Then, when I should be expecting it, he comes in my mouth. The strange salty flavor at the start stings my tongue in a mass flood I’m not sure what to do with. My gag reflex won’t let me swallow, but my pride won’t let me spit, so I hold him in my mouth, with the cum.
His hands stroke my hair softly, and he pulls my head away. I’d tell him not to if I didn’t have a wad of hotgarbage in my mouth, so I suck it all in to avoid dripping anything anywhere.
Sighing, he tilts my head up to look at him. He’s wearing a sleepy, satisfied grin. “Swallow or spit?” he asks, confused.
God, is there an option? Shit. A story Shirley once told me erodes my brain, and I do what she did. I push the gelatinous load to the back of my throat and swallow it down. It’s warm sliding down my throat, and maybe I keep a disgusted look off my face, but I can’t help the shudder.
Tahoe falls on the bed, pulling me with him. “I never would have pegged you as a swallow girl,” he remarks, kissing me on the forehead.
“I’m, ah, usually not,” I tell him. “Guess I was in the moment.”
“You don’t like giving blow jobs?” he says, less of a question and more of an observation. Maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I thought I was.
I clear my throat and get a taste of the remnants. “It tastes weird, but I like it.”
He laughs. “Liar. It’s fine. I’d rather eat you out anyway. Can I do it again?”
Maybe that will take my mind off the most embarrassing blow job of all time. “I’ll never say no to that,” I quote him.
Then, he’s on me.
When I wake in the morning, Tahoe is gone—the other side of the bed faintly warm. He left a note on my pillow using male chicken scratch. It says three reassuring words.You are perfect. I smile like a lunatic and hug the crumbled paper to my chest and then see words written on the back,because I know you won’t check your phone. Back in the real world, I have a job and friends counting on me. I grab the cell phone from my nightstand drawer and fly into the bathroom to crank on the hot water in the shower.
We slept naked last night, which was a test of my self-control, because even after the last orgasm had been wrung from my body, I wanted to mount him like a stallion and claim him completely. It was an out-of-body experience. I didn’t feel like myself. I feel new. He gave me a piece of myself I didn’t know I was missing.
The phone lights to life, and his text message pops up on the screen.
Last night was the best night of my life.
Another message chimes a second later.
In case you didn’t see my note…you are perfect.
My heart skips a beat. I hearI love youinside those three words, and I wonder if that’s his intent. It’s scary and exciting, and everything in my life is being tilted all at once in another direction.
I’m at the B&B this morning before I head in to work. I hired a contractor to get some of the demo finished while I’m we’re in NYC. Is that cheating?
The message pops on my screen moments before I step into the steaming shower.
I type back.
Hiring demo help isn’t cheating. I guess…because you are busy saving the world and stuff. I’ll besplitting my time between the office and the garage today. Call me if you need help.
I hit send.
I had to borrow your bicycle.
Well, I guess he would have to.
I tap back.
Don’t break it, beast.
I’m getting into the shower.
I tell him because it’s a fact. The secondary meaning to that statement rushes ahead, and I wish I could take it back. I’m not a forward woman. Southern women are raised to be mild-mannered and well-behaved. Telling a man I’m naked and about to wash myself is bad form. Last night I broke about seventy-five rules for the Southern lady, so I shouldn’t get red-cheeked now. I make a mental reminder to talk to Shirley about the art of blow jobs and get into the shower.
Memories from the night before trickle in, and the warmth spreads across my body so quickly, I’m hot before my hair is even wet. He said it was perfect, but my stomach knots when I think about his huge shaft in my mouth. How is that supposed to fit inside me?
