August 20, 2011
The following excerpt is sexualy graphic. You’ve been warned. I don’t normally post the really dirty parts (*g*) but Nathan Dunbar suggested this scene. He’s a completely awesome fellow (you should really be following him on twitter), a bookseller, and wears a shirt that says “Book Pimp” so I figure he knows what he’s doing.
Tiffany stared off at the hardwood floors of his kitchen. “Why don’t you go change and I’ll get us started.”
Mike glanced down the front of him. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s work clothes. Go put some pajama pants on. Get comfortable. That’s the idea.”
Pajama pants. So he could sit there with a pitched tent all night? Why exactly had he mentioned not wanting to go to the bar again? This was worse. Far, Far worse.
She looked up at him. “You have to do what I say, remember?”
Like hell, but he nodded as if that was going to happen. He went to his room and changed to a pair of jeans. If he could get them both on, he’d wear two pair just to have the reinforced zipper. At the rate he was going, he’d be splitting the seams. Never in his life had he been so hard and his cock only seemed to be getting more and more interested. This was going to be one long ass night. He stripped off his nice shirt, but left his undershirt on, put his shoes away in the closet and turned to stare at the bed.
Powerless to stop it, the image of Tiffany lying there filled his head. Long blonde hair fanned over his pillows. Lean tanned legs on his white sheets. Full breasts arched toward the ceiling, nipples pebbled and wanting his mouth. Cheeks flushed. Breath gasping. His cock pounded in painful heated throbs.
He tugged at his too tight jeans. God it was a vice in there. He shuffled his legs, looking for ease, but only having it build up to more. His balls were stuffed and squeezed. He leaned on his dresser, aching for relief, but not gaining any. Gut twisted and sweat coated him.
He reached for his jeans again. Tugged the zipper away from him and stroked his palm down his cock. His vision blurred for a bit, a small breath of release whispered through his blood and was gone the moment the stroke was over.
Pounding pressure swelled. He gripped the edge of the dresser as squeezing pain turned to gut gnawing blue balls. Hours more of Tiffany at arms’ length flashed in his mind. Again he saw her in his bed. Saw him between her thighs taking what he’d always dreamed off. Sweat dampening her hair. Color flushing her cheeks as he thrust in and out until she screamed out his name.
Before he thought better of it, his jeans were pushed down a little. His hand was gripping his cock and pumping his length. Pressure exploded. Warm wetness coated his hand. A growl tore up his throat. The tang of sex covered the air. He hunched over his dresser for a breath, for balance.
He’d just jacked off with her in the next room. He was losing it. Slowly she was unraveling all his senses. It’d be a miracle if he made it through the night. He hurried and cleaned up, fastened his jeans and for good measure, added a belt.
This was why he had never touched or gotten closer than necessary. This was why he accepted he would never have her. She made him crazy.
He walked back in the living room and found her stretched across the couch. She wore easy to remove green cotton shorts now instead of jeans. Her socks and shoes were gone. Her toe nails were still pink like yesterday at the river.
He was afraid to know what else was in that bag she brought over. The popcorn bowl was in her lap. His coffee table dragged close. Her water was at her elbow. His tea was on the other end of the table. The end away from the recliner, forcing him to either move the drink or sit on the couch with her. Sit by her with her silky smooth legs near him.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “There you are. Was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.”
He cleared his throat and looked up at the paused TV. The movie title was on screen. His gaze fell back on hers. “You rented Weekend At Bernies?”
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