Lip Service (Pleasure Chest 1)

“Good,” she says, “because there’s nothing worse on a first date than hanging out with a sick person.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say. “It’s been really nice to meet you.”

“Thanks.” She takes a sip of smoothie. “I hope that you’ll be able to see me in a better state sometime. Now go out on an actual date before I have to kick Philip’s ass.”

He leans towards me, his voice a stage whisper. “I don’t remember a time that she hasn’t threatened to kick my ass.”

“Someone has to keep you in line,” I stage whisper back, and his laugh fills up the room. It’s a great sound, and I’m smiling now. “So is there anything good around here?”

Christa nods. “There’s an amazing Thai place a few blocks away.”

“That sounds good to me,” I say.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asks her.

She waves him off. “Yes. I’ve got a full slate of Lifetime movies to watch.”

“If you say so.” He takes my hand. “Ready?”

I like the feeling of our linked hands. “Yeah. I hope you feel better.”

“You and me both,” she says, winking at me.

“Bye, Christa,” Philip calls over his shoulder.

“I’ll check on her again tomorrow,” he says, as we turn the corner in the hall.

“I heard that!” Christa calls, and he and I both laugh.

Philip locks the door behind us, putting back the key into its hidden brick. “So,” he says, “would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“I would love to.”

12

Philip

Christa didn’t lie, this Thai place is really good. We keep the conversation through dinner light, and it feels very much like an actual first date—though I don’t think most people on a first date have had the kind of sex that we’ve had. Neither Mayra or I had realized how hungry we were, so this has been amazing. Thai food is something I love but rarely have. I’ll have to thank Christa when I see her.

“Can I ask you something?” Mayra says when we’re looking over the dessert menu.

A small bubble of anxiety appears in my chest. “Sure.”

“While you were in the bathroom, Christa told me I could ask her whatever I wanted about you.”

“Great,” I say, laughing nervously.

“I asked if you were a good guy.”

I place my hands out in surrender. “If she said I’m not I can provide character witnesses.”

She smiles. “No, she said you were. But she also said that you’d gone through some stuff. Stuff that wasn’t hers to share, and that you were a good guy anyway.”

The anxiety is replaced by what feels like a rock in my gut. “Oh.”

“I was just wondering what it was, if you want to tell me,” she says, “Right now I feel like you know more about me than I do you.”

I nod, and our waiter appears. Mayra orders a chocolate cake with green tea ice cream and I order a crème brûlée. Once the waiter has disappeared again, I clear my throat. “I told everyone yesterday that I was in the military.”

She nods. “Army right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sean got out before I did. I was on a tour overseas—the middle east, up until two years ago. It’s rough over there.” I pause, mulling over my words, trying to figure out how to say the truth without saying too much. “I saw a lot of things, lost people.”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“What Christa is talking about is when I came back. I struggled a lot with post-traumatic stress. Nightmares. Depression. I was in a dark place for a long time. I got better, but it hasn’t been easy. The nightmares have started to come back recently which is why she’s being a bit of a mother hen towards me right now.”

There’s a sadness and compassion in her eyes, but no pity. I’m grateful for that. I’ve gotten used to pity being the automatic response from people who hear I struggle with PTSD. It’s not something people like to hear about, and when they do, all they can think about is how bad they feel for you.

“Will you be okay?” she asks.

It takes me by surprise, that’s not usually the first thing people ask. They usually say they’re sorry first, and ask for more details about either my nightmares or depression second. Sometimes they launch into stories about their own struggles. Mayra’s response is refreshing.

“Yeah,” I say. “I will be. Even if it’s not right away. I work hard so that I can get there, so I can be okay. After everything, I owe it to those people I lost not to let this break me, so I do the work. The one thing I know now is if you put in the work, it gets better.”

In her eyes I see total confidence and belief. I’ve seen that look before from my friends, and that kind of support from anyone is enough to humble you. That kind of support from her after such a short time both brings me to my knees and gives me enough energy to climb a mountain. Then she smiles, and I feel like a ray of sunshine hits me. “Good,” she says.

We stare at each other, and that warmth spreads through me to other places. My dick—which has been half-hard ever since we left her house—decides that now is a good time to go fully hard. I want to be inside her again—I wasn’t joking when I told her that her pussy was the best thing to ever happen to my cock. The waiter brings dessert, and I know I’m going give him a good tip. He has perfect timing. Nothing like a little sweetness to get a woman in the mood.

She bites into her chocolate cake, and the sound she makes—if I hadn’t been hard already I would be now. It’s positively sexual. My own dessert is good, but I’m so distracted watching Mayra eat hers that I barely taste it. I want to taste the chocolate that’s on her lips and tongue, and I get even harder because that line of thought leads me to imagine what she’d look like with chocolate all over her. God, that would be hot.

She looks up to find me staring at her, and she smiles nervously. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“No…” I say, “I was just…imagining.”

She takes another bite. “Imagining what?”

I lean forward and lower my voice. “You. Covered in chocolate.”

She freezes, and I see her chest heave a deeper breath. Interesting. I guess she likes that image too. She shakes herself a little, and looks at me again. She sees my grin and raises an eyebrow. “If I’m going to have chocolate all over me, there better be chocolate I can lick off your cock.”

All the blood in my body rushes to my dick, and I feel lightheaded. The image of Mayra sucking dripping chocolate off my cock dominates my brain, and I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything so badly. Mayra laughs. “I thought that might get your attention.”

“Something to put on my bucket list,” I say.

“Oh? What else is on there?”

I take another bite of brûlée. “It’s pretty boring actually. A lot of climbing related goals. I’d like to a buy a real house at some point, stop renting.”

“Very adult of you,” she smirks.

“I try.”

We finish our dessert, and I pay for dinner. Mayra tries to protest, but I insist. When she gives in, she has a small smile, and I wonder if Bryan ever made her pay for them both. The very thought makes me angry. I’m tempted to ask her his last name just so I can go give him a piece of my mind. But then Mayra slips her hand into mine as we exit the restaurant, and I forget all about Bryan.

Sudden and irrational anger…another sign of PTSD that I’m very aware of.

Mayra pulls me out into the warm evening, the sun is still pretty high in the sky. At this time of year the days are insanely long. A perk of living on the western coast.

“What do you want to do?” she asks me.