Working late at the office, my fat arse. And apparently it was my fat arse that made my boyfriend think he had every right to cheat on me. Because fat chicks aren’t human, didn’t ya know? We don’t have feelings, or if we do, they’re so buried under layer upon layer of fat that we’re naturally insulated from the realities of dating a cheating arsehole.
My teeth gnash together as tonight’s revelations replay in my head. The excuses, the pathetic justifications of his actions that bordered on the ridiculous. The insults he threw at me as I called him on his bullshit.
Stupid, fat bitch.
Yep. That's me. Stupid for expecting I'd ever be anything but his dirty little secret, and unapologetically fat, which obviously makes me a complete bitch.
So here I am, alone again, at ten minutes before closing on a Friday night, standing in front of the ice-cream cabinet in my local deli trying to decide between Chubby Hubby, Coffee Toffee Crunch, and Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Chocolate Fudge Brownie wins, mostly because hello, brownies, but also because it's the last one standing. A stalwart of chocolaty goodness all alone amidst a sea of salted peanut butter caramels and boysenberry swirls.
Rich and sweet and chunky and completely out of place.
I reach in to grab that sad-looking pint at the same time as the man standing beside me. His hand brushes against mine as he makes a play for the ice-cream, the warmth of his skin shocking to my senses in the cool, refrigerated air, but I'm quicker. My fingers wrap around the container, yank it free from its isolation and drop it into my shopping basket.
Felicity: one.
Random Stranger: nil.
It's a small victory, and possibly a petty one, but one I desperately need right now.
Avoiding eye contact and flashing a mildly apologetic smile at my hapless rival, I move to squeeze past him down the narrow aisle. He doesn't budge, so I try a more demure approach and drop my gaze from his chest to the floor.
"Excuse me," I mutter softly.
But instead of stepping aside and avoiding confrontation, as most people would, he crosses his arms over his chest and continues to stand there, blocking my escape route.
What is this guy's problem?
Taking a deep breath to cool my resurging anger, I lift my chin, a stern lecture about his lack of manners on the tip of my tongue, but when my gaze meets his… wow!
Using my tongue to scold him is the last thing on my mind.
Even with a scowl plastered across his brow, the man could stop traffic. Looking like he just rolled out of bed with his sandy-coloured hair all sexy and mussed, and the hint of a five o'clock shadow dusting a chiselled jaw, his startling blue eyes freeze me in place with their directness, yet burn me with their intensity.
My girly parts pulse with awareness and my panties grow wet. Pressing my thighs together, I resist the urge to squirm and—wait, is my mouth hanging open? Oh dear Lord, it is. Snapping it shut, I swallow hard and suppress a whimper of desire. At least I hope I did. At this distance, he's bound to hear every little sound I make, and the last thing I need is to appear foolish in front of yet another man.
I've already hit my daily quota in that particular department.
Pretending to be more confident than I feel, I pull my shoulders back and attempt to school my features. "Can I help you?"
"You have my ice-cream."
Deep and melodic, his voice slides over me like a warm caress and my insides quiver with arousal. Oh great. But he's obviously a crazy person if he thinks I'm handing over my ice-cream without a fight.
"Your ice-cream, huh?” I cock one brow. “So which one are you, Ben or Jerry?"
Wait, what? Am I fighting or flirting?
My voice has dropped and taken on a slightly sultry tone, my senses are heightened, my pulse racing—yep, I'm flirting. I just broke up with someone and I'm already flirting with someone else. Whoa! Does that make me a slut? Wait, did I just slut-shame myself? Fuck it. I'm obviously not killing myself over the douchecanoe formerly known as my boyfriend. Anyway, what's that old saying about getting back on the horse?
My combatant looks confused. "I beg your pardon?"
Here goes nothing. "Well the only other name on here is Chocolate Fudge Brownie, and you don't really look like a Chocolate Fudge Brownie, so…."
Mirroring my expression, he cocks one perfect eyebrow. "What do I look like, then, in your expert opinion?"
"Expert? Oh right, because all fat chicks are ice-cream experts." So much for flirting. Still, I tilt my head and consider him for a moment, letting my gaze drift from his stupidly handsome face, over his ink-blue suit and white shirt and down his long legs all the way to his tanned leather shoes. "Hmm… you strike me as more of a Chubby Hubby."
His eyes widen and his brows shoot up to his hairline. "Chubby Hubby?"
Pretending to be shocked, I cue the sarcasm. "Oh, you're not a fan of chubby? What a surprise."
"Actually"—in a lightning fast move he comes at me, forcing me back against the freezer door—"I have a great deal of respect for chubby. But I want what I want. And what I want is Chocolate Fudge Brownie."
The door at my back is icy cold and makes me shiver, the sudden chill causes my nipples to harden and stretch the thin fabric of my little black dress. The slinky little number leaves nothing to the imagination, clinging to every curve God gave me and then some. I'd worn it especially for my boyfriend and paired it with my favourite hot-pink stilettos.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I'd felt sexy, confident, powerful. Seeing my reflection in the mirrored doors of the elevators as I'd walked away from him and the swizzle-stick he'd been banging behind my back was less empowering, even if I did walk away with my head held high. My confidence was dented, my power turned to anger, and sexy?
Yeah right.
But as those elevator doors slid shut and I watched the lights counting down my journey to the lobby, as my hands curled into fists at my sides and the urge to ram my stiletto heels through the douchecanoe's balls screamed inside my head, I had a moment of complete clarity.
Fuck 'em!
I deserve better.
Now I'm standing in front of this stranger, growing hotter by the second as his gaze slowly drifts down my body and all the way back up again, lingering on my cleavage and my frosty nipples. The air around us stills and the rest of the world drops away. All I can hear is the sound of our breathing and the quiet hum of the fridges at my back. He leans a little closer, tilts his head and I think… I think he's going to… kiss me?
Score!
Until I feel my shopping basket move. And I know I didn't move it.
Straightening to my meagre height, I yank the basket away from my opponent and feel the ice-cream tub drop back inside. "Oh my God."
"Yes?" He grins at me, and my knees threaten to give out.
What the hell is wrong with me tonight?
I laugh in disbelief, although if I’m being honest, a guy using me for his own gain isn’t really all that unbelievable. "Were you seriously trying to seduce me so you could steal my ice-cream?"
"Your ice-cream?” He laughs. “You haven't paid for it yet, sweetheart."
My eyes narrow and it takes all my restraint not to jab my finger into his solid-looking chest. "Call me sweetheart again. I dare you."
He leans closer, invading my personal space with his body and his heat and his cologne that smells like how I imagine sex would smell on a deserted tropical island—sea spray and citrus and sun-drenched sand. His mouth hovers by my ear and his warm breath caresses my neck. "Sweet. Heart."
Forget wet. My panties are soaked. Five minutes with this guy, in a deli, fighting over ice-cream, and I'm ready to climb him like a fucking tree.
Still….
"You do know they make this flavour in frozen yoghurt too, right?"
"Frozen yoghurt?" He pulls away, his grin twisting with disgust. "Lady, I've had one shit of a day and fro-yo just isn't going to cut it." His stare is intense, all playfulness gone from his expression, and to my surprise, I'm disappointed by the loss of his smile. "I want the real deal.” He points at the pint. “I want that ice-cream."
His arrogance turns my disappointment to anger and my grip tightens on the basket. Stupid, fat bitch. "Yeah, well, I want a boyfriend who doesn't fuck skinny bimbos behind my back, so I guess we're both shit out of luck."
Annnd… it's official.
I suck at flirting.
His eyes widen and he seems taken aback by my words, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with this information I've just spewed all over him. And then his eyes narrow and he searches my face, curiosity bending his brow. "Your boyfriend cheated on you?" He almost sounds concerned.
If it wasn't for the fact that he'd just tried to steal my ice-cream, I'd almost believe him. "Yes, he did. With Amanda from accounting, whom I can now confirm, despite popular opinion, is a natural blonde."
I'm not joking either—copping an eyeful of bimbo bush was just one of tonight's many and varied humiliations—but when he starts to laugh, the sound is so infectious that I start laughing too. The silliness of the situation I’ve found myself in washes away any final remnants of regret or sadness or anger at seeing my boyfriend balls deep in another woman on the floor of his office.
But I'm caught off guard when bubbling up from underneath all that emotion is the great sucking wound of loneliness. And it hurts.
So.
Fucking.
Much.
My laughter fades, then dies. And so does my appetite. "Here. You take it." I shove the basket at him. "I'm not hungry anymore."
Over the loudspeaker, the cashier announces that the store is closing.
Time to go.
As I leave the deli and exit into the frigid winter night, I regret leaving my coat behind in the douchecanoe's office. In my defence, I was in shock when I dropped it. I could have gone back for it, I guess, but nah, fuck that.
I mean, what's the cost of a new coat compared to standing tall as you walk away from an arsehole without looking back?
If only wrapping myself in dignity stopped me from freezing my tits off.
"Hey, sweetheart! Wait up."
What the…?
"Chubby Hubby? What do you want?"
He hands me an ice-cream-laden eco-friendly shopping bag. "Here. You forgot this." And then he takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, drops his gaze to the ice bullets expanding my bra again and smirks.
"What are you doing?"
I try not to moan as the warmth from his jacket soaks into my chilled flesh, and a mixture of that dreamy cologne and what I can only assume is his natural male musk permeates my senses. Am I drooling? I think I'm drooling, but my face is so cold I can't tell.
"You looked chilly," he says as he pulls the jacket closed over my chest, gently brushing his knuckles over my nipples in the process. Hello! "And my name is Jason, by the way."
I suck in a breath at his closeness and get another lungful of his delicious scent. "Felicity. My name is Felicity." And there goes my voice again, sounding all sultry and shit. Why does it keep doing that? Haven't we already established I suck at flirting?
"It's nice to meet you, Felicity." He holds out his hand, and I take it in mine. His grip is firm, his palm warm. He's slow to let go. "And I'm sorry I acted like a dick in there. It has been a really bad day, but that's no excuse for my behaviour."
My mouth falls open again. I've never had a guy apologise to me before. Ever. Unsure what else to do, I shrug. Unsure what else to say, I ask him, "So why was your day bad?"
He shoves his hands in his pockets, shuffles his feet and avoids my gaze. "For pretty much the same reason as you."
"You caught your boyfriend cheating on you?"
His mouth twists. "I caught my girlfriend cheating on me. I went home for lunch and found her on the couch with our neighbour."
"How do you know they weren't just talking?"
He shoots me a look that smacks of betrayal and his voice is hard, tinged with hurt. "Let's see now. I think his dick in her mouth was my first clue."
Well, I feel stupid. "Oh."
We stand there, staring at each other as awkward silence fills the air between us like a bubble. A bubble he bursts when he blurts out, "Can I walk you home?"
"Sure. Better than standing out here on the pavement freezing to death." The silence is only slightly less awkward as we walk the five paces to the steps leading up to my front door. "Thanks." His confusion is amusing, his gaze shifting from me to the door and back again. I take pity on him; he did walk me home, after all. "I live in the apartment above the deli."
A lopsided smile stretches across his face. "Ah. I thought maybe you were trying to blow me off."
Juggling the shopping bag with my purse, I search for my keys. Keys found, I unlock the door and push it open, then turn to face Jason, now shivering as he stands on the bottom step, his hands still shoved in his pockets in a futile attempt to ward off the chilly night air. "Thank you for this." I hold up the shopping bag. "You didn't have to."
He flashes that sexy grin again. "I know."
Curiosity getting the better of me, I tilt my head to one side and frown as my gaze drifts over him, my would-be knight in shining armour. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"Can't a guy be nice to a girl without having an agenda?"
"Not in my experience, no."
"Sweetheart, you've been hanging out with the wrong type of men."
"I can't argue with that." The chilled air whips around me, and I mourn the loss of his warmth and his scent as I slide his jacket off my shoulders and hand it back to him. "Thank you for walking me home, Jason."
"Anytime," he says and backs away from the steps. "I guess this is goodnight, then?"
Of course it is. But what did I expect, a marriage proposal? Maybe not, but a “Hey, would you like to hang out and see what happens?” would have been nice, too. "Yeah, I guess so."
My gut twists with disappointment.
But as I watch him walk away—very slowly walk away—I think, Why the fuck am I waiting for him to ask me? I'm a grown-arse woman with wants and desires all my own and I should be asking him.
My soaked panties agree.
Just as I'm about to call out to him, however, the more cautious side of my brain clamps a hand over my mouth and forces me to see reason. I just met this man, and sure he's wickedly sexy, but how many police reports have started with "Well I met this cute guy…."
On the other side of the argument, my rational thinking is pointing out the fact that he could have just taken the ice-cream and run, but he didn't. He gave it to me, and he gave me his jacket to wear even though it's freezing out, and offered to walk me home even though he had no idea where I live or how long he'd have to suffer the cold before we got there. And while it's entirely possible that it was all a manipulation to get his hands on my ice-cream, it was also kinda sweet, and I could really use some sweet right now.
And I don't just mean the ice-cream.
Besides, Jason might be a head taller than me and rocking what appeared to be a killer six-pack under that slim-fit business shirt, but I definitely have the weight advantage. If he does turn out to be a psycho serial killer, I reckon I could take him.
Still, I'm nervous. Inviting strange men into my home less than twenty minutes after meeting them is not my usual gig. In fact it's pretty much the opposite of what I would usually do.
An icy wind swirls around me, makes me shiver, and I see Jason wrap his arms around his middle as the wind pulls at his jacket. Maybe it's time to warm us both up a bit. Maybe, definitely, it's time to step out of my comfort zone.
Voice raised against the wind, I call out, "Hey, Jason?"
He turns around. "Yeah?"
"Would you like to come inside and, I don't know… talk?"
He walks back to the bottom of the steps and pins me with that intense stare again. "Not really." But he takes a step closer.
Okay. "Would you like to come inside, watch a movie and eat ice-cream?"
He takes two more steps. "Warmer…."
Biting back a smile, I finally ask, "Would you like to come inside, watch a movie, eat ice-cream and…" I feel my face flush with heat. "Fuck?"
He stops on the step below me, his face now level with mine. He slides his hand under my dress and trails his fingertips up my inner thigh, stopping just below my pussy and drawing lazy little circles on my flesh. His voice is soft, dark. "I thought you'd never ask."
Oh.
Dear.
Lord.
Did I say soaked? Because I think my panties just drowned and went to pantie heaven. I swallow hard and lean toward him, his mouth, that wicked grin, so close, so tempting… but I pull away before our lips meet and turn toward the door.
I'm horny, not easy.
Jason snaps his teeth together. "Tease." Then he follows me inside and up the stairs to my apartment.
Taking his jacket, I hang it on a hook by the door, and then fish the ice-cream out of the shopping bag and grab two spoons from the kitchen. "So, what do you want to do first? Movie, ice-cream or…."
"Fuck," he says as he takes the ice-cream from my hands and sets it down on the kitchen table. "Definitely fuck."
The spoons clatter to the floor as his mouth crashes against mine and he swallows my moan of approval. His hands glide down my body, and I can feel him through my dress, hot and searching, eager and ready.
Just like me.
"Your bed. Where's your bed?" he says, nuzzling my throat and nibbling my earlobe.
"No. No bed." I push him back, making sure he can see me, hear me. Understand me. "I want you. Here. Now. Lights on. Pants off. I want you to give me what I always want and never get—hard, dirty, no-holds-barred fucking."
He sucks in a breath, his nostrils flare and his eyes darken. "That is the hottest damn thing any woman has ever said to me."
My fingers shake as I reach down and grab the hemline of my dress, slowly dragging the clingy, black sheath up and off my body, revealing my pale, wobbly flesh and the black lacy bra and panties trying in vain to hold it all in. His eyes grow wide, and I can't tell if it's with lust or fear. Until he pushes me against the refrigerator, lifts my legs around his hips, and shoves his tongue down my throat.
Lust. Definitely lust.
"If you want dirty, I'll give you dirty, but you have to give me something in return."
I try to ignore the fridge magnet digging into my back even as I'm loving his fingers digging into my thighs. "What do you want?"
Please don't say ice-cream.
Please don't say ice-cream.
Please don't say ice-cream.
"Your shoes."
My… what?
He wants my hot-pink snakeskin, five-inch stiletto, bargain-basement knock-offs? Brow scrunched in confusion, I ask the only question I can think of in such an unfamiliar situation. "Huh?"
A rumbling chuckle shakes him and he presses forward again, kissing me until my toes curl. "You could have walked around naked with the words ‘follow me home and fuck me’ spray-painted across your tits and it would have been more subtle than those goddamn shoes. I don't care what we do tonight, but those sexy stripper heels do not come off. Deal?"
Excitement fires low in my belly and I nod. "Deal."
Jason carries me to the kitchen table and plants my arse down beside the pint of ice-cream. His fingers are warm against my skin as he spreads my knees apart, his tented trousers brushing the inside of my thighs as he stands between them. I lean back on my hands and let my gaze slide over him, watching him unbutton his shirt in what can only be described as the most torturously slow striptease in history. I want to rip that shirt apart and watch the buttons fly across the room, but as each button popped reveals a hint of more tight, tanned muscle, I console myself with the knowledge that, for tonight at least, this man is all mine.
The last button pops and I sit forward again, slide my hands under his business shirt and push it off his broad shoulders. The soft white cotton slides down his arms and falls to the floor with a quiet swoosh, and he stands there staring down at me, his grin gone, his eyes dark, his chest rising and falling under my fingertips.
Swallowing down my nervousness, and pretending I know waaay more about seducing a man like Jason than I actually do, I slowly drag my fingers over his chest and explore every buff inch on the way down. His hands are on my thighs, stroking, squeezing, creeping closer toward my pussy. My hands are at his belt, the metallic buckle cold against my fingers as I pull the leather free, but as I reach for the button at his waist I freeze, a cold trickle of reality running down my spine and shocking me out of my lustful fantasy.
I snap my gaze to Jason’s, my eyes wide, my heart sinking fast.
"What's wrong?"
I want to cry. "I don't have any condoms. Shit." I can't believe my evening is about to be ruined. Again.
I want sex, dammit, with the sexy hunk of a man standing between my spread thighs and I want it now. Maybe I could run down to the deli—except they're shut. Fuck. No, not fuck. No fucking tonight, folks.
Fuuuck….
"I don't normally carry one around either," Jason says, reaching into his back pocket. "So I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of buying a pack. Just in case." An unmistakable flood of gratitude and relief flows through me and I kiss the ever-loving life out of him. I also tear his fly open and slide my hand inside his boxer-briefs, wrapping my fingers around his rather impressive cock. He gasps. "I guess you're okay with it."
Smiling sheepishly, I take the box of condoms from him, pop it open and take one out. "A six-pack, huh?"
He grins as he toes off his shoes, then shucks his trousers and underwear. "Call me optimistic."
"I think I'd rather call it a challenge. And ribbed for my pleasure, I see."
Jason winks. "I'm nothing if not a giver."
I rip the foil open with my teeth and toss the packet over my shoulder. "Come here." Taking his cock in my hand, I enjoy his sudden intake of breath, the way his stomach quivers and his muscles tense as I slowly roll the condom over the full length of him.
The long, hard, thick length of him.
I bite my lip as anticipation flares inside me.
Jason's fingers tangle in the lace of my panties and he yanks me forward so my butt rests precariously on the edge of the table. Placing his big hand in the middle of my chest, he gently pushes me down until I'm flat on my back. Grabbing a chair, he seats himself between my legs. When I raise a brow, he says, "What? I always eat at the table."
"E-eat?" I swallow hard but my eyes shoot wide open. Is he about to do what I think he's about to do? Just to be sure, I say, half-jokingly, "Please tell me you're not talking about the ice-cream."
His mouth kicks up in that wicked grin of his. "Now there's an interesting idea. Can't say I've ever licked ice-cream off a girl's pussy before, but I did promise you dirty." And he reaches for the pint that's slowly melting on the table.
"No!"
His hand stops a mere inch from its target. "What, you don't like the ice-cream idea?" He frowns at me as I stare at him, my mouth flapping open and shut with no words coming out. "Or is it me eating your pussy that's freaking you out? What's the matter? Don't you like oral sex?"
"No. I mean yes. I mean…." How do I explain this to him? My cheeks heat and I turn my head to hide my embarrassment, to hide my ignorance, but the words come out anyway. "I don't know if I like it or not. I've never had a guy go down on me before."
"Why the fuck not?"
Jason sounds genuinely baffled, which makes me feel even more embarrassed. I move to sit up, to close my legs, to feel less open, less vulnerable, but he doesn't let me. He's on his feet again and leaning over me, pressing his body between my thighs and pinning my hands to the table.
"Look at me, Felicity."
I turn my head to face him and look up at his curious expression, but it's hard to focus on anything with his cock jutting up between my legs, pressing against my mound, pushing the lace of my panties against my clit in the most ah-may-zing way. I can't help the moan that escapes me, nor can I help but notice the way he starts rocking his hips, gently smooshing that lace into my clit over and over again as he speaks to me.
"Is it because you're curvy?"
Eyes rolling back in my head, I say, "You can say the F-word, Jason." He rocks against me again, and my hips roll up to meet him. His eyes close and he groans. I lick my suddenly dry lips. "It's all right. I am what I am, and what I am is fat. And yes, my size was the most common excuse given."
Jason grunts, a sound of disgust. "Fucking amateurs. And I bet every single one of them expected you to go down on them, didn't they?"
I nod, embarrassed again, imagining what he must think of me now.
But his expression softens, his mouth twitching into a lopsided grin. "Well then, it's a good thing for you I'm no amateur."
I snort a laugh. "As if I'd know the difference."
He winks. "Trust me, you'll know." Letting go of my wrists, he trails his fingers down my body, hooks them into the waist of my panties and drags them down my legs until they dangle from my foot, snagged on the stiletto I'm not allowed to remove. His fingers glide across my mound, and I send up a silent prayer, thankful I remembered to wax. Then he shoots me another one of those panty-melting grins, and says, "Buckle your seat belt, sweetheart."
My body shakes with laughter. But when I feel his tongue lash against my clit I almost jump out of my skin. Holy shit that feels great. And then he does it again. And again, and again and again, until I think I'm going crazy. My back arches off the table and my hands grab at nothing, clenching around thin air and then springing open again, reaching for something, anything to anchor me to this point in time and hold me here for as long as fucking possible.
I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open. And I don't care. For the first time in my life, a man is going down on me and I intend to enjoy every damn second of it.
I moan his name as I feel his fingers slide inside me, but then—
"Fuck that's cold!"
He laughs out loud and his shoulders jiggle my thighs where he holds them wide. I lift my head and see him watching me over my stomach, a wide grin stretched across his face as he pushes the pint of ice-cream against my clit. The cardboard container is ice cold and the shock of it heightens my awareness of him, makes me more responsive to his heat as he laves my pussy with the broad side of his tongue.
My breathing hitches and I’m hot all over. My back arches again and I can't keep still. I reach down and feel for him, run my fingers through his hair and tug him closer as I buck my hips against his mouth. He sucks and licks my clit, hard little flicks of his tongue followed by urgent open-mouthed kisses that make me melt. His fingers piston in and out, hitting me deep and with bruising intensity and then I'm coming. I’m coming hard, and it is so much better than I ever thought it would be.
My body shakes and my brain melts, my hips thrust and my toes curl. I'm falling, I'm writhing, I'm praying to God that it never ends, that the man with his head between my legs never stops—
And then I'm sucking in breath after breath, satiated beyond belief.
But Jason's not done with me yet. As he stands, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares down at me, his intense blue gaze devouring every inch of my soft body. Grabbing my legs, he lifts them up and holds them to his chest so my feet—and my sexy stripper heels—stick up on either side of his head, and then he turns to press a kiss on my ankle. "Now we fuck."
I've barely caught my breath, but his cock is pushing for entry. I bite my lip and moan as he stretches me open and fills me up. And oh my Lord, when he starts to move, sliding in and pulling out, slowly at first, sooo slowly, I feel every inch he's giving me and know without a doubt that yes, that ribbed condom is 100 percent completely and totally for my pleasure.
Holy fuck.
His hands are hot as he holds my ankles and spreads my legs apart. If I lift my head, I can see his cock gliding in and out and in and out of me, slick and shining with my own arousal, and it makes me feel so open, so sexy. So dirty. And the way he’s looking at me, like he wants to eat me out all over again….
Yes, please!
"What are you thinking about, sweetheart?"
What am I thinking? During the best sex I've ever had in my boring little life? "Besides, thank God we both love Chocolate Fudge Brownie?"
"Well it is the best ice-cream ever."
I flash him a grin of my own. "I'm thinking of doing something like this." I may not be as experienced as I would like, but I'm no novice either. Tugging my legs free of his hold, I cross them across his chest and rest my ankles on his strong shoulders. If I thought I felt full before, it's nothing compared to how I feel now that everything has tightened two-fold.
Jason's head falls back and he groans, guttural, almost animalistic. "Oh yeah. I like the way you think."
His fingers dig into my thighs, bruising my soft skin as he thrusts faster, harder, hitting me deeper and making me cry out again as another orgasm tears through my body and makes me undulate with pleasure.
Pinning his wild stare with my own, I demand, "More."
"Play with yourself."
The steel in his voice says it's not a request.
Letting go of the table edge, I slide one hand between my legs and the other to my breast. My nipple is hard but not from the cold. I slip my hand inside the lacy cup of my bra and tug at my sensitive flesh, feel the weight of my breast dragging down as I pull up, and enjoy the slight pain that adds to my pleasure.
Between my legs is warm and wet. My clit is still sensitive from Jason's tongue lashing and lace smashing, and it makes me jump when I touch it. If I reach down just a little farther, I can feel the rubber-covered steel of his cock as he fucks me. I push down a little, applying pressure as he glides in and out.
His mouth falls open on a moan. "Oh fuck, do that again."
I do it again and again and again, tease and torture and pleasure him the way he’s been doing to me.
Jason stares down at me, watches me, never breaking eye-contact. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he growls, right before his fingers tighten on my thighs and he pumps his hips against me, slams his cock inside me fast and hard like a demented madman. Roars at the ceiling like the beast he is as he shoots his load.
And I’m right there with him, screaming his name as I chase my own release.
Moments later and the only sound filling the air around us is that of heavy breathing, and then Jason pulls out and slumps down into the chair. The loss of his hot skin and hard muscle chills my flesh, but that’s not the only thing making me shiver.
Sitting up, I hug my arms around my waist, not just for warmth but to hide my belly, too. Now that the heat of lust has cooled, I’m feeling vulnerable again. I just fucked a complete stranger on my kitchen table.
What was I thinking?
But Jason’s too busy disposing of the condom to pay any attention to my insecurities, and when he returns to the table he cups my face in his strong hands and lifts my mouth to his.
"Thank you." His words whisper over my lips before he pushes forwards and slips his tongue inside my mouth and makes my toes curl for a whole other reason.
Good Lord the man can kiss.
Heat flares to life inside me and suddenly my arms are wrapped around his middle instead of my own and I drink him in, his flavour, his scent, that rich male musk and a hint of cologne mixed with the smell of sweat and sex. When he pulls back, he's smiling. Not cocky, not grinning, but smiling.
Warm and genuine and sexy as hell.
Annnd my bra has magically come undone.
Eyes narrowed as Jason strips me of the last of my clothing, I say, "Dare I ask what you're thinking about?"
He licks his lips. "I'm thinking I'd like some ice-cream now."
I pick up the pint and take off the lid. Condensation runs over my fingers and the ice-cream inside has melted. It’s squishy but not a total write-off. I pick out a brownie chunk and eat it, find another and feed it to him, laugh as he nibbles my fingers. "We need spoons."
His grin is back. "I have a much better idea." Relieving me of the pint, Jason squashes it in his fist so cool, mushy ice-cream spills out of the tub and all over my naked breasts.
I squeal with delight as my lover’s head descends, as he pushes me back on the table and crawls on up here with me. His tongue is warm and tickles my flesh as he licks and sucks the sticky, gooey mess from my skin. When he reaches for another condom, I watch him sheath that impressive beast once more, and as he slides inside my pussy and bends his head to suck ice-cream off my breast, one thought—one perfect, sexy, dirty thought—pops inside my head.
"Best. Ice-cream. Ever."
The End
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