His Second Chance (Love Comes To Town)

Our eyes would meet.

Next thing we’d know, we’d be moving, leaving, on to the next part of the dance. The one that can’t be avoided. That everything had always been leading up to.

The door would hardly be shut behind us when we’d be ripping off our clothes. She’d have more tattoos, pretty ones, swirling, hidden, like secrets for only me to see.

I would kiss her into the wall. She would press her body to mine like there weren’t enough ways for her to touch me.

I’d cup her face and cover her mouth. She’d wrap her legs around me, her pink dress riding up.

My fingers would stray down. They’d get sidelined by her sweet little tits.

I’d part the V neckline of her dress into a U so that they popped out. They’d be the same pink-nipped upturned beauties that I’d dip my face into.

I’d inhale her scent, something incense-like and exotic and musky and dark all at once.

She’d groan “Emerson” over my shoulders. I’d lap her nipples nice and good.

My fingers would jag down, over her dress-clad torso, under the final part of the dress that had been shoved up.

They’d grasp toned thighs with just the right amount of meat on them. They’d grip her ass, so firm and fine. They’d snap the lacy band of her panties.

She’d smirk. I’d smirk.

“Go on,” she’d say.

I’d go on. I’d more than go on.

I’d stroke that sweet pussy of hers, enjoying its contours. Then I’d delve deep inside it.

I’d flicker my fingers inside her until she sagged onto me, until, pulling out, I’d pick her up and toss her onto the bed.

She’d giggle, then groan.

I’d make her groan some more. A lot more.

“Just like that,” she’d say, and she’d be right.

She needed it. We needed it.

Just like that.

I’d get her nice and wet and then I’d slip inside her.

Oh, fuck.

It would be just like before. Better than before.

Like coming home.

We’d hold each other tight, every part of us clasping the other. I would ram her so sweet and soft, she’d be cooing. I would ram her so wild and rough, she’d be begging for more.

“Please,” she would groan, and that’s all she’d need to say.

I’d take her legs and brace them on me so I could jackhammer her deep, so deep. So deep and fast and merciless that she would come again and again.

And I would come.

Yeah...

And my eyes would open and—

Instant disappointment. And disgust.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Don’t I have a plane to catch?

Speaking of planes...

I grab my phone and... stare.

1:07 PM. That can’t be right.

No.

No fucking way!

It can’t be 1:07 PM because my flight leaves at 1:30 PM, which means...

“Shit!”

I race to the bathroom, throwing everything that looks like mine, and a few travel-size lotions, into my bag. Running around my room, I stub my toe once, almost throw the hotel’s bible in my bag twice, and curse my brothers.

No one thought to check in on me?

By the time I get to the hotel lobby, I’m at a run. It’s 1:12, and the airport is close, which means I could catch my plane...

But that’s a really fucking big ‘could’.

There’s only one taxi.

I rip open the door. “Hey, I need to get to the airport STAT.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, seeing someone in the back. “Is it okay if I...”

I trail off, gaping at who’s sitting in the back seat, eyeing me coolly.

Out of all the fucking people...

“Get in,” Wynona snaps.

“What?”

She grabs me and tugs me in.

“Go,” she tells the driver.

As he takes off and Wynona turns away, I grumble, “Thanks.”

“It’s fine,” she says, still keeping her gaze fixed outside her window. “I’m just late. Can’t afford to be any later.”

“You on the 1:30 flight back to NYC too?” I ask.

A pause.

Jesus fuck. This is the woman I just jerked off to.

“Yes,” she says simply.

“Wonderful,” I mutter under my breath.

The cab ride isn’t the most enjoyable one I’ve ever taken.

While Wynona looks like some goth high-roller with her black velvet bomber coat, cherry-red lips, and big rhinestone sunglasses, my gaze keeps getting drawn to the sinister stain on my seat. Maybe it’s because this car has a subtle smell, under some pretty powerful air freshener, of cat piss. The cabbie seems to think having windows opened as we race down the roaring highway constitutes air-conditioning. The beads of sweat forming at the nape of my neck seem to think otherwise.

The man manages to drive fast enough that the little legs of the hanging purple-skinned wooden hula girl on his dashboard jiggle, but not fast enough to get there in the ‘five minutes to the airport’ that the hotel brochure advertised.

We get there at 1:20. I let Wynona go to the airline counter first. I stay in line far enough back that I can’t hear exactly what’s being said, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.