She flicks on a light and reveals a house made of cotton candy. There’s pink everything. Well, pink and gold everything.
I’m talking pink wallpaper and a gold chandelier and a plush pink carpet and throw pillows that say hello lovely and be mine. She lives in a Valentine’s Day card.
“You decorate this place?” I ask.
Her eyes flit over her living room and she smiles. “You like it? I mean, it’s pretty much the opposite of manly man, there’s no rustic cabin or wood stove,” she says, waving her hands in front of me. “But maybe for one night you can enjoy the ambiance of a place with a feminine touch?”
I step toward her, my fingers inching inside the waistband of her black velvet skirt. “Oh, I’m looking forward to a feminine touch, alright.”
I look at her dead on because I’m dead serious.
She doesn’t take it that way. She doesn’t think I’m genuine, even when she saw how badly I want her.
Her head falls back. A wave of blonde hair swishing over her shoulders and a laugh as sweet as a box of chocolates —cherry cordials to be exact.
“Oh, so you’re not just hard edges, you have some soft sides too?” Her heart-shaped lips part, her eyes are wide, her neck stretched and she looks at me. “You need a little tender loving care tonight, is that you’re saying, Sam?”
“That’s exactly what I need tonight.”
My cock is already straining in my jeans; it’s been a long-ass time since I’ve had a woman that smells so good and looks so sweet, this close to me.
People I work with might say I push everyone away from me; that I don’t let people get close. That I’m a hard-ass.
But I’ve never really cared what people say or what they think.
“Do you think my sister and Taylor are going to hate us?” Ava asks as my arms snake around her waist. I feel her slipping from this moment and feel the need to steady her.
I cock an eyebrow at her, my hands running under her blouse, up her bare spine, touching her soft skin. “What the hell do they matter?”
“Well, they might not like the fact that we are...”
“Do you really give a fuck about what they think?” I pull her closer to me. No way in hell is she getting away.
“I mean, I don’t want to ruin anything for them. I want their wedding to be perfect. More than perfect. I want it to be everything.”
“We’re not gonna ruin anything because they don’t need to know anything. This is just you and me, one night. A little bit of fun. Right?”
For a second, I think Ava is going to pull away; that maybe she doesn’t like the idea of a one-night stand. But hell, that’s all I have to offer. I’m not made to be anybody’s man.
I look around her pink and gold house, this carnival of a living room. I sure as hell am not made to be her man, but we can have a good time.
“Totally. Have some fun. That’s all it is.” She smiles, but it’s not as genuine as her laugh from a moment ago. It makes me feel like shit, and it makes me want to make her feel better.
So, I do. I pull her close, cup her face with my hands, and I kiss her. I kiss her hard. Our mouths collide, our lips part, our tongues entwine. My cock, damn that thing, is ready for the ride she promised, and by her soft whimpers in my mouth, I know she’s ready to get her engines revved up too.
“Damn, you’re something else, Ava Grace.” My fingers pull down the zipper of her skirt and it falls to the ground, landing on the plush pink carpet. She lifts her arms and I pull off her top.
Her breasts are beautiful, creamy and full, and she’s wearing a bra that was made to be seen. Lacy and delicate.
She reaches for my jeans, she unzips them and her hands wrap around my waist. She slides her hands under my briefs, grabbing hold of my ass.
“You like that?” I ask, my hands tugging at her ridiculous tights. I need them off, I need to see her sweet little pussy, I bet it’s as sweet and pink as this fucking house.
4
Samson takes complete control of the situation. He seems to inherently know that if left to my own devices this entire night could quickly become a disappointment.
Because that’s what I usually do. Get too attached. Get too insecure. Get too deep in my freaking head.
Right now, there’s no room for me to be in my head. There’s no room at all.
Samson is in my sugary living room, filling up the space adequately enough. More than adequately.
Because my hand is down his pants, inside his boxers, and I feel the length of his shaft.