“I think you should probably leave.” His arms remain at his sides, his mind winning in this tug of war with his heart. He has grown accustomed to his monogamous relationship with the ever-faithful and never-leaving Mary Jane.
She stays put, the
probably
reference enough to dissuade her from following his careful advice in abandoning her position. “What does
she
do for you?” Brianna continues, bothered by hearing herself personalize something so impartial as a drug.
“She
makes me feel free and easy,” he announces, completely honest and standoffish in his reply. “Like summer rain.” His arms still refrain from touching her, bare themselves with a forced arrogance at his shoulders as if he is experiencing the warm precipitation.
“I promise not to disappoint,” Brianna whispers seductively. “I’ll take you higher,” she continues with her marijuana catchphrases, “you’ll feel no pain. I wanna give you everything. Like Mary Jane.” She chokes on her own rhyming words internally, wondering when and where in the hell she picked up such a forward sexuality.
“That good, huh?” he deliberates.
A twinge of jealousy claws at Lon’s ego with the thought of her promising sexual prowess and just exactly who she has experimented with. Admonishing himself for being so naïve to think he might be her first, he considers the collegiate fornication ground and their ages, nearly twenty-one.
The forthcoming information enough to convince him, he lets go of his youthful honor and protective nature of her. His eyes and his body now responding as if she were any other grown woman showing up at his bedroom door, he lets his arms come together around the small of her back as his steel blues twinkle boastfully at her.
“You want me to roll you up? Hold you to my lips?” he vainly plays off of her marijuana pitch.
“Let me burn all the way to your fingertips,” she replies, equally inflated as Lon, her warm fingertips figurative in their singeing of his skin along his back and shoulders. Again with the rhyming, Brianna can’t help herself, her bold attempt to deaden the direness of what she is about to do.
“I’ve imagined this moment many times. But I can’t say it ever went down quite like this,
Jolie Blonde,”
he says, choosing her unfavorable nickname, yet another attempt to keep an emotional distance from her.
“How about you don’t call me that,
bayou brat,”
she warns playfully, but assertively.
“Whatever you want,
tomcat,”
he counters, figuring the handle may be better suited to the mature version of his former childhood sweetheart. Tomcat—LSU Southern boy verbiage he picked up, used to describe something extremely hot, most notably a woman who is good in bed.
Brianna rises up on her tiptoes, her bull’s eye his lips. Lon diverts, reserving the exchange for true intimacy. Odd, the thing he used to be quite content in doing with her in their youth without prompting all of the intrusive things that likely follow is now off the table.
If it’s sex the tomcat wants, sex the tomcat will get.
He unbuttons his jeans, fully disrobing. Bent over at his waist, his hands work skillfully at the button on hers, releasing her of the constricting fabric. She follows his lead, her hands flexible in their wrapping about her back and unhooking her bra, letting it fall to the floor.
Standing before her now, Lon’s eyes take their sweet time in sizing up her stellar frame. The lump in his throat grows formidable, powered by his surging bodily endorphins. Physically, he grows hard and aroused. Mentally, he coaches himself that this is just another girl. Cardinally, his heart weakens, its urge to love and covet her body the way he always imagined he would in such a moment.
Brianna’s eyes are locked on his in nervous anticipation of what she may find if they linger south. Her mouth feels dry like cotton, certainly a side effect of the thunderous measure in her chest, debating the next move and who is supposed to make it.
Clearing his throat apprehensively, Lon calls on his ego to support his dwindling confidence. The thought that for such a tomcat, she’s pretty reserved, he doubts his own physical allure.
“You wanna get comfortable?” he motions toward the bed.
Brianna nods. Pulling her eyes from him, she settles in the middle of his bed, her torso propped up on her elbows.
“What do you like?” he joins her there, his legs nestled between her thighs, his thick, engulfing torso hovering over hers.
Kissing is always good.
Her initial response coming to mind, she mutes the unseasoned reply.
The apprehension in her eyes plays on his devotion. He dips his head to hers, their lips just centimeters away, wanting nothing more than to comfort her with them. Recognizing that if he does so, he will relinquish all control. The cherished action only good for one thing, reminding him of the way things used to be, the way she used to affect him inside. A huge incentive in their palling around—
When could he steal the next kiss?
—the innocent, soul-stirring action proof that she belonged to him.
The thought quickly bringing to mind the kiss she shared with Johnny just days before her grandparents took her away. He recalls last night. Johnny went after her to deliver her home safely, and he didn’t return until the next morning. The bad boy gloated about the sickening fact at the breakfast table.
Nope. She doesn’t belong to him anymore. Maybe she never did.
Even though he and Johnny have shared much over the past three years, women have been excluded from that equation. “I can’t do this,” he says, sitting back on his haunches, forcing a bearable distance.
“What do I have to do for you to want me?” Brianna’s inquiry is accompanied with her best come-hither smile, attempting to sway him from high-principled habits of their teenaged years.
Determined for him to see her as a woman and not some fresh-faced girl, her hand traces his muscular leg from his knee to his inner thigh. Ultimately wrapping around the swollen mass that resides there, she marvels devotedly at her first up close and personal encounter with the gender defying appendage.
“Ugh,” Lon groans, his head falling back against his shoulders with the stroke of her hand.
She watches him, appeased that she can deliver such bliss. Unsure of whether she executes the action properly, she does what she has always done with Lon. Tuning in to his verbal and physical cues, she takes heed of his indulgence, her hand generous in its responsiveness to each prompt.
Aware that there is no turning back now, Lon indulges in each vigilant caress. Stilling her hand sharply just before the point of release, his deep, sensual voice sounds, “You gotta tell me what you like.” He aims to return her generosity, proving he is equally proficient in bed. “Do you like it when a guy goes down on you?”
“Sure,” she purrs. Her hand brushing lightly against the side of his face, her lips seek his. “I love
it,”
she whispers, not exactly the proclamation she intended to make, the word
you
much more fitting in the emotion she wanted to express. She replaced it, figuring it would only solidify her naivety and stall his momentum.
“I bet you do,
tomcat.”
He forces the complimentary yet spiteful appellation, maintaining his brick wall. Escaping another kiss, he urges her to lie back, his mouth catering to an alternate but equally provocative set of lips.
Brianna sucks in rapid, shallow breaths through her parted mouth at the feel of his tongue, wet and warm against her core. Her abdomen, like a gentle tidal wave, flutters as she presses her head back into a pillow filled with Lon’s scent. Arching her back instinctively, her hips rise, pressing eagerly against his attentive tongue.
“Oh gawd,” she pants, the exquisite sensation somewhere between pleasure and ache, likely to drive her mad.
“You like that?” his voice and ego in tandem, both boastful in their swagger, satiated with her desirous reply.
“I like you,” she chokes out between breathy moans. One hand wrenches itself about his sheets, the other dually entwined in his thick, dark hair.
With her voracious cooperation, Lon continues. His lips and tongue take turns in their nipping and lapping, skills he has either read about in dirty mags or studied proficiently in X-rated movies. A dutiful scholar, he aces his present assignment.
“Lon. Please,” she cries, unsure of exactly what it is she expects him to do, yet convinced there must be some release to the libidinous buildup.
He sits upright between her thighs, the back of his hand clearing the perimeter of his mouth of her sweet, succulent nectar. Pilfering through the nightstand, he lands a condom. He tears the wrapper with his teeth, quickly assembling the latex barrier around his shaft. Propping himself above her torso with one flexing arm, his other hand positions his overwrought manhood snugly at the opening of her center. He momentarily rubs the tip against her, soaking up her moisture. The sensation tormenting, begs of further penetration.
Brianna pulls his torso to hers, needing to feel him skin to skin, willing their charged bodies to become one. The hasty momentum causes him to thrust inside her, the constricting tightness catching him by surprise. Her face buried in his shoulder, her teeth break his skin, much the same as her nails on his back with the painful throbbing that ensues between her legs.
“Ugh,” she releases a faint, high-pitched cry, hopeful that pleasure will soon follow.
Lon stills himself, wrapped in her taut sheath. Latching his hands benevolently around her shoulders, he props his weight onto his elbows, his forehead now level with hers. His steel blues full of questions, bound back and forth between her emerald greens.
“Brie…you…I,” he stammers, his thoughts running away with themselves. “You never…?” His words fall off with the question of her virginity, the premise a complete game changer.
“Did you honestly think it would be with anyone but you?” She returns his sweet gaze, recognizing the shift behind the emotion in his eyes, the same, honeyed and reverent affection of yesteryear returning.
“But. You and Johnny. Last night,” his sentences still ill-formed, a combination of waning lust and the advent of a venerated truth.
“Why would I go to bed with Johnny? How could I? After having been here. With you,” she solidifies through a vamped mouth, her lips parted, still hungry for air in the wake of their intimate union.
“Brie…baby.” Lon’s hands, expressing the lament in his guilt-ridden voice, gently caress the sides of her face. “You could have at least told me. There’s a better way.” He dutifully considers his fervid penetration and how he would have eased into it had he known. “God, I’m sorry.”
His lips surrendering, his defenses completely crumbled, he expresses a most sincere apology with a soothing and merciful kiss. The supple softness of his lips and tongue most coveting, linger just on the surface, a promise of the accommodating action he would have taken below.
“How about you show me now,” she whispers as he releases her lips, inferring to his
better way.
“You sure?” he deliberates her discomfort.
“I have wanted you. Like this.” She brushes a runaway strand of hair from the side of his temple, fully content with his sheltering, beautiful frame above hers. The first time in a long time that anything has felt like home. “For the past three years.” Brianna examines her evolving biological desire in coming of age. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“I have wanted you all my natural life,” his tone as warm and honest as his expression. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Like this. In the flesh.” His face grazing her skin between the curvy cleft of her breasts, he breathes her in all the way up to her neck. “God, I’ve missed you.” Fully admitting, now that he can what with pretense taking a definitive sojourn, that nothing or no one else is capable of such a comparison in his mind or his heart.
“I won’t ever leave you again, Lon,” she affirms with conviction through a remorseful whisper. “No matter what they say.” She thinks of her goodhearted, meddling grandparents. “I belong to you. I always have.”
He slowly releases himself from inside her, removing the desensitizing and moisture robbing condom. Hopeful it will make for a more pleasurable experience for her, he serves his own need as well—the need to feel her skin to skin.
Any other girl, in his moderate sexual past would receive him bound and fully covered in the rather uncomfortable latex. Brianna Bentley is not any other girl. She is the one. The one he has imagined time and time again, in the confines of his room when matters rested in his own hand. And here she is, in the buff. He cannot fathom having her any other way, but one saturated and burning hot flesh to another.
His hand tends to her core, one finger gently stimulating her natural essence to build and flow. Covering her mouth with his, he muffles her tender cry as he eases into her. He delivers himself like the rhythm of a slow song—smooth and laid back—the sleepy verse only a precursor to the climactic refrain.
“You okay?” he whispers. The heat from her body radiating off his, their skin glistens in the dimly lit room.
“It’s…starting to…feel good,” her words formulate between breathy moans, the wonder of the provocative sensation evident in her eyes as they flutter between open and closed.
“I wanna make you feel as good as you look. As good as you feel.” Lon groans, sinking deeper inside her, assured there is nothing of this world with which to compare the visceral contact.
“Does it feel better than Mary Jane? Being with me? Like this?” She asks through nimble lips, inciting in their play along his neck and ear, her curiosity of his affinity for the drug still lingering.
“Ahh,” he groans, the subtle action of her hips rising to meet his eases his mind. Her once inexperienced ache has been compensated, rewarded with full-grown ecstasy. “Old flames,” he speaks figuratively of the
stoner
anthem (Light One Up), “can’t hold a candle to you.” His raspy, dripping with sex voice continues, “You’re sublime, baby.”
Sublime, being the apex of beauty and greatness in his mind, her effect on him is transcendental—surpassing normalcy and trending on empyrean. Their innocent and vulnerable past coming full circle, graduating to the pinnacle of intimacy, he is convinced she has tapped into the core of him, some secret place he never knew existed. Akin to the blood flowing through his veins, she dwells, just under the surface.