Love, Lust, and Other Mistakes (5 page)

She envelopes me
in her arms.  “Well, like I already told you, I’m not planning on running anymore.  So I’m pretty sure we can take our time.”   She licks along the curve of my shoulder and up to my neck. My heartbeat quickens and my throat becomes tight as she continues her gentle, yet persistent caresses. 

I
had once warned Erin that I wouldn’t wait for her, but even as the harsh words had spilled out, I knew they were lies. I would have waited as long as it took. Because even though I might not be ready to say the words yet, I love her, too.

+++++

Grocery Shopping

I love grocery shopping.  It’s a strange thing to love, I know, but there’s something actually soothing to me about grocery stores.  I get a kick knowing exactly where everything is located in the store and hunting for the best deals.  I’m certainly not one of those crazy coupon ladies, but I do feel a slight surge of pride when I’m able to save at the register.

I visit my local grocery store at least twice a week.  I could probably plan my dinner menus out better and cut back on the frequent trips, but honestly I don’t mind.  I like going during the day when I’m one of the youngest people in the store – the rest of the shoppers are generally the elderly or stay-at-home moms.

I’m pushing my cart down the Ethnic Foods aisle in search of corn tortilla shells and salsa.  I stop in front of the rows and rows of salsa and scan the labels for the specific one I’m after. 

I hear the squeal of rubber against tile when another shopper takes a sharp turn into my aisle.  I glance in the direction of the noise to see a frazzled-looking woman digging through her oversized purse.  Her phone is going off.  It’s one of the loudest, most obnoxious ringers I’ve ever heard.  Why do people do that?

Her short, but thick blonde hair is swept back away from her face.  It looks a little messy, but it’s the she-did-it-on-purpose kind of a messy.  She’s thin, in that kind of pinched-looking trophy wife style.  She probably hasn’t eaten a carbohydrate in years.  She wears tight yoga pants shoved into designer boots that are supposed to look like sleepwear, but you pay $200 for.  Draped over her toned upper body is a Nike zip-up runner’s jacket, although I’m pretty sure she’s never sweat in it like it’s meant for.

I’m honestly a little surprised to see someone like her in my store.  It’s not that the grocery store I go to is trashy, but she looks like she’d be more at home at the fancy, overpriced gourmet shop across the street. 

As she zooms past me, her bag lightly knocks against my shoulder.  “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she says in an alarmed tone.  Her blue-green eyes widen as if she’s afraid I’m going to sue her.

I wave her off.  At least she didn’t run me over with her cart.  You’d be surprised how often scattered-brained soccer moms have run over my toes.  I don’t wear flip-flops to the store anymore because of it.

She finally finds her phone and snaps it open.  “Hello? Yes, Noah,” she sighs tiredly into the phone.  “I know…” She pauses and grimaces listening to the person on the other line chatter on.

I don’t
mean
to eavesdrop, but she’s talking loudly and I’m still hunting for a specialty salsa that seems to have been relocated from its usual location.

“I won’t forget, no,” she says.  “Gluten free, yes.  Listen, I’ve got to go,” she abruptly states.  “I’m at the store right now.  I’ll see you soon, sweetie.” 

“Sorry about that again,” she apologizes when she ends the phone call. “I’m kind of a mess today juggling a million things.”

I smile amicably.  “It’s honestly fine; I can sympathize.  Just don’t forget to breathe.”  

“Right.  Breathe.  I’ll put that on my To Do List,” she laughs tightly before hustling away down the aisle.

+++++

I finish loading my canvas bags into the back of my hatchback and close the trunk.  Just as I do so, I hear a familiar voice.

The woman from earlier is steering her cart in the direction of a white SUV parked close to my car.  She’s trying to keep her overstuffed bags from tipping out of her cart, and talk on her phone, and shove her money back into her purse while navigating the parking lot’s potholes. 

I watch as the front left wheel of her cart hits a particularly deep divot, and she nearly loses a bag full of produce.  She throws an arm out to catch it and shoves the rogue canvas bag back into her cart.  As she does, what looks like a thick wallet falls out of her hanging purse and lands on the ground.  She doesn’t seem to notice and continues in the direction of her parked car.

I quickly lock my vehicle and jog towards the abandoned wallet before anyone else can pick it up or it gets run over by a car. “Excuse me, Miss?” I call out.

The woman doesn’t turn around.  Either she can’t hear me, or she doesn’t realize I’m trying to get her attention.  I reach the wallet and swipe it from the ground.

“Miss? You dropped your wallet?” I try again.  I see her body suddenly go rigid, and she stops her retreat to look over her shoulder back at me.

I jog up to her and hand her the overstuffed Kate Spade wallet.  “You dropped this,” I say again.

“Oh God, thank you,” she sighs.  Her cheeks flush attractively. “That would have been another thing to add to my list…find the stupid wallet.”

“It’s no big deal,” I say, brushing it off. “It’s the least I can do since I added ‘Don’t forget to breathe’ to your To Do List.”  I give her a dimpled grin.

She laughs.  This time it’s genuine, and it sounds like the sun breaking through the clouds on an overcast day.  “I heard you calling back there, but I didn’t think you were talking to me,” she admits. “No one’s called me ‘Miss’ in quite a while.”

“I find that hard to believe. You can’t be much older than me,” I note.  I might be flirting a little bit, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She pushes her oversized sunglasses further up her forehead before they can slip down.  “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Can I help you load up your car? You seem to have quite a lot,” I observe. “Buying food for an army?"

"My son's soccer team is having a little game on Saturday,” she tells me as she starts to load up the back of her vehicle with grocery bags. “After-game parties are a must these days to encourage them to keep on playing."

I raise an eyebrow. "Hence the reason you’re a giant stress ball today?”

"You could say that," she nods.

“And I suppose it’s too much to expect your husband to pitch it,” I say, surprised by the bitterness that creeps into my voice.

“Well, I
could
ask him. But we’re divorced, and I’d rather do this on my own than have to spend more time with him.  I wasted enough time on that man,” she grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, ducking my head as I continue to load more bags into the back of her SUV.  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Just as the words escape my mouth, something explodes in one of the bags and nearly a gallon of liquid hits me in the face and down my front. I’m left sputtering in disbelief with my t-shirt clinging to my front.

“Oh my God.  I’m
so
sorry,” she exclaims. “I guess this is why more people don’t help out strangers.  They get attacked by groceries.”

She rips open a package of paper towels and begins to wipe away the mess on my arms and neck.  “Thanks,
Mom
,” I chatter, feeling suddenly chilled by whatever sticky liquid drenched me. “What attacked me, anyway?”

She sifts though the leaking bag and pulls out a cardboard container of lemonade.  The bottom has blown out and it’s completely empty.  “I guess there won’t be any lemonade at the party,” she chuckles, shaking the now-empty container.

“You should go get a refund,” I suggest, still uselessly patting at my shirt with paper towels. “The only way you’re getting your juice now is if you wring out my shirt or lick it off me.”

When I realize what I’ve said, I look up to gauge her reaction.  She’s staring at me carefully.

“I’ve got an old t-shirt in the back you could change into,” she tells me. “We look to be about the same size.”

“It’s really okay,” I insist. “I don’t have very far to drive to get home.”

“But I’d feel bad if you got lemonade all over your car on account of me,” she counters.

I’m taken aback when abruptly she grabs my sticky arm and brings my wrist to her mouth.  Her pink tongue snakes out and she swipes just the tip across the inside of my wrist.

“Woah, uh,” I sputter, pulling my hand away.  “I was just joking about that earlier.”

“I know,” she says.  Her eyes look impossibly dilated beneath the warm afternoon sun. “But I suddenly had a craving.”

“For lemonade?” I can’t believe my voice cracks. 

Her deep blue eyes sweep over me once. “And other things,” she purrs.  Oh God.  She just
purred
.

I’m acutely aware of her hands brushing against my breasts.  “Still so wet,” she murmurs, patting me down with an extra handful of paper towels.  “Just gonna get sticky.”

I loudly dislodge the frog from my throat. “Are we still talking about lemonade?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous grin and her icy, blue eyes twinkle.  She grabs her ring of keys off the back fender and presses a button on the oversized key-fob.  I can only stare dumbstruck as the side door of the SUV automatically slides open. 

“Get in.”

I flick my eyes back to her attractive face. “You do this often?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow slightly as she appraises my figure again. “Not with girls,” she admits.

+++++

The door barely has time to slide shut behind us before she pushes me onto the rear bench seat and my shorts are pulled down to my ankles. “Holy shit,” I manage to sputter out.  I can’t figure out if I’m being kidnapped or if something really awesome is about to happen.

A seatbelt is digging into my tailbone, but when she sucks my clit into her mouth, I amazingly don’t care. “Holy shit,” I curse at the immediate and unexpected sensation.  So much for foreplay.  This woman’s determined.

Thankfully the backseat windows are tinted to the legal darkness limit so the average passerby can’t easily see our activities.  But that still doesn’t erase the fact that people are milling around just a few feet away in the parking lot.

I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from yelling out when her tongue unexpectedly plunges into me.
My hands flail about, desperately seeking
something
to grab onto.  My palm comes in contact with the back passenger window with a thick smacking sound. The image of Kate Winslet in
Titanic
pops into my head.  You know the scene.

“What’s so funny?” the woman between my thighs growls.  Her eyes narrow at my burst of inappropriate church giggles.

“N-nothing.” I grab onto that thick blonde hair and pull her back down to my aching sex. “Keep going,” I pant.

She continues to lick at my core with the fervor of a highly sexual, yet highly frustrated woman.  I press encouragingly on the back of her head, letting her know her enthusiasm is appreciated.  Her nose bumps into my clit, pulling a sharp hiss from my lips, and she hums her approval as well.  The vibrations feel delicious, and I’m gasping for more.

Her saliva mixes with my cum, and I feel impossibly wet.  I’ve always read erotica with a skeptical eye. You know the type – those unbelievable stories where the woman’s arousal drips down her legs from just a little kissing.  In this case, however, I’m thankful for the leather upholstery. At least it’s easy clean-up.

Her hands wander beneath my saturated t-shirt. I gurgle in the back of my throat when her hands snake up and tweak at two very sensitive nipples.  Before this, I was starting to wonder if I was just a vehicle for pussy.  But who the hell am I to complain?  A hot, seemingly straight woman is eating me out in the back of her car.

Life is good.

Her long nails rake down my sticky stomach, causing me to thrust slightly into her face more.  She rests her hands on my hipbones, pinning me in place, and it turns me on even more.  Her tongue keeps thrusting in and out.  It feels good, but it’s not enough.  I start to squirm and wiggle, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What?” she asks, pulling away from my thighs for a moment.  Her lips purse together.

“I just need…” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Use your words,” she sternly tells me.  God, what a
Mom
.  What a
Hot
Mom, I self-correct.

I swallow hard.  “Your fingers,” I manage to croak out.  I’m sure my face is flushed, but I could probably pass it off as arousal.

She quirks a perfectly manicured eyebrow towards the sky.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she purrs.  I feel her fingers swipe along my wet slit, and I can hardly bite back a throaty groan.

Using one hand she parts my lips and gently suckles on my clit again. It’s not so frenetic this time, as if she’s realized we have all the time in the world.  It’s nice.  Like, make-your-toes-curl-nice.

I feel her lazily tracing along the outside of my lips with the tips of her fingers.  I arch my back and groan when she slides a solid finger deep into my sex. 

“Oh God,” I gurgle.  I hit my palms against the leather seat, just bracing myself for the orgasm that’s about to come.  It starts out as a tightening in the pit of my stomach that slowly spreads outward.  She’s thrusting hard, almost grunting into me.