About Last Night
by horn pixy. Listen to the ► Podcast at Connected.
The bartender! Of course! That’s why the man had looked familiar to her in her bathroom. His features had been blurry without her glasses, of course, but she was reasonably sure it was him. She was almost a hundred percent certain of it. The only question was; what was he doing in her apartment?
“It’s a long story,” he said when she asked him later, in her kitchen, her hair wrapped up in a towel and perched on her head. His eyes followed her movements around the kitchen as she got milk from the fridge for the coffee and put bread in the toaster. The irony of the morning-after-nothing-happened breakfast didn’t escape his notice.
“I have time,” she said carefully, closing the blinds to avoid all possible sources of light. “Give me the quick version.”
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “You were drunk, I helped you home. My keys are locked in my car and I couldn’t get a cab to come get me. That’s it, in a nutshell. And because I know you’re still wondering, I spent the night on your couch, shivering a little. Ok, shivering a lot. It was damn cold. Plus I have a crick in my neck now.”
She winced. “I’m sorry. I wish you’d waken me up, I would at least have helped you with a blanket.”
“I could have used your hairdryer to build a nuclear bomb right next to your bed and you wouldn’t have woken up. You were out cold.”
Another wince.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never been that drunk before. I’m really not the type.”
“I know,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin. “You told me last night.”
She chewed her bottom lip nervously. Brandon wanted to take that hot little task over for her. He imagined nibbling on those petal soft lips and cleared his throat a little.
“What else did I tell you?” she wanted to know apprehensively.
“Well, you work in a library, and you can’t lie even to telephone salespeople.”
“Is that all?”
“Not by a long shot. By the way, what does technically mean?”
She frowned and cocked her head in a ‘what do you mean?’ way. “Technically?”
“Yes. When is something technically and when is it; I don’t know, untechnically? Physically? Literally?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she said and smeared a thin strip of margarine over her dry toast.
He cupped his hands around the plain white cup filled to the brim with coffee and leaned forward.
“Tell me,” he said conversationally, sadistically waiting for her to take a bite of toast. “How does one remain a virgin, but only technically?”
She started choking as he’d expected, coughing and wheezing and grabbing her coffee to help the dry bread down the right pipe.
“What?”
“Apparently, if you were speaking the truth last night which drunk people seem prone to do for some reason, you are technically still a virgin, but not in a physical sense. I was just wondering how that happens.”
“I told you that? Oh my; I’m so sorry!”
He laughed at the red flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Relax,” he said. “Its fine. I would just love to hear that story. Because there has to be a story.”
“Not really,” she muttered, and then, as an afterthought, “I’m never drinking again.”
“Wise words that has been spoken by many, many people over the years.”
“I mean it,” she insisted. “I honestly can’t believe I told you that.”
“Virginity is nothing to be ashamed of,” Brandon said, stroking one finger down her arm.
“It kind of is, when you’re twenty nine.”
He gaped. “You’re twenty nine and you’ve never had sex? How the hell had that happen?”
“I don’t know, it just; happened,” she muttered. “Or more to the point, it just never happened.”
“There must be a reason,” he prompted.
“There isn’t one specific reason, it’s more like a series of non-sexual incidents, strung together by everything from dating sites to five-minute dating games and more blind dates than I can count.”
“I take it none of that worked for you?”
“I met the most interesting people. Like Mike, who was seventy two at the time, and told me he had a granddaughter fantasy he wanted to play out with me.”
“He wanted you to pretend to be his granddaughter?”
She shook her head. “If only. I’m not sure how this would have played out since I didn’t stick around to find out, but I had to play the grandfather. And he was one of the better options.”
Brandon sat back, stunned. “No way,” he said disbelievingly.
She nodded. “I’m serious. After him was a series of serial losers; men who couldn’t hold on to jobs and girls and had to borrow money from one loan shark to pay off the next. The type of guys whose idea of cleaning out the trailer means letting a stray dog in to lick the stains from the floor and to put all the porn in one box.”
Oh, he was in deep shit, Brandon thought as he roared with laughter. She had a sense of humor. There was, to his mind, nothing sexier in a girl than a sense of humor.
“And after them?”
She frowned. “I met this guy, his name is Stanley, online. We went on a few dates and it didn’t go too bad, till his parole officer contacted me to let me know he was back in jail for harassing little kids at a park.” She winced. “It was messy. The police went through my house, looking for signs of kiddie-porn. Apparently he was part of a child-prostitution and trafficking ring. I had no idea. I got off with a warning, since there was no evidence that I was involved, and he told them that I knew nothing. I suspect they still monitor my internet history every once in a while.”
Helpless laughter rocked through him. No wonder she was still a virgin, if these were the kind of men she stumbled across during her search.
“What about high school?” he asked. “And college?”
She looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t exactly Miss Popular in school,” she said simply. “I wasn’t even that shy girl that nobody talks to except when they need help with math, because I sucked at math. Still do, as a matter of fact. I didn’t fit in with any of the clicks. I wasn't pretty and I wasn't clever, and I didn’t have any secret talents. The only thing I was good at was reading, and I did a lot of that. But nobody makes friends in the school library, right? Especially not if the girl is chubby and have the fashion sense of a blind nun.”
“Now that part I can help you with,” he said. “Why don’t I go shopping with you and help you pick out a few outfits that will make the, uh, best of your figure?”
She looked down at herself. True, she was wearing sweatpants, but they were new and still neat. And her sweater might be a bit too big after her diet, but it was of a good material and had been expensive and it didn’t lose shape in the wash. But his words made her feel downright dowdy.
“Do you remember what I told you last night?” he asked.
“I barely remember you, never mind anything you told me,” she said, stung.
He frowned a little and gazed at her with an intent look on his face that made her wonder if he could see more than what she revealed.
“You expressed the wish to... how to put this delicately? find somebody to enjoy yourself with, but you were concerned that you don’t have the right look and personality to attract men. I merely offered my advice to help you if you wanted an objective opinion.”
“Oh,” she said, pushing her plate away from her with one finger.
Actually, what he’d promised was to help her learn to fake it, but Brandon was strangely reluctant to hurt her feelings by telling her that. She was female, after all, and would immediately conclude that he thought she wasn’t good enough or pretty enough, or didn’t have what it takes to attract men like ants to a syrup bottle.
And that was just bull.
Even if he had had almost those exact same thoughts not twelve hours ago.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked after a few semi-awkward moments of silence.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a nice guy.”
“Men are never nice unless they have an agenda.”
He winced. “Ouch. True, but ouch.”
She gave him a small smile. “So what’s your agenda?”
Getting in your pants.
“Maybe I want library privileges.”
She snorted. “Like what?”
Showing you what the reference section should really be used for.
“Maybe I have a fine for a book that’s late. Think you can help me make it disappear?”
Her smile was like the sunrise.
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
He leaned forward with a grin. “Maybe I am. Are you corruptible?”
“Certainly not. I’m a good girl, you know.” She was trying hard to look prim and proper, and failing miserably. Her eyes; those bluer-than-the-sky eyes of hers; were filled with laughter behind her pretty glasses, despite the way she was pursing her lips and trying to look chastising.
“All right. So I’ll have to pay the fine, then. How about this? There’s a book I want to read, but it’s on a waiting list. I would love to be moved to the top of the list.”
She pretended to think about it. “That depends,” she decided. “What book is it?”
He couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist the invitation their flirting was issuing.
“The Art of Pleasuring Women,” he said, wondering if she would accept the unvoiced challenge.
She did, though her eyes widened slightly in scandalous provocation. “Well, now,” she said, clearing her throat a little. “I guess I can be convinced. Wouldn’t want your girlfriend to be dissatisfied by your prowess. It would be sad for the poor girl if you didn’t know how to; get things done. You might even say it’s my civic duty to let you have the necessary instruction.”
His throat was a little dry and he lifted his cup to his lips, surprised to realize there wasn’t another drop. “Yeah,” he said. “Education is important. Speaking of education, I think it’s time for lesson one.”
“Lesson one in what?”
He grinned. “Making you irresistible.”
Emily twisted her hair into a clip with a practiced movement. Brandon had given her couple of hours while he got a cab to take him home and get his spare keys, promising to be back for her first lesson. She felt awkward when he left, sure it would be the last time she saw him. She knew he thought her plain and uninteresting– he’d basically said it himself in so many words; and he had absolutely no reason to waste his Saturday on her. She was surprised at the desolation she had felt when she stood at her window, watching his cab pull off. He was the first man in a long time to be nice to her. Not many guys would go to the trouble he’d gone too to get her home safely. He’d looked after her as if they were friends, and this morning he’d joked with her and put her at ease, making her forget about the humiliation of her alcohol-loosened tongue of the previous evening. For goodness’ sake, she had told him she was still a virgin. Why on earth had she felt the need to share that with him? Now he would always remember her as that crazy girl who couldn’t handle a few drinks and had no taste in clothes. He was nice, and talking to him had been very nice and seeing him again would be even nicer, but she was not naïve enough to believe he would be back. Still, she couldn’t help taking extra care when she dried her hair and did her make-up. The result was less than satisfactory, to her own eyes. No matter what she did, she would be plain. Nothing could change that. She had never been pretty, nor would she ever be.
“And you’d best make peace with it,” she muttered to her slightly depressed image in the mirror. She threw open her closet and looked at the piles of clothes that had been arranged with military precision, according to color and styles.
It was a bit sad, watching her cupboard. Most of what she owned was either white or beige or cream, or any variation of that. There were blacks and navy blues, and a few browns and greys. Some dowdy shades of maroon and a mourning, drab purple, but that was it.
Was this really what her life had whittled down to? Her job was going nowhere, fast, she had no relationships outside her head, and her closet looked like she let her grandmother do her shopping. Why on earth had she bought that grey and brown coat hanging in the back? It was horrible. It was hideous, even if it was made of the finest wool she’d ever touched.
Emily pulled it off the hanger and dumped it on the bed unceremoniously. She grabbed another jacket, a few skirts she was ashamed to say she’d worn more than twice. The heap on her bed piled high as she emptied her closet almost completely. She was feeling slightly frantic by the time she was done with the coats and jackets and started on slacks and trousers. Had she been blind her entire life, to wear this?
“What are you doing?” a voice suddenly said, disturbing her. Emily dropped a faded charcoal blouse on the floor in surprise. Her sort-of friend and downstairs neighbor was staring at the bed, which was covered with clothes, with an expression of revulsion. She must have used the spare key Emily had left with her, because Emily had locked the door behind Brandon. Usually Judith knocked, but Emily hadn’t heard anything.
“You!” said Emily accusingly, bending down to pick up the shirt and holding it out in front of her. “I blame you!”
“For what?” Judith asked, clearly not sure what to expect.
“This is partly your fault,” Emily scolded, shaking and accusing finger at Judith. “How could you let me wear this crap? In public?”
Judith stared at the bed, her mouth working a little as she processed the situation.
“I thought you liked it.”
“You should have told me I look about ninety! What sort of friend are you?”
“Em, you always look neat. I thought…”
“Neat! I looked neat. And how many guys want to have sex with neatness, I ask you?”
“Uhm…” Judith cleared her throat. “Clearly, not as many as you’d like.”
Emily threw another armful of blouses; a mustardy floral, a khaki-with-frills and a navy box neck that looked like the wrong end of the fifties; on the bed.
“None, that’s how many,” she said grimly. “How am I supposed to get somebody to marry if I can’t even find a man to have sex with me? What’s wrong with me?”
“There is not a thing wrong with you,” Judith said immediately and loyally. “You just; appeal to a different demographic than the men you meet.”
“Yeah,” Emily muttered. “The men at the senior citizen really enjoy chatting to me on Library Tuesday. They show up by the busloads to come see me.”
Judith stifled a laugh. “Why are you taking all of your clothes out of your closet?”
Emily sank down on her bead and glanced at the pile of ugly materials and styles.
“I’m getting rid of it,” she said darkly. “All of it. And I’m going to buy new things. Pretty things. Color, Judith, I need color. Pink and green and yellow. Red! I don’t even have a red dress. Why don’t I have a hot red dress?”
“Red’s really not your color,” Judith said. “Or yellow, to be honest. You need to stay away from red and yellow, and definitely no orange.”
“See? Why haven’t you told me this before? Look at me, Judith, I’m a mess.”
Judith sat down next to her. “I guess you always seem so content, so at peace with your life. I used to envy you that. I’m the most unstable person I know, and you just never cared what people thought about you. I had no idea you were dissatisfied. I’m sorry I let you wear ugly clothes.”
Emily gave a small laugh and glanced at the empty hangers in the closet. There were two coats that had passed her test; a truly timeless black cashmere and a really warm, snowy white one she’d bought on sale but hadn’t worn yet because it would get dirty the second she ventured out of her bedroom.
“It’s ok. It’s not your fault. I should have realized I need help long before now.”
“What brought this on?” Judith asked, picking up the mustard shirt looking at it shrewdly. “This would make an excellent floor rag, by the way.”
Emily laughed slightly. “Nothing brought it on. I’m just; I’m tired of being part of the scenery in my own life, you know? When is it my turn to have some fun? I’ve been waiting so patiently for my life to begin, and look where it’s brought me. I’m twenty nine, I’ve never had sex, and I’m too scared to venture outside this comfort zone I’ve been digging for myself with serviceable clothing and comfortable shoes and not enough friends.”
“Your shoes are really ugly,” Judith said, honestly. “And I promise I’ll tell you from now on if you wear something that doesn’t work.”
Emily looked at her nearly empty cupboard. “Thanks,” she said. “I guess I’ll take this stuff to the Salvation Army, if they want it.”
“Let me help with that,” Judith said. “I have a car, so it’ll be much easier for me. I know a great homeless shelter that needs donations desperately.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Emily said. “Why did you come here today? Did they drop my mail off in your box again?”
“No, I wanted to ask about that really hot guy I saw coming out of your apartment a while ago. Was he the cable repair man or something?”
“No,” Emily said, blushing a little. “He; actually, he spent the night here. On my couch,” she added quickly. “Nothing happened. I was so drunk he had to bring me home from the bar.”
Judith’s eyes widened. “But you never drink,” she said.
“I did last night.”
“Never mind that, then. Oh my word, Emily, you let a stranger sleep over at your house? And you didn’t jump him?”
“He wasn’t interested in being jumped,” Emily said. “He’s just; a nice guy I’m never going to see again.”
Judith chewed the inside of her lip. “Leave this stuff,” she said, “and bring your credit card. We’re going to go shopping.”
Brandon paced the hallway outside Emily’s apartment. He’d been there for an hour and she still wasn't opening the door. She was either avoiding him on purpose, or incapable of answering the damn bell, or, most probably, not home.
Which just plain pissed him off. Hadn’t he told her he would be back? She had no business being out when he wanted to see her!
He kept walking, following the generic grey carpeting with the navy pattern with his eyes. This was ridiculous. He should be at home, watching sport or having an afternoon nap. He should not be pacing around, waiting for Emily to show up. What was he, a horny teenager who mistakes lust for love?
He forced himself to leave after another half hour. No girl was worth waiting for like this. It was pathetic and sad and told him, more than anything else, how much he needed to get laid. These; feelings he seemed to have caught, were like a disease. Or a virus. And the best cure for unwanted feelings is a good old-fashioned boink fest. He knew plenty of girls who would be more than happy to oblige. It was just such a pity he wasn't interested in anybody except Emily.
Brandon scowled.
“Are you sure about the dress?” Emily asked for the third time, loading the last of the shopping bags into Judith’s car. They’d spent almost five hours straight in the shops, with Judith dragging her from the one shop to the next, picking out clothes and smelling discounts from miles away. Her arms were sore from carrying the bags around, and her credit card had given up screaming in pain ten purchases ago. Instead, she imagined it making small little whimpers as it lay in her wallet, trying to curl itself up against the agony and torture she’d put it through.
But oh, she loved the clothes! The colors; Emily had never thought there were so many shades of pink, or that she could look so good in pastel and bright colors alike. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel dowdy. She felt pretty, since Judith had made her go to a bathroom and change from frumpy and dumpy to smart and sexy. She was wearing a short skirt, teetering around on high-heeled boots that could not possible be good for her insteps. She felt deliciously slutty, even though the skirt wasn't that short. But the tight black sweater she wore with it dipped low enough to make men take a second look, and the jacket she had on over it was hot-pink and attention grabbing. Added to that the new jewelry and a sexy little scarf, and she felt like a million dollars.
Judith didn’t need to ask what dress she was talking about. It was a slinky black number with very flattering, very seductive lines. It was shorter than sin, and with the right bra, would show off more cleavage than a centerfold Playboy Bunny. It was completely backless and basically said, ‘take me to bed and tear me off her body.’
“I’m sure,” she said. “Em, you look so hot in that dress, even I wanted to jump you in the fitting room. Brandon’s gonna eat his heart out.”
“I don’t want Brandon to eat his heart out,” Emily muttered, but she grinned a little. “I wouldn’t mind him eating something else out, though.”
Judith gasped in shock. “Why, Emily Brown," she said. “You’re positively slutty!”
“What,” Emily said defensively, “just because I’m a virgin, I need to be prudish?”
“I created a monster,” Judith said, shaking her head as she backed out.
Brandon couldn’t stop scowling as he rolled out of bed the next morning. It was still snowing outside, and he had spent the entire evening stomping around in his house. That bloody librarian had him all tied up. He was angry, and horny, and annoyed all at the same time. After waiting around for three hours outside her apartment the previous day, he’d gone home, only to keep thinking about her. And now it was Sunday, and it was still snowing, and he was damned if he would spend another day frustrated as hell.
The lady needed lessons, and he was damned well going to be the one to teach them to her.
Starting today.
Emily brushed her hair, marveling at the lightness of the layered and highlighted strands. The swelling on her eyebrows had finally gone down, after the waxing and tinting she’d agreed to the previous day. And the new eyeliner made all the difference in the world. She experimented at leisure with the new make-up Judith had helped her choose, and loving the outfit she had decided on that morning; a pair of surprisingly comfortable jeans with the boots of the previous day, an amethyst-color sweater that hugged her body and showed off the curves she had always kept hidden for some reason. She fixed the silver hoops in her ears and wondered how she was going to settle the bills on her credit card. She almost had more debt now than right after she finished her degree at the university.
But oh, it was worth every cent. Every time she opened her cupboard doors and saw the cornucopia of colors adorning her pretty white shelves, she wanted to hug herself and dance a little jig. She had the weirdest urge to grab her hairbrush and sing along to the mixed CD she was listening to while she got dressed, but she figured it was unacceptable behavior to anybody over the age of oh, say, fourteen.
But then she got a what-the-hell feeling and grabbed her brush. She might have missed out on the dance-like-you’re a teenager phase when she actually was a teenager, but there was no reason not to catch up on that now, was there? She spun around her room, ignoring the unmade bed and singing along to the newest teen-sensation swooning about a boy and what he did to her.
“And you make me want you like a grown-up…” she crooned along to the singer.
Emily could relate. She had never been passionate, to say the least. She had a vibrator in her bedside table, and she used it occasionally, but she suspected there was something wrong with her that she didn’t enjoy it much. It made her feel pathetic, the way she’d felt at twenty-five when she finally decided to end her virginal status on her own, if she couldn’t get a man to help her with the pesky little task. She cried when she broke through the barrier, so lonely and depressed that she just took out the vibrator; a pretty pink one with different settings; and went to go clean up in the bathroom. There had been no pleasure, none of the ecstasy she’d read about in books and seen in movies. It had felt humiliating and like giving up, and she had hated herself for it.
She tried using the vibrator again, and after a few times she actually had an orgasm. Which was great while it lasted, but afterwards she felt stupid and tainted and like such a loser. She still used it occasionally, though the orgasms seemed to be getting smaller every time. Maybe she was getting too old to enjoy sex. Maybe her body was tricked into thinking it was time to go through menopause, since it wasn’t being used the way nature intended for it to be used. And she had never, with one exception, looked at a man and gotten turned on. Men were from Mars, and she didn’t speak Martian. She was tongue tied and avoided them like a second-grade girl, at the same time wishing one of them would just look at her once, fall head over heels and coax her out of her shell. But Brandon; Brandon made her want him in a way she had never thought it was possible to want somebody. Maybe it was because he was the first man to take the time to talk to her, or maybe it was because he’d hit her at a vulnerable stage with that smile of his, but when she had looked out of her shower to see him standing there, she’d felt the heat low in her belly, unfurling and moving to her nether regions. He was hot. He made her want things, like one-night stands and short flings and naked bodies writhing together.
He made her feel like a women, even if he wasn't interested.
And that was more pathetic than anything else.
Her doorbell rang, several times shortly after each other, indicating irritation on the other side of the door. It was probably Judith, so she slicked one last coat of gloss over her lips and headed to the sitting room, eager to show her friend what she looked like. Only it wasn't Judith.
It was Brandon.
Brandon swallowed once. Was he at the wrong apartment? Because there was a really, really hot girl standing where he had expected to see Emily. And maybe his cock was finally ready to get down and dirty with somebody else, because it was stirring subtly, reminding Brandon that he hadn’t had sex in about five months. At least not with somebody else in the room.
“Hey,” the girl said. Brandon’s eyes were glued to the plump, shiny lips the color of ripe cherries and he swallowed convulsively.
She was wearing Emily’s glasses, and she was standing in Emily’s doorway, but there was no way Emily could be wearing clothes that made him want to take her right there, against the wall in the hallway.
“Hi,” he croaked, feeling as if he was in high school again and trying to talk to pretty girl who owned the locker next to his. All tongue-tied and awkward. The pretty girl cleared her throat and gave a step back. “Would you like to come inside?”
“Sure,’ he said, but he couldn’t seem to move. It felt as if the connection between his feet and his brain had been severed (best guess put the cut-off point somewhere near his groin) and he was unable to do anything but stare.
At her tits. Those previously thought plain, nondescript tits. They were perfect. Not too big, not too small. Full and high, soft and plump. He itched to have them in his hands and do something; anything; with them. To them. On them. For them.
“Brandon?”
Her voice sounded like it had been made to say his name, preferably in different tones of passion. He could imagine her crying it out as the orgasm hit her, and he swallowed again, trying to force his brain to get rid of the lust-driven haze so he could function like a normal human being.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “You look…”
“Different?” she guessed and looked down at the soft, form-fitting sweater that made her skin seem all healthy and glowing and; stuff. Or something.
“Really beautiful,” he amended. “Really, really beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said, glancing down uncomfortably, reminding him that she was a very shy girl, despite the fact that she set fire to his fantasies.
“Where did you disappear to yesterday?” he asked when the awkward silence stretched out too long.
She smiled, a surprised, delighted smile that brought forth a little dimple he hadn’t noticed before.
“You came back,” she said. “I didn’t think you would.”
He just looked at her. “I said I would,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t you believe me?”
She blushed, and damn if it wasn't cute. “Well, I didn’t think I would see you again. I know I’m not the kind of girl men comes back to, especially not men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“I know what I am and what I am not; you don’t need to pretend anything to spare my feelings. But anyway, I went shopping. For clothes. With my friend Judith.”
“I’m glad you went shopping,” he said. “But to come back to the men like me remark…”
“Hot men,” she muttered, shamefacedly. “But like I said, I know what I see in the mirror so you don’t have to pretend to be attracted to me or whatever. I won’t blame you if you don’t want me, or don’t want to help me. Only…” she paused for a second. “Just don’t pity me, okay? I don’t need anybody’s pity. I’m fine with who I am.”
Brandon didn’t think; he simply acted. He gave one step and then he was flush up against her. He twisted their bodies skillfully so that her back was pressed against the doorway. He didn’t take the time he’d imagined he would when he cupped her face between his palms, took off her glasses and dropped it on the floor behind her, bent his head, and kissed her.
It was an electric thing, the kiss. Their lips were barely touching, and there was not enough pressure to satisfy him, but it still sent chills racing up and down his body. He rubbed his lips over hers, getting some of that cherry-red gloss on his own mouth and not minding one bit. He sucked her bottom lip between his and enjoyed her surprised little gasp. He licked over that softest skin on the inside of her lip and then nibbled lightly with his teeth. He pulled back, stretching her lip a little before letting go. He didn’t move away; not yet. Instead, he pressed a chaste kiss on the one corner of her mouth, and another on the other side. She smelled fantastic. No heavy, seductive perfume that made him want to sneeze and drink allergy medicine. She carried the scent of her innocence, and it smelled like some light sort of flower. Clean, and fresh, and young, like a rose covered with early morning dew, and could he possibly get any cornier? If he didn’t stop thinking, he was going to start spouting poetry soon.
So he stopped thinking and touched her lips again, a bit firmer this time, just to remind her who was in charge. He felt the natural softness that indicated her femininity, felt the way they gave and molded under his, shaping around his in a warm, strangely familiar way. He touched his tongue to the Cupid ’s bow, following the line of her lips with the tip of his tongue, knowing that it would intoxicate her as much as it did him. When he reached the plump bottom lip, he slipped his tongue to taste the seam of her closed mouth, sliding it first in one direction and then the next. He pressed lightly, asking her wordlessly for permission, for access. She softened her lips further and he slid his tongue in a little further.
Her taste blossomed and he groaned as it assaulted his senses. He couldn’t wait to taste the rest of her, to taste all of her. He could feel his breathing picking up speed as he explored her mouth relentlessly. Her arms slipped around his neck and she rose on her toes to press herself closer to him. He could feel and taste and sense her inexperience in her hesitation. She was a little bit clumsy, and it was endearingly sweet to him, knowing that this girl-woman trusted him enough to let him kiss her like this.
He deepened the kiss, one of his hands sliding achingly slowly down her back to press her against him even more. He wanted to move his hand to the more interesting terrain of her front, but he was oddly content just to hold her like this while he taught her more about the art of kissing with infinite patience. He pressed a little harder, hungry for just a little more, and coaxed her tongue from her mouth with his own. She didn’t understand what he wanted, and he knew she was confused by the change in the angle of his mouth as it slanted over hers.
“Give me your tongue,’ he whispered hoarsely against her lips.
“What?” she asked dazedly.
“Your tongue,” he said again, moving his hand lower to cup her deliciously soft ass in his palm. She was all feminine curves; firm, but not overly muscled, like too many women nowadays who spent more time in a gym than at home. She felt so different from him, and he reveled in the way their bodies fit together, hard against soft, muscles against curves. She wasn't fat, not even chubby, but she wasn’t a stick figure either.
She was so; absolutely; perfect.
To be continued, by horn pixy.
