Does she think of me when she gets off?
That one nearly had me spilling in my hand.
Precum beaded the head of my cock, and I used it to lubricate my strokes, gliding my fist from tip to root, slow but firm. An image of her lying beneath me in my bed, blonde locks splayed across my pillow, flashed across my brain, fueling my need.
Her wrists were bound to the headboard, wrapped in the same golden rope that looped through my toy sack. Tears leaked from her eyes while I fed her every last inch of my cock until it scraped the back of her throat.
Fuck, I could see her, feel her so clearly.
My hand pumped furiously in time with each rapid breath. I grunted out my pleasure, the sound almost feral, like an animal craving his next meal. I knew what I was hungry for—Nellie’s juicy pussy. Nothing else would satisfy this insatiable craving.
Any second now.
I pictured her small, ripe breasts bouncing with every thrust inside her mouth, every ripple of her throat around my cock driving me closer and closer to the finish line. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of coming in her mouth, not even if she begged for it. No, I wanted to paint her body with my cum, cover her tits, her pussy, her lips, every inch of her until she knew she was mine.
That was all it took to send me over the edge—the image of spending myself on her peachy skin and, more specifically, her lazy, satisfied grin when I did.
At this point, it wasn’t a matter ofifI made Nellie Wheatley mine, butwhen, and from the looks of it, Santa would be coming down her chimney before Christmas Eve.
My laughter echoed off the walls of my apartment. Apparently, I also had the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy.
Chapter Six
December 14th
Nellie
As far as I was concerned, there were two kinds of people in this world—the weirdos who believedDie Hardwas NOT a Christmas movie and the rest of us who knew better. I could deliver a Ted Talk about my feelings on the subject and was prepared to do so at any point this evening.
Nora’s friends, Devin and Riley, had invited her and Bowie to join them for a special screening of the Bruce Willis classic, and in typical third-wheeler fashion—or in this case, fifth-wheeler—I had invited myself along.
To be fair, I was in it more for the movie theater snacks. As far as I was concerned, no movie going experience was complete without a bucket of popcorn drenched in butter and salt. I even kept a miniature saltshaker in my purse at all times, just in case.
“This is gorgeous,” Riley said, admiring the theater’s art deco style. “Who knew this place was buried between skyscrapers?”
I nodded. It really was beautiful. Magical, some might say. Floor-to-ceiling decorative columns decked out in garland, a grand staircase leading up to the balcony seats, and a domed ceiling that would make Michelangelo weep. And that was just the lobby.
Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember the last time I had been inside a theater, let alone gone to see a movie. Until recently, it had been months since I’d spent an evening beyond my apartment or the four half-walls of my cubicle. Yet here I was, spending another night out with friends, exploring a part of town I hadn’t been to before, even after nearly a year of living in L.A.
Maybe there was something to this work-life balance thing.God, I hate it when my sister’s right.
“Should we shop first?” Devin asked, arm entwined with their wife’s. The two of them were coming up on their second wedding anniversary, and they still acted like newlyweds. “Or find seats?”
“Ooo!” Nora shouted excitedly, pointing in the direction of what looked like a life-sized snow globe. “Let’s check out the photo booth.”
She pulled Bowie along and the rest of us followed, carving a path through the festive moviegoers like salmon swimming upstream. This place was packed. Milkshakes might have brought the boys to the yard, but thirty-five-year-old action flicks and overpriced snacks brought millennials back to the movie theater. It had worked for me, at least.
That was something unique to our generation, the thirty and fortysomething “kids” caught between digital and analog—we longed for experience. Memories, not stuff.
Which was why along with tonight’s screening of the so-called holiday classic, local artisans had gathered throughout the lobby to hock their wares and treats, everything from hand poured candles—some of which were shaped and painted like candy cane dicks—to boozy cake pops. I was more than ready to knock back a few of those.
Cake pops, I meant. Not dicks. There was only one dick on my mind these days.
As we waited in line for the photo booth, I couldn’t help but think about a certain photographer who lived next door. More specifically, about the showstopping kiss he had planted on me earlier in the week.
The first kiss to end all first kisses.
And it had happened under the mistletoe, of all places. In front of my sister and our friends. No wonder Austin had turned tail and bolted for his door the second after it had ended. He wasn’t the only one who had been embarrassed.
