8
West
I’ve had casual sex before; I’m not a saint. It’s not something I do often, though. At a certain age, you come to value the emotional connection as much, if not more than the physical one.
This encounter in Club M—this is about as close to the definition of casual sex as you can get. And yet, it’s Mel, and because it’s her, it’s anything but. I can’t just focus on the physical. I can’t pretend my feelings aren’t involved.
Also, it’s fucking impossible to remember to call her Cat. Twice already, I’ve almost slipped up and called her Mel. I guess I could call her honey or sweetie or something, but that feels weird.
I’m probably thinking too much. And then she takes off her top, and all thought flees my mind.
Fuck me, she has perfect tits. Two pert mounds, just the right size for my hands. Her swollen nipples are a rose-tinted brown hue. They’re hard and perky and practically begging me to suck them between my lips.
And Rob is touching them. Squeezing them. Pinching each engorged nipple, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger.
I wait for a blast of jealousy to hit me. It doesn’t come. Instead, I’m hit by a surge of anticipation.
Mel is here, and she wants this. She isn’t an idiot—she knows her own mind, and to think otherwise would be patronizing as fuck.
No more hesitation.
No more doubts.
I close the distance between us, put my hands on her hips, and tug her closer.
Then I capture a nipple in my mouth.