Wallbanger (Cocktail 1)

I fell back against the couch and pulled Simon with me. He responded by using both hands to brace against the back of the couch, thrusting in and out of my mouth with conviction. The angle allowed him to penetrate more deeply, and made it easier for me to take more of him in. I grabbed his backside, feeling the thrill of attending to him, knowing it was me, only me, who got to have him in this way.

I could feel him getting close. I was already beginning to know his tells intimately. I wanted him again. I was selfish this way. Releasing him with a final strong pull, I pushed him down on to the couch and straddled him. Feeling me against him, he thrust upward as I sank down, and there was that moment—you know that moment? When everything feels stretched and pulled in the most delicious way? Your body reacts: something that shouldn’t be inside is now inside and for a split second, it’s alien, unknown. And then your skin senses a returning champion, your muscle memory takes over, and then it’s so good, that feeling of fullness, of wonder and awe.

And then you begin to move.

Grabbing his shoulders for leverage, I rolled my h*ps into his, noticing not for the first time that he’d been intelligently designed with my exact measurements in mind. He fit inside me perfectly, two halves of a whole, some kind of sexual Lego. He sensed it too, I could tell.

He placed his hand flat against my chest, directly on top of my heart. “Stunning,” he whispered as I rode him, sweet and hot. He kept my heart in his hand as I rocked into him, his other hand on my hip, guiding me, positioning me, feeling me attend to us both. He struggled to stay with me, to keep his eyes open as his release rushed in. I took his hand from my heart and placed it further down, where he began to trace those damnable perfect circles.

“Jesus, Simon…oh, God…so…soooo good…I…mmm…”

“I love watching you fall apart,” he groaned, and I did. And he did. And we did.

I collapsed into him, watching until the room stopped spinning and the feeling returned to my fingers and toes, warmth snaking through my body as he held me to him.

“Tongue lashing. What an idea.” He snorted, and I giggled.

8:17 p.m.

“Ever think about changing the paint color in here?”

“Are you serious?”

“What? Maybe a lighter shade of green? Or even a blue? Blue might be nice. I’d love to see you surrounded by blue.”

“Do I tell you how to take pictures?”

“Well, no…”

“Then don’t tell me how to pick paint colors. And as it happens, I’m planning to change the palette in here, but it’s going darker. Deeper, you might say.”

“Deeper, you say? How’s this?”

“That’s pretty good. Mmm, that’s really good. Anyhow, as I was saying, I’m thinking of maybe a deep slate gray, with a new creamy sugar marble countertop, deepening the cupboards to a rich, dark mahogany. Holy shit, that feels good.”

“Noted. Deeper is good, and very deep is even better. Can you put your foot on my shoulder?”

“Like that?”

“Christ, Caroline, yes, like that. So…new countertop, you say? Marble might be a little cold, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes, yes! What? I mean, what? Cold? Well, since I’m not usually laid out like a jelly roll on the counter, the cold won’t bother me. Besides, marble countertops are the best for rolling out dough.”

“Don’t,” he warned, turning his face to kiss the inside of my ankle.

“Don’t what, Simon?” I purred, my breath hitching as I felt his pace begin to quicken slightly, unnoticeable to anyone but me, the one he was currently inside of.

“Don’t try to distract me with dough talk. It won’t work,” he instructed, letting go of the countertop with his left hand and running it lightly over my breasts, back and forth, teasing my ni**les into hard peaks with his fingertips.

A frantic energy began to settle low, low in my h*ps and in my thighs, the pit of my stomach and points in between. “No dough talk? No dirty dough talk for Simon? Mmm, but don’t you think a little distraction is good from time to time? I mean, can’t you just imagine me, bent over the countertop, working so hard for you…” I trailed off, running my fingers through his hair, bending him to me to kiss him with a wet mouth, tongue and lips and teeth intent on bringing him deeper into me.

I was perched on the edge of my kitchen island, very much na**d, as was our fair Mr. Parker, buried inside and determined to make this last as long as possible. We wanted to see how long we could carry on a conversation while…well…doing it. So far seventeen of the most intense, sensual, fantastic minutes of my life, and that wasn’t counting the foreplay. O was dancing in the periphery, wondering why she wasn’t being granted immediate access. But now I had control of the bitch, and this sweet torture was incredible. Worth enduring.

That is, until Simon asked me to place my foot on his shoulder. Holy hell, he was wrecking me. One leg on his shoulder, the other leg he held open to one side, his h*ps rotating in maddeningly tiny circles, increasing in the smallest of increments. He was the one who insisted on the conversation, and I’d been able to keep up, until the foot on shoulder. Suddenly, parts that hadn’t really been a part of it before were now being stimulated, and it was getting harder and harder to keep my wits about me. But really, who needed wits? I could be witless. As long as I could be under Simon, I was okay being witless.

But I could still play this game right now, while a few lingering wits remained.

“Don’t test me, Naughty Girl. I will dirty talk you right off this island.”

“Mmm, Simon, can’t you just see me? Bent over, little apron with nothing underneath, rolling pin in hand, and a bowl full of apples?”

“Apples? Oh boy, I love apples,” he groaned, picking up my other foot and placing it on the opposite shoulder, his hands roughly pulling me even farther toward the edge, his pace picking up again just a bit.

“I know you do, with cinnamon? I could bake you a pie, Simon. Your very own apple pie, even a homemade crust…all for you, big guy. You know all you have to do is ask me…” I smirked, trying to keep my eyes from crossing as he sped up again, the sound of skin slapping not even funny at all. There went another wit.

“How does that feel, Caroline. Good?” he asked, surprising me.

“Good? It feels amazing.”

“Amazing? Really?” He pulled out almost all the way before sliding back into me all at once, making me feel every single inch.

And the wit stands alone. “You know, it does, but back to the apples. Would you like your pie served hot with vanilla ice cream? Warm and melty with—oh my God…”

“You really want to talk about this right now? Because if you keep this up, I’m going to be forced to get really dirty myself.”

“Dirtier than apple pie talk?” I asked, stretching and pointing my toes toward the ceiling, creating a new sensation.

“How about this, if you don’t stop all this apple pie talk,” he started, leaning down to place his mouth against my ear, making me shiver. One hand grasped my breast, roughly turning and tweaking my nipple. The other snuck down, feeling against me until he found the spot that made me tense and cry out. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to stop f**king you, and believe me when I say I haven’t even begun to ravage you in all the ways I’ve dreamed about.”

He stood back up and thrust. Hard.

Last wit? Bye-bye. I ain’t too proud to beg. “God, Simon, I give. Just f**k me.”

“Apple pie for me?”

“Yes, yes! Apple pie for you! Oh, God…”

“That’s right, apple pie for me, apple pie for—God, you’re tight this way.” He groaned, switching both of my legs to one side, holding them up as he pounded into me, again and again, never retreating, only advancing, looking down at me, watching as my back arched and my skin flushed, heat creeping as my cl**ax broke over me, stunning me silent in its intensity as I was shaken to the very core of my being.

“I love you, Caroline, I love you, I love you, I love you,” he chanted, thrusting erratically now as he sped toward his own release, sweat breaking over his brow as he clutched at my h*ps as I clutched him from the inside, holding him as long as I could, feeling his solid weight on me as he laid his head on my breast. How could his warm weight feel so good? It should have made it hard to breathe, constriction of the lungs and all that, but it didn’t. Holding him, cradling his face as I swept his hair back, it felt the opposite of heavy.

“You’re going to kill me, sure as I’m lying here,” he moaned, kissing everywhere he could.

“I love you too,” I sighed, gazing at my kitchen ceiling. I could feel a smile as big as the bay across my face. The O was going to be around for a very long time.

No way am I painting my kitchen blue.

9:32 p.m.

“I can’t believe this is the second time we’re cleaning flour and sugar off each other. What’s wrong with us?”

“The sugar is good for exfoliation,” I explained. “Not sure what good the flour is doing us, though.”

“Exfoliation?”

“Yeah, I figure every time we sex it up out there, all that sugar helps us remove dead skin cells.”

“Really, Caroline? Dead skin cells? That’s hardly sexy.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

“Well no, how could I? You promised to bake me an apple pie. Don’t forget that part.”

“I won’t forget, but I was somewhat under duress.”

“You were under me, not under duress, under me.”

“Yes, Simon, I was under you.”

“Wash your back?”

“Yes, please.”

We lay on opposite sides of the tub, relaxing and soaking off yet another round of kitchen goo. At some point, I was going to have to clean all that mess up, but right now the only thing I could concentrate on was this man in front of me. This man, up to almost his neck in fragrant bubbles, strong arms snaking out now to bring me closer. I spun in the tub like a buoy, bobbing back and forth and arranging myself in front of him. He used a washcloth to gently remove the last of the sticky that covered me. Then he pulled me to his chest, leaning back against the edge of the tub. Arms encircled me, tucking me in, surrounding me with warm water and warmer Simon. I closed my eyes, relishing the feel of it all. The safety, the sweetness, the sexiness. I shifted, trying to get impossibly closer, and then I felt him against my bum. Growing.

“Why, hello there, friend,” I murmured, sneaking my hand through the bubbles to find him, wanting and wanton.

“Caroline…” he warned, laying his head back on the edge of the tub.

“What?” I asked innocently, trailing my fingers along the sides of him, feeling him react.

“I’m not seventeen, you know.” He chuckled, his voice growing husky and needy in spite of his words.

“Thank goodness, or I would have to answer for my actions—corrupting a minor and all that,” I whispered, slowly turning over to rub myself along the length of him, soap and bubbles and water making me slippery.

He hissed slightly and smiled. “You’re going to break me, you know this, right? I swear on all that’s holy, I’m not a machine—Christ, don’t stop doing that.” He groaned, thrusting into my hand without thought.

“Ah, break schmake. I just want to f**k you until you can’t see straight,” I purred, tightening my fist as he splashed water over the side a bit.

“I can barely see as it is. There seem to be three of you.” He moaned, pulling my legs apart and positioning me above him.

“Aim for the one in the middle, Simon,” I instructed and slid down.

Yeah, we had some water to clean up.

11:09 p.m.

“I’m just going to get the food. I need sustenance, woman.”

“Get it, then hurry back to me. I need you, Simon. Why are you crawling on the floor?”

“I don’t think I can actually stand at this point. The machine needs a break. The machine may very well need repairs. The machine, wait, what’re you doin’ there, Caroline?”

“What, this?”

“Yeah, yeah, it looks like you’re—wow, do you touch yourself like that a lot?”

“I haven’t lately, why? Looks good to you, yes?”

“Yes, that’s…wow…um…that’s the door…the guy with the Thai is here. I…and I…Thai…I…”

“Are you really rhyming right now, Simon? Mmm, that feels nice…”

“Hello! Hello, anyone there? Someone called in an order for—dude, how am I supposed to give you your change?”

“Keep the change.”

“Dude, you shoved a fifty under the door. You know that’s like a thirty-dollar tip, right?”

“Keep the change. Leave the Thai. Caroline, get on that bed.”

“Mmm, so close, Simon. Sure you don’t…want…me…to…mmm…finish…oooh. I love when you do that.”

“Mmph, mumph, hah, hooo…”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Simon, Simon, Simon, Simon, Siiimmooooon…”

“Okay, dude. I’m totally setting your food out here. Um, thanks for the tip.”

1:14 a.m.

We lay in bed, limp and a little stupid. My poor Simon, I’d ridden him to the brink of extinction. He wasn’t a teenager, but even he was surprised by his…hmm…stamina. After the last round of crazytown, he crawled back to the hallway, retrieved the food, and we ate Thai sitting in the middle of the bed. I’d quickly stripped the sheets because raisins and flour clouds lingered from earlier. The amount of work I was going to be faced with in the kitchen tomorrow was daunting, but it was worth it. All of it. All of it was worth it.