The dirty talk was supposed to get Tom hot, and it’d almost put her on her knees.
Chapter Twenty-One
“What’s on for the weekend, Tom?” That’s the question he got from Delray in the elevator on Friday night.
Tom didn’t understand Delray. He was unfailingly cheerful. He worked in the accounts department. He had the unenviable job of chasing consultants for missing time sheets, and clients for payments. You could be rude to Delray and he’d still smile, which either made him an idiot or a genius. Neither verdict meant Tom had to be truthful about the weekend.
“Not a lot.” If you didn’t count tonight’s exploration of the Kama Sutra, Saturday’s dinner party and Sunday’s lingerie shopping. “Quiet one. You?”
After last night, he probably should be planning a quiet one. Last night he’d made it home in record time to find Flick had beaten him there and was, as instructed, impatiently naked and ready to go.
They’d had furiously passionate sex on the floor of the hallway. It was determined and mindlessly hedonistic at the same time. Utterly glorious. It knocked the breath ou
t of him thinking about it. He’d been mostly dressed. They toppled a glass bowl off the hall table. Flick got rug burn on her elbow. He needed to dry-clean that suit. They’d lain there in a tangle after that explosive encounter and laughed hysterically, struck with the insanity of what they’d done.
“Someone could’ve lost an eye,” he’d said, when he’d been able to talk again. It only made her snort-laugh. “In my defense, your honor, she called me at work and talked dirty until my health was seriously endangered. It was an inciting incident and I beg for clemency.”
He wasn’t going to get any mercy from Flick. Once their knees were working again he bathed her elbow and slathered it with aloe vera, and they ate leftovers before falling into bed with the kind of exhaustion reserved for a day’s worth of expectation and seven minutes of going at it like maniacs.
“Weather is supposed to be great,” said Delray. He’d said something about playing golf, but Tom wasn’t listening.
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t expect to see a lot of weather, unless it was the moisture on Flick’s skin, the wetness between her legs or from her mouth, and the steam they could make together.
The elevator hit bottom. “Have a great one, Tom,” Delray said with a wave and a smile as he stepped out.
If only he knew Tom was going home with the express intention of having sex with his temporary roommate and trying out poses called the Dolphin and the Scorpion. That might put a different expression on Delray’s face.
The expression on Flick’s face when she arrived home and smelled dinner was almost as good as the expression on her face when he made her come. “What is that?”
“Chicken tagine.”
“I could live in it. I’m starving.” She sat at the counter and he heard the clunk of her shoes hitting the floor. She unhooked earrings and took her hair down.
He caught her arm and examined the burn. “Did you put more gel on this?” It was blistered and a little weepy.
“My sex wound? Yes, I put the gel on it. I had to tell people it was a yoga injury.”
He let her forearm go but took her hand. “I don’t think yoga is known for its first-degree-burns threat factor.”
“It is now,” she said. “I know how to sell an idea.”
He brought the back of her hand to his lips, but couldn’t pucker past his laughter. He intertwined their fingers. “I was thinking I should shuffle the coupons, look for one that’s not likely to cause another sex wound.” If he chose the massage coupon, he could switch it up and massage her.
“I’m proud of my sex wound. I have plans to add at least a pulled muscle tonight or we’re not trying.”
After they’d eaten, cleaned the kitchen and changed out of work clothing, they sat on the sectional with Flick’s tablet opened to a website that had cartoon drawings of hundreds of crowd-sourced sex positions. It was the Kama Sutra in spirit if not origin.
Each was graded for type, stimulation point, penetration style, accessibility for touch, action; which was essentially who was doing the most work, and complexity; which was an indication of how much of a weight lifter or an acrobat you had to be.
Every few minutes a screen popped up offering them a webcam experience that promised to be explicit. Tom had spent the afternoon watching footage of hip replacements to approve the best cut for a surgical instruction video. He could do without more video of naked bodies, but if Flick led, fool for her that he was, he’d follow.
“You’d have to be in Cirque du Soleil to do half of these,” she said, angling the tablet so he could see a position called the Beautiful Bridge. It was a backward sixty-nine. The man was on his back, knees raised, bent and slightly apart. The woman knelt at his shoulders facing the opposite way, perfectly positioned for his mouth but bent backward over him to take him in her mouth.
“‘Position type, sixty-nine, woman on top. Stimulation, clitoral, while giving a blow job. Complexity, hard,’” he read. “But that’s only because they don’t want to say impossible unless you have a rubber spine.”
“Embarrassment level explaining that to the emergency extraction team and physical therapist—nuclear,” she said. “I don’t think my back would...no, I can’t even.”
He took the tablet from her hands and studied the screen. “I don’t know, it looks suitably unlike anything we’ve done. I get to use both my hands on you.”