“Fine. I think we have some ground rules now. I’m going to bed,” she said, walking out of the room.
“Want me to come tuck you in?” I asked her.
She didn’t answer, just flipped me the bird in the air. My laugh filled the house till the sound of her slamming the door shut me up.
Now I’m in the bathroom wiping the foggy mirror with my hand. My eyes look rested. They don’t give away I was so nervous last night that I tossed and turned. Grabbing one of the white folded towels, I wrap it around my waist, making my way downstairs where I come face to face with a sleepy Karrie. Fuck me. If I thought she was hot dressed, it is nothing like seeing her in her lace booty shorts and a matching black tank top. Her breasts are sagging just a touch so you know she isn’t wearing a bra.
“Morning,” she says, stretching her hand over her head, making the shorts shorter and her top go up a bit so I’m faced with the little skin on her belly. She finally takes in my towel, her tongue coming out. “Why are you naked? That should be a rule. No naked in the house.”
“I’m wearing a towel. I’m not naked. Maybe I should drop the towel so you can know the difference between naked and not naked.” My hand goes to the side of the towel while she holds up her hand and turns her head.
“Don’t you dare.”
And that’s all I need before my hand unfolds the towel, making it drop to my feet. My cock obviously got in on the action and is giving her an early morning wave. He’s also begging for her to drop to her knees and take me deep into her throat. Her head snaps back to look at me, her nipples suddenly peaking. She puts up her hand in front, not sure what she is blocking.
“I can’t believe you. Would you cover that tiny thing up? Is it cold in here?”
I laugh at her, knowing she is full of shit. I’m not trying to give my ego a boost, but I know I’m packing down there.
“Yup, someone must have left the windows open,” she says while she runs downstairs.
“Wait, come back. I showed you mine. Shouldn’t you show me yours? Is there a rule for that?” I lean down the stairs, bending and picking up the towel. I have no idea what she is doing down there, but all I hear is her voice ranting again while she slams what I’m assuming is the cupboard doors and some drawers. “I’ll take a coffee also if you’re making it.” I laugh to myself, walking into my room and closing my door behind me.
I pull a pair of basketball shorts that I put away last night out of the drawer. I need to make arrangements to have my clothes shipped here. They are already packed, but I just didn’t have the address when I came out here. I wait in the room a bit to make my cock go to at least half-mast before going downstairs. Once I think it’s okay I make my way downstairs. Karrie is sitting on the couch, her feet folded under her, a throw blanket lying across her legs while she holds her cup of coffee in her hand and watches something on television. She must hear me because she raises her hand to flip me the bird again. I laugh at her, going into the kitchen and making myself a cup. I go back into the living room, sitting next to her, watching what is on television. I’m here for about five minutes before I have to ask what the fuck she’s watching.
“It’s Below Deck,” she says like it’s something that everyone watches. When she sees the confused look on my face she continues, “It’s about a crew that works on a yacht.” She takes a sip of her coffee while she fast-forwards the commercials.
“This is a reality show?” I say, leaning back on the couch. “Babe, you watch the strangest shows.”
“It’s not strange and it’s real life.” She actually thinks this isn’t scripted. “The charter guests are all getting drunk and swapping partners in the hot tub.” This piques my interest.
“We see them fucking?” I ask, curious.
“Pig,” she sputters out just when it goes to a commercial again. “Why is it you guys always think of sex?” she asks, looking at me.
I glance at her. Her hair is piled on top of her head. I want to lean over and take her mouth, show her exactly why I always think about sex.
“You obviously haven’t had sex with the right person if you’re asking me why I’m always thinking about sex.” I try baiting her.
“Oh, please, calm down there, Ron Jeremy.” She sits up, putting her coffee cup on the table in front of her. “I may not be a ‘professional’ such as yourself, but I know plenty of other men who don’t always think about sex.”