“We’ll be back tomorrow night to get the fun started,” Corbin says with a wink. He and his brothers all say goodnight to me, their smiling eyes triggering a pang of regret about my decision.
I watch them walk to the door, because the view is too good to miss. Before they leave, they turn and catch me watching again. All of them grin; Jonathan gives a small wave, and then they’re gone.
Roscoe is snoring when I get home just after midnight. I usually work the opening shift at Rusty’s, so I get to leave around twelve, depending on the crowd, while Tom works the closing shift. I appreciate not having to stay there until two-thirty in the morning, because I value my sleep too much these days.
I gently nudge my snoozing pooch and then lead him to the back door. There’s a little patch of grass between the paved slab of the back porch and the low wall at the end of my property. After renting for most of my life, I bought my little patio home seven years ago and was excited to finally be able to get a dog. Roscoe is a good companion.
My cat, Bea, short for Beatrice, is awake but doesn’t move from her spot on the back of the couch, even after I top off her bowl of food.
I tell her goodnight and she blinks in response as I head into my bedroom, Roscoe a few steps behind me. Bea likes her space, but certain as the sunrise, she’ll be at the foot of my bed when I wake up in the morning.
Roscoe turns a couple of circles and then settles into the dog bed next to my dresser. He has another bed in the living room, and one out on the patio, too. I know my dog’s priorities and have furnished my home accordingly.
“G’night, buddy.” I give a few rubs to the sweet spot behind his ear before I go into the bathroom.
Naked in the shower, sliding a soapy washcloth over my slick skin, I can’t help but think about how this night could have turned out differently. Corbin’s mouth could have been here, at my collarbone, and Brendan’s hands here, at my waist.
I can’t bring myself to put Jonathan in the picture, even though I know a forty-year-old man would have no problem at all fantasizing about a woman half his age.
I sigh as the cloth rubs over my nipples.
The Hayes brothers were so good looking.
Being with them in my imagination, I don’t have to worry about any real life obstacles, like my ability to please them, or their ability to please me. Despite their promise of multiple orgasms, I’m skeptical. My body isn’t quick to respond, and maybe all of us would have ended up frustrated.
But maybe I just haven’t been with the right man — or men — in too long.
I used to be much more sexual. My ex-husband and I couldn’t get enough of each other. Even when our relationship started to sour, the sex kept Jay and me together for longer than it should have. But that was a long time ago … almost eighteen years now.
I had a fair amount of sex after the divorce, too. I was still so young — partying and looking for someone new — until I eventually realized that the partying wasn’t that fun, and maybe I didn’t even want or need anyone anymore.
My appetite for sex faded, too, possibly due to hormonal shifts, but more likely a reaction to so many unsatisfying experiences. I rarely even have the urge to self-satisfy these days, and when I do, the result often isn’t worth the work required to get there.
I’m lit up tonight, though. My skin is sensitive, as if it’s been freshly exfoliated, and the needy, fluttery feeling in my belly has only intensified. Images of blue eyes, flirtatious smiles, and big hands with brown hair tufted at the wrists circulate in my memory as my fingers, sudsy with shower gel, slide down between my legs.
My body quivers when I touch my clit, but I let out a deep breath and turn the water dial toward a colder setting. I’ve never come in the shower — not by myself, anyway — and it won’t happen tonight, either, so there’s no point tormenting myself.
I finish washing up, towel off, put on my pajamas, and take my hair down out of the clip I used to keep it out of the shower spray. With my mind recently on aging, it occurs to me that I’ll probably never know when I go gray. I’ve been maintaining bleached blonde hair since I was seventeen years old, and in the past few years, I’ve also experimented with fun colors.
Currently, the top two-thirds of my long hair is pale blonde and the bottom third is colored with pink that starts pale and turns vibrant near the roots. There are also random pink strands that extend up into the blonde. The color makes me smile almost every time I see it. Life is too short not to do what makes you happy.
My pussy gives an achy little throb, reminding me that I didn’t adhere to this motto when I was invited to spend the night with the Hayes brothers. But sex is more complicated than hair color.
Should it be, though?
It’s not as if they were asking me to marry them or even date them. It was going to be sex, pure and simple.
Maybe I should have made a different decision.
I switch off the light and climb into bed with my phone. As is my usual pre-sleep routine, I make moves on the word game I play against my sister and a couple of randomly-matched opponents. When that’s done, I open my Kindle app and start into a new chapter of the book I’ve been reading, but quickly realize I can’t focus.
My brain would rather occupy itself with memories from the bar tonight, and fantasies related to those memories, so I lay my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. I start out lying on my back. Restless after a few minutes, I roll onto my stomach, sliding my hands under the pillow and enjoying the feel of the cool cotton on my arms.
Shifting to get comfortable, my pussy presses into the mattress. I angle my hips purposefully and repeat the motion. It should be a man beneath me, instead of a bed. Images of Brendan and Corbin instantly appear. One of them is under me, one of them approaching behind me, and — I lift my chest to run my hand across my nipples — Jonathan is touching my breasts.
With the three brothers surrounding me in my imagination, I rub my pussy against the bed again and again, as sensation builds and swells. My thumb and forefinger pinch my nipple, twisting and pulling. My breathing accelerates to short huffs of hot air, and then I’m coming, crying out softly as the feelings that have been building for hours finally find release.
It’s not mind blowing. It’s not sex-with-a-good-man quality, but it provides much-needed relief. I savor each pulsation as it fades, then turn over and eventually fall asleep.