The
third installment in my Sexy Without the Sex. This is from Car
Trouble. Kent Mason is an author who has just returned from a
tri-state book tour when his car breaks down on the interstate
outside Port Orange, Florida. Calliope Jacoby works for the tow truck
company and comes to his rescue in the middle of the night, in the
pouring rain.Kent gets home to find that his rental house has been
sold in his absence. He needs a place to stay and Calliope needs a
renter. He gathers his belongings and moves in with her. They can't
deny the attraction they feel, even though both of them know that
falling into bed so soon is risky. Calliope has just gone through a
truly brutal divorce. Kent's wasn't much better, but longer ago that
he has a little perspective that she doesn't.
"Not
all men are bastards," I said calmly. "Some of us are
actually house broken."
She
snuffled, that mixture of a laugh and sob again. "You would say
that."
"I'm
being perfectly honest. I'm the first one to admit some men are pigs.
I just want it clear that I'm not one of them." I held her away
from me, gazing deeply into her luscious, hazel eyes. "If I had
realized how much my conversation with Pepper would upset you, I
would have walked out that door and never gone back."
"You're
just saying that."
"My
marriage fell apart for two reasons, Calliope. One, we rarely talked
to each other. And when we did, we told lies or half truths. Part of
the miscommunication was my fault. I swore I'd never do that again."
Her
eyes searched mine for lies or inconsistencies. Finding none, she
relaxed. "You must think I'm an absolute fruitcake." She
sniffed, wiping her eyes on her shirt.
"Only
way I like my fruitcake is with nuts," I said. "So if
you're a nutty fruitcake." I purposely left that hanging. Let
her finish it however she wanted.
Giggling,
she pummeled me with another cushion. How many of the damn things
were on the couch anyway? Curling up in a ball, I protected my head
with my arms, laughing as she beat me. I rolled aside, nearly kicking
over the coffee table. Her screech, as I narrowly missed something
precious with my foot, heralded another attack.
"Truce!"
I begged, trying to raise my arms above my head. Not easy to do lying
on your side, being pounded by an angrily wielded cushion. "Truce!
I surrender! I surrender!"
By
this time, she was sitting on me, straddling my legs just below the
hips. Oh, God! She was so—female. So—much a woman! I wanted to
bury myself in her and never, ever come back.
Let
me die. Let me die now so she won't see that I have a raging hard on.
Let me curl up and die, please!
A
moment later, she was kissing me. This wasn't a little kiss like
you'd give your grandmother or your best friend. This was full
throttle, mind bending, heart stopping, mouths open, tongues
involved—conversation impossible—kissing. I was gonna stop her. I
swear I was. I had every intention of pushing her gently away. I
raised my hands to do just that, but she shifted and I suddenly had a
boob in each hand. They were really good ones too. Shapely, soft and
just the right size to fit nicely in each palm, leaving the fingers
free to explore the outlying area around them.
If
she wanted my attention, she got it. If she wanted part of me to
stand up and say hello, she got that too. If she was of a mind to do
me in her living room, I couldn't have told her no if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't want to. Never in my entire life had a woman thrown
herself at me like that. I knew it was because she was angry and
distraught, but the why didn't really bother or concern me. What she
was doing was more captivating.
I
let go of the boobs, putting my arms around her as I pulled her to
me. Her body was a good fit against mine. All kinds of nice things
happened under her clothing, soft things to fondle and play with.
Moist things to kiss and lick and dive into. I could smell her musky
sex scent and it was making me crazy. The more I tried to control
myself, the worse it got. I knew what we were doing was the worst
idea in the entire history of bad decisions I've made, but that
didn't stop me from putting my hands up under her shirt.
She
didn't stop me then either. She should have. If she had slapped me,
or pulled away, shoved my balls up my ass or something, I would have
quit. But she didn't. Instead, she rubbed against me, making my
lonely, sex starved dick really stand up and take notice.
My
pal, dick, is a selfish prick. He has bad manners and can't be relied
upon to behave—ever. He can do amazing feats, making women scream
in passion, but behaving like a civilized member of society isn't in
his genetic matrix.
The
reason I talk about my penis as if it's separate from the rest of me
is because when he's in charge, the rest of my body just kind of
hangs out and moves around so he can get his freak on. He's one kinky
bastard and he makes me do things I never would have thought possible
in my wildest dreams. And I've had some pretty wild dreams.
Right
now, he was struggling to get free of all the clothing that bound
him. Dick wanted out, dammit! Then he wanted in, but not in any
socially acceptable, civilized fashion. He wasn't going to come
dressed for dinner, he was just going to come all over if she didn't
stop rubbing herself against me.
I
moaned, I know I did. I could feel it start at my feet and work all
the way up past my aching balls and throbbing penis, past my stomach,
through my lungs and out my mouth. It sounded like a bull moose in
heat. Since that's how I felt right then, I guess the sound was
authentic.
Laughing
throatily, she continued to rub against me, only this time she took
her shirt off, flinging it over the back of the couch. Shoving me
flat on my back, she straddled me, rubbing her crotch against mine.
My shirt went next, nearly choking me as it went over my head.
Plastered to the couch like I was, I couldn't do it myself. She did
it for me.
My
belt was the third casualty, following the shirts onto the floor with
a clunk. Her bra fell on top of it and it looked like they were
mating. Funny what your mind latches onto at a time like that.
Her
breasts looked even better than they felt. I had to taste them, hold
them, admire them from every possible angle until I was sure they
were really there, brushing my face as she struggled to get her jeans
off.
"Let
me help you," I offered.
But
she only laughed, rising on one leg, the other bent beneath her,
against the couch. She got the jeans off and unzipped mine, tugging
hungrily at the zipper, pulling it down in little bursts that sent
shock waves through me.
There
we were, nearly naked, laughing and enjoying the sight of each other,
delaying just a moment longer, savoring the happy anticipation of
that final, warm, wet union, when the doorbell rang. I sat up, nearly
knocking her on her ass. She screamed, grabbing my shirt and her
jeans off the floor. Throwing my pants at me, she pulled on the
clothing.
"Who
is it?" Her voice sounded artificial and sugary sweet.
"I've
got your mail, Ms. Jacoby," the mail carrier said. "I have
something you need to sign for."
©
Dellani Oakes
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