Marshall—
Holy. Shit.
I stood in the middle of my living room, the lights not even turned on since I’d just walked in, when I got the text from her. My eyes and my brain had only begun to register what I was seeing when another came through.
Then another.
Fuck.
The first photo was of Al lying on her bed in little shorts or underwear, I didn’t know, and a tank top—a very tight white tank top with no bra. Her erect nipples were clearly visible from under the fabric, and all I could think, all I could hope, was that she was so turned on by taking the picture her nipples responded. I didn’t know if there was scientific research to back this theory, or if it was just a dude’s way of justifying how tits alerted us we were doing something right.
The second photo was with her top folded down further, the curve of her breasts pushed up, as she laid on her side, smiling this sweetish, sexy smile I’d never seen out of her. I’d seen both: sexy and sweet. Together like that? Never.
“Christ,” I said, plopping myself down on my couch as I continued to stare.
I adjusted my eagerly expanding cock because not only did I know what was coming, I didn’t know how I was going to respond without coming across as a total sex-crazed buffoon.
The third was…mother of fuck.
I rubbed my hand roughly over my beard and…stared. My girl was facing a mirror, completely nude, her body arched like a fucking Greek goddess or something. Her arm was wrapped around her toned waist, her hand strategically placed to cover her always shaved-bare pussy. I pouted for a nanosecond at not getting to see all of her, but the image was goddamn sexy, so unbelievably hot there was no fucking way I was going to complain about any of it.
How could I’ve seen her naked so many times, and this was what turned my gears in a whole new way?
I still didn’t know how to respond. Maybe she wanted me to act like the sex-crazed buffoon I was trying not to be I mean, she wasn’t sending me these to not get a reaction, right? I was fully reacting. I just didn’t know how to tell her that. It wasn’t like this was the first time a girl had sent me these kinds of pictures. However, those were always girls I was kind of dating or a friends-with-benefits type of thing. It wasn’t the girl I was very much into that I’d known for almost a decade, who was once married to my best friend, and now we worked together almost daily. This was a delicate fucking situation.
God. She was hot.
And she was waiting. She had to be. She was sitting somewhere, maybe even lying in her bed wearing that same outfit or nothing at all, waiting for me to respond.
Be cool, Marshall. Let her take the lead.
Me: Thank you.
There. It was simple and courteous.
Al: Thank you? A girl sends you scantily clad, nude photos and all you have say is “thank you?”
It was…a dumbass fucking response that was going to ruin any chance I had of ever having sex with her again.
Me: No! Oh my God, no! It wasn’t all, I was just…still typing! They are amazing.
No, dumbass. They’re better than amazing. She is better than amazing.
Me: YOU are better than amazing. I’m fucking speechless, or rather textless, or whatever the fuck it’s called if anything. You look so hot. Beautiful. So, so, so, so beautiful. I can’t believe you did this. For me.
Okay. That was the best I could do. If it wasn’t good enough, I’d have to brush up on my skills—my wooing skills. They didn’t get as much use as they did when I was in my twenties, and as the sexy picture thing had definitely taken off these last several years, perhaps my said skills had taken a nosedive.
I waited a few minutes, and without a response, I was starting to panic. What else could I do? Was there something that I was missing?
Wait. Did she want me to reciprocate?
Fuck.
That would entail doing only one type of picture, and while I was sporting some major wood from what she sent, I didn’t know if it would stand up to photography.
Do the same rules about the camera adding ten pounds apply to cock shots taken from a mobile phone, but instead of ten pounds you get a few extra inches?
Al: Thank you ;)
Okay. So maybe no exchanges from my side needed. Whew.
Me: I really was surprised. Thank you, baby.
Al: Just HOW surprised, Marshall? Did it…effect you?
Oh, hello, naughty girl. She wanted to play, and I was all in.
Me: Hard. The effects were immediate and hard.
Al: Is that so? Elaborate.
Me: I’ve had the pleasure of lingering over every inch of your body. I’ve watched you come as you rode my cock. You’ve pulled my hair as you’ve come against my mouth as I gave you head. Getting the pictures? A whole new level. I am so fucking hard, and you’re not here for me to show you just how hard.
Al: Thank you for elaborating. ;) Sounds like there is a situation happening over there again.
Me: There definitely is. What are you doing?
Al: Laying around.
Me: How about you get that sexy ass over here and lay around close to me.
There was a pause in correspondence, and I knew she had to be considering it. She better have been considering it since I’m sure it was her intent all along. If that wasn’t the case, then I knew I’d reached the pinnacle of cluelessness about women.
Come on, baby.
Come on.
And if you do, bring me a treat.
Al: Be over in twenty.
Yes!
After I decided that it would be fucking rude to ask if she had any cookies or even one of those margarita doughnuts she brought into Ginger yesterday laying around, and if she did, if she could bring one. Or two. Three, tops. I came to my senses, though. She had already been super generous today, and asking any girl to bring you food so you can have a postcoital snack was a level of asshole I didn’t want her to view me as.
I used the twenty minutes between her last text and her arrival to take a quick shower. Even though I wasn’t tending bar, the bar funk still radiated around me, attaching itself to my clothes. There never was a day that I didn’t have a spilled drink, food, cleaning product from post-vomit cleanup, or regular man funk from doing something at work that needed to be hosed off when I came home.
And let’s face it. If I wanted her lingering around my dick, like she so graciously does, smelling nice in all areas I’m sure was appreciated.
I decided to play the art of seduction role and lit some scented candles around the apartment. A few in the living room and several in the bedroom, where I anticipated spending most of our time.
I’d never been in a Bed Bath & Beyond, because as a perpetual bachelor, I never had to, but one of the girls at work told me they had a good selection of the good shit—shit referring to candles. I was sure I came across as a total tool sniffing at all of them, but now I was glad I did. My home already smelled fucking great from the Mango Salsa and Harvest scented candle combination I bought.
Seeing the lights of her car illuminate the pavement outside my house, and then go dark, was a level of excitement akin to fucking Christmas morning. I watched her exit her car, and while I couldn’t make out exactly what she wearing, I saw enough to know she was wearing a denim skirt. Outside of working or when she didn’t have that sexy uniform on, she was always in jeans. She never wore skirts.
I was a dude. I fucking loved skirts.
Her still red hair blew across her face as she started up the walk to my door, and my heart continued to pound so hard I thought the fucking neighbors would hear it.
They would be hearing something soon, though.
She was a vocal, very vocal lady in bed.
I opened the front door and stood waiting for her. She had barely crossed to inside when I slammed it shut and had her pushed up against the back of it. The pictures were a nice appetizer, but her? In the flesh? I was going to fucking devour her.
My eyes focused on her lips as I whispered, “Finally.”
“You got a thing for doors, huh, Jones? First your office. Now here?”
Then it was my eyes on her mouth, watching her tongue run along her lower lip, and I knew she was coming for me. It was what she always did before kissing me. I wasn’t even sure if she knew she did it, but I noticed. I always did because anticipation rose through my body.
“I couldn’t concentrate on anything else after getting those pictures,” I said in a low tone, my lips almost touching hers. “Not a fucking thing, Al, and I had a lot of shit to get done.”
“Sorry,” she whispered.
I brushed our lips together with a gentle shake of my head. “I’m sure you are. In fact, I’m going to make sure I know how sorry you say you are.”
Her head tilted back so she could see my expression. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said, sliding my fingers through the back of her hair, clutching it in my hand. “I want you to prove it to me, how sorry you are, because I’ve been hard for you for so long now. I want you. All of you.”
Our lips finally connected, and it was hands and tongues and a sexual desire so palpable, I wondered if she felt it running through my veins, through my skin.
My heart pounded more.
Her legs trembled.
She was sorry.
I took her to the bedroom, laid her down, and yes. She was so, so sorry.
When we were done, we laid sated in each other’s arms, sleepy from the day and the sex. It was a rare moment of perfection.
Peace.
We sat quiet in it, our fingers brushing against one another’s, until I flicked on the television.
Had I known that the one action, in that one perfect moment, would lead to her unraveling, I would’ve never have done it.
Follow the yellow brick road…