion, resting on my elbows for a front-row seat to the action while doing my best to relax at the sight of it.
It turns me on.
It makes me wet.
It makes me squirm and moan and wiggle my ass with anticipation. He’s taking fucking forever to put his lips on my vagina (vagina sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?), and I’m not sure how much more teasing I can take.
But.
Brooks going down on me is a gift, one I’m not about to squander by complaining.
So I do the only thing I can do: I sit still, waiting, trying not to boss him around by telling him how to do his job. No man wants to be told what to do in the bedroom, unless they’re royally fucking it up.
Like my first boyfriend, Daniel, who couldn’t have navigated his way around my holes if I’d drawn him a topographical map of the territory. Daniel was all fumbling and poking and awkward searching—he made Billie Belmont seem like a sex god.
A few more misses followed, all of them from college, none of whom I let worship at my lady temple.
Lady temple.
That makes me snicker, which makes Brooks glance up for the briefest of seconds.
Shit. Here I am thinking about all this and chuckling—woolgathering during oral is never a good thing—when his mouth makes contact with my crotch. Heat, glorious heat covers my private parts. Brooks’ breath warms me from the outside in as he presses his mouth against me. Fingers sliding up and down the thin seam of my barely-there panties.
They match my outfit, which was no accident, although he couldn’t possibly know that. Right?
He still hasn’t used his tongue, but it feels amazing. I’m either desperate for someone to touch me, or I’m actually feeling actual things while he’s teasing my nether region.
Panties get pushed aside—excruciatingly slowly—to make way for one slowly drifting finger. One. Slowly. Drifting. Finger.
Now two, pressed together and sliding up and down my wet slit. He leans forward and licks, as if he’s going at a lollipop, sweet like sugar.
He moans.
I moan.
“Fuck you taste good.”
“Do I?” Cocky and sassy, knowing the answer.
He barely lifts his head to reply, “Hell yes,” but manages just the same, nostrils flared.
Pussy power, I’m tempted to tell him, the advertising executive in me always dreaming up slogans. Now is not the time for one of your one-liners, Abbott!
“What is that?”
“What’s what?”
“What smells so good?”
Why the hell is he stopping to chitchat? Now is not the time for this line of questioning, Brooks!
“I-I…don’t…” I swallow, gasping for breath, heart racing from the endorphins coursing through my body, pulsing in my lower pelvis. “Baby powder.”
“Baby powder?” He sniffs, nosing the lips of my vagina. Licks again with a loud, enthusiastic groan. “Fucking delicious.”
No one has ever called me delicious before, and I love it. Do I thank him? I’d hate to be rude.
Oh my God, stop—just stop. This is sex, not a dinner party. He didn’t just compliment your table linens, he complimented your pussy.
“I could live down here.” He’s sucking on me now, sucking on my clit, spreading me apart with his fingers, desperately seeking my orgasm and my most delicate parts. “This is the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”
This time, I do preen, because there is no doubt Brooks Bennett has seen plenty of them, and he thinks mine is the prettiest?
“Oh my God, that is such a s-s-sweet thing to s-say,” I stutter, thighs quaking like a rookie.
“I’m not just saying that, baby. Fuck me, it’s so tight.”
From lack of use, yeah. It is tight, though—how can he tell just from sticking his nose in it and rubbing it around? Guys are so weird, so easy to please. All I’m doing is sitting here and he’s gushing like he’s just unlocked Pandora’s box. Is my pussy really that fantastic? I’d like to think so, but it’s totally subjective.
I don’t shave. I keep it tidy, but there is hair. These days, not many guys are into that look. Me? I think it’s sexier when I’m strutting around my apartment and catch sight of myself in my closet’s full-length mirror, take a gander at the patch of blonde hair hidden between my legs.
This is the reason I love sheer panties. That tease of a hair patch—sexy.
Old-school.
Make pubic hair great again!
This too makes me smile, eyes rolling back at the same time. My teeth scrape across my bottom lip, which is a far cry from me biting down, hips lifting off the couch.
Brooks holds me down by the inner thighs, tongue now pressing into my slick heat. Slick heat—my, my, aren’t I poetic…
“I’m so fucking hard,” Brooks murmurs from below.
“How?”
“You’re so hot, baby.”
Baby, baby, baby. Normally I hate endearments. From a man I’m not dating or barely know, they feel…fake. Forced.
Cheesy.
Not that I think Brooks is an exception; he is the epitome of bad behavior and cavalier attitude. I haven’t necessarily seen him in action, but I know the type.
Still. I’ll take it.
I like him—have grown to like him more than anyone I’ve let into my life in a long time. I’m a private person; I don’t trust anyone, and with very good reason: my high-profile family. We have too much to lose by stepping out of line, and having one-night stands and casual affairs was never in the cards for me.
But Brooks? Him I’ll let in.
It helps that Nan has given him her stamp of approval. Odd, but true.
My legs spread of their own accord, wider, letting him sink into me deeper, still on his knees before me. Sucking, licking, oh my God.
“Oh Goddd,” I whine in a low, tortured tone, sounding a lot like a cat in heat, all the pussy and none of the feline drama.
“You like that, naughty girl?”
Um, why is he asking
questions?
There is way too much talking and not enough sucking.
I grab his head, getting in on the action, fingers raking through his thick hair, giving him a teensy-weensy shove into my vagina.
No. More. Talking.
The endgame here is an orgasm, and since when am I a bossy bitch? Since when am I the kind of girl who shoves a guy’s head down between her legs?! Since when am I demanding?
I am officially that girl.
I am!
Without thinking, I prop one foot up on the coffee table, practically begging for it like a hussy. Moaning a porn star moan, born for this role, giving in to the sensations. Brooks is clean-shaven, smooth cheeks brushing against my equally smooth inner thighs. His tongue is long, and soft, and skilled.
I mean—he seriously knows what he’s doing.
I try not to let it bother me. I try to push the question out of my head: How many women did he have to go down on to get this good at oral?
Now is not the time…
“Mmm…ooh!” come my coos. “Oh yeah…oh…” come my sighs. “That…do that…right there,” I tell him, bossy little thing I’ve become. “Harder.”
Harder?
Yes, harder.
I want it. Need it. Anticipation building throughout my body, I tense up. Gnaw at my bottom lip, throw my head back, no longer able to look down at him; it just feels too damn good. I want to grab his head. I want to push on his shoulders. I want to spread my legs wider, but that isn’t possible. I want…I want him to…I want him to…
…fuck me.
He doesn’t.
He stays between my legs until everything turns to mush. Until the shockwaves course through my pelvis, stomach, pussy. Until every part of me is devastated by tremors. Overwhelmingly incredible tremors of pleasure.
Oh my God, my lips move but no sound comes out. It’s too much, and when I come, I collapse. Go slack. Relaxed, sated, like a tomcat after banging a loose stray and giving zero fucks about my partner.
If I had a paw, I’d lick it.
If I had bangs, I’d flick them.
Satisfied he’s gotten me off, Brooks leans back, hands resting on his haunches. Smug and arrogant—nothing new there. He’s always smug and arrogant, but this is different, because what passes through his eyes as he sits there watching me, half-naked on the sofa, I cannot explain. He’s assessing me, not objectifying me, mouth glistening.
