Southern Seduction (50 page)

Zoey

“So I was thinking we should do a penis.”

I can’t even tell you how weird it felt to be having this conversation, particularly since two minutes ago we had been locked in such a hot, sensuous hold that it threatened to burn. It must sound intriguingly unbelievable from the outside looking in.

“You know, if I was a real feminist I would spend two hours arguing with you about how we should be making a vagina in the name of equal opportunity. But really, I just can’t imagine that making a crop circle vagina is all that easy, and a penis seems much easier. And more obvious, and I think that’s what we’re going for.”

“I think you should argue your feminist values a little more just so I can hear you say the word vagina a few more times.”

“Really? I didn’t think the word ‘vagina’ was all that sexy,” I mused.

“It’s not the word, it’s the thoughts it drums up. The pictures and sensory memories.”

“Sensory memories? That makes you sound so pervy,” I complained with a scrunch of my face.

“Zo, all men are perverts to some degree. It’s just on a sliding scale with guys who think about pussy several times an hour on one end and pedophiles on the other.”

“Several times an hour is the low end?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” he said as he shrugged, resigned and accepting to whatever reaction I was going to bestow upon him.

But I was full of surprises. His little educational ditty didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I thought it was pretty cool that guys had that much sexual freedom. That’s why I had more guy friends than girls.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the real
why
of it, but it made it easier. I loved dirty jokes and the way a man’s mind worked in general. So simple with yes or no answers, and right and wrong clearly defined. They either liked something or they didn’t, and that even applied to people.

Women were much more into mind games and reward systems, and to tell you the truth, I had a hard time keeping up with the complication of it all.

“How are we going to do this?” I asked, realizing that I would have been completely fucked without Miller. I didn’t have the first clue about anything I was supposed to be doing. “Do we need some sort of heavy machinery?”

“Nah. We don’t need to make it really big, so we just need a piece of wood and some rope,” he answered me.

For some reason, the fact that he always seemed to have the answers brought out my attitude.

“And where do you suggest we get that?” I asked snottily.

His face beamed with triumph as he pulled me away from the corn and towards the center of town, obviously focused on his task with no intention of cluing me in.

As we rounded the corner onto Main Street, footsteps could be heart plopping softly on the sidewalk, and I found myself pushed efficiently into a small alley between two historically old buildings with the warmth of Miller’s body bathing mine along every inch while it acted as a shield.

His lips hovered a scant millimeter off of mine, the vibrations from his nearly silent, “Shh,” sending a spasm all the way from my lips to my toes.

The man emanated sex. It was crazy, but every innate movement hinted at it, suggested it, and strongly propositioned that it would be the time of my life.

I wanted him right then, in that dirty, dingy alley. I wanted him to lift me up, plant my back against the rough brick wall, and make me his in the most primitive way possible.

Voices hummed along in a muted murmur, just loud enough to hear them, but not loud enough to make out what they were saying, right outside of the shadows hiding us.

But I didn’t care. I had only one thing on my mind---Miller---and only one thing I wanted to do with him.

It was honestly like I was possessed. I’d never felt this urgency, this immediately kindred connection, and a carnal need to have a physical intimacy with another person.

But I guess that was the point. If everyone elicited these emotions, everyone would be special. There would be no monogamy, soul mates, or everlasting love. Everyone would be good enough, and ultimately, that would mean that no one was.

“I want you,” I whispered almost silently, hoping that even if he couldn’t hear me, just putting it into the universe would somehow make it happen.

Miller lifted me up, my legs moving automatically to wrap around his trim waist, the definition of his torso pushing distinctly into my small thighs. His hands settled on my ass, both a caress and a mode of support, so that I wouldn’t have to work so hard to hold myself up.

He had heard my plea alright, and he wasted no time in making it become a reality. He didn’t ask me if it was okay, or if I was sure, he just followed my lead and trusted that what I was asking for was what I truly wanted.

I liked an action man.

My arms settled around his shoulders, my fingertips wrapping around enough to dig into each opposing shoulder.

Our movements were slow even though our intentions were urgent, and it made every move more obvious, intense, and pleasure building.

This encounter probably wasn’t going to be seamless---I was wearing pants for Christ’s sake---but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t romanticized or fictionalized or anything lovemaking is often construed as being.

It was real.

Exploratory.

Educational, as he learned my body and I learned his.

And I was pretty sure, the feel of the brick and Miller’s fingertips juxtaposed burning themselves into my brain, it was going to be really fucking memorable.

Several minutes passed with nothing more than open-mouth kisses, throat nuzzling, and roaming hands, and eventually, the unknowing bystanders to our first sexual encounter started to make their way away from our little alley, but I only noticed in a distracted way.

I was far too wrapped up in Miller, our bodies and the sensations they were experiencing building a steam around us that seemed to emanate its own sexy feeling, expression, and personality.

Unwrapping my arms from his shoulders, I used them to unzip my hoodie, sliding the sleeves carefully up in order to pull it off.

But Mill wasn’t having it. “Don’t,” he commanded almost silently, still conscious of the drifting voices and footsteps.

“You don’t want me to take it off?” I asked, confused and, disgustingly, a little hurt.

But that didn’t last long. “Of course I want to see your skin, Zo. All of it. But not at the expense of your back. The brick will shred every pretty, tan inch in no time, and I expect to need it again later. I don’t want to ruin all the fun now.”

Clearly, he was the more level headed of the two of us, looking further than immediate consequences and rationalizing enough to make the best decision.

I could really learn a thing or two from him, and I was really starting to hope I got the chance.

I prompted him to let me down by unwrapping my legs and giving his shoulders a squeeze. Thankfully, he seemed to speak my body language because he let my body slide slowly down the length of his until my weight rested safely on my feet.

His hand worked the button on my jeans while I toed off the brown boots encasing my feet.

Ideally, I would have prolonged the striptease, sliding my jeans down sexily before dancing my way out of my underwear. But it just didn’t seem practical, and the alley didn’t seem like it mirrored the setting of a strip club.

So I stripped everything at once, thankful for the warm summer air on the expanse of my naked skin.

Miller’s eyes traveled along my lower body, taking it all in and relishing every single image. His appreciation was unmistakable in every expression of his face. A small smile traded places with a look of heat-filled intensity, and I loved both of them with equal measure.

Neither one made me feel insecure or unsure, just happy and sated and really justified in my judgement to take the evening with him to the next level.

Whether it went anywhere or not, no humiliation would come to me at the hands of Miller Laughlin. That much was glaringly obvious.

His eyes drifted up to meet mine, their moonlit brilliance enhancing my feelings of serenity. He reached into his back pocket, the worn and wrinkled leather of his wallet just barely visible as he took it out between us.

I heard the crinkle of foil from a condom, and felt emboldened by the responsibility and respect he showed by being prepared. “Why are you carrying one of these around with you tonight? Do you and Penelope have a special kind of relationship I’m not aware of?” I teased, noticing that the sides of his eyes crinkled and a single crease formed asymmetrically between his eyebrows when he smiled.

It gave his expression character and a realness that no “perfect” smile would ever have.

“Why do you have to give Penelope a hard time like that, huh? What’d she ever do to you?” he joked effortlessly back.

My laughter filled his mouth as I forced the connection, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him forward and down, his lips open and willing to participate as they met mine in a full on assault.

I could feel him working the button of his jeans in between us, no belt to slow him down, the light grey t-shirt hanging from his shoulders obstructing any view.

He sheathed himself with the condom easily, and then skimmed his hands faintly over the outside of my thighs and up, swirling in and lifting me by my bare bottom as soon as he reached it.

My legs circled him automatically, and my skin managed to carry the pebble of a chill and the sheen of our heat at the same time. My breaths came in pants, my bottom lip trembling slowly as he connected our bodies physically.

He moved slow, just barely working to seat himself inside of me, every inch of skin giving way to a deeper moment of intimacy. Green eyes locked on to my whiskey colored ones, each and every shaded fleck standing out in welcome.

“Zo,” he whispered softly, just loud enough to ground me to him and the moment without scaring me back into the reality of the situation.

A virtual stranger.

A dirty alley.

You know, silly stuff.

We sat stagnant, his hard length seated fully inside of me, his strong arms around me, supporting me, and our lips skimming each other gently. I didn’t even want to move.

Somehow this moment had turned into something major, something bigger than pleasure and orgasms---something I had never experienced before.

It was a nonspiritual come to Jesus moment. A feeling of physical rightness, of being carved out perfectly for one another. It was a realization that fate had made our lives play out the way they had just to get us to this exact instant.

The notion that this moment, a fluke-induced carnal expression in an alley, was destiny was ridiculous. I knew it. In fact, I think we both did.

But realism did nothing to dull the feeling churning deep in my gut, gliding fearlessly across every cell of my skin, and shining starkly out of his beautiful, long-lashed eyes.

My senses felt heightened, and I didn’t feel at one with my body. I felt like I had literally become one person with Miller, and his refusal to move suggested he was feeling the same way.

“Never felt anything like this,” he breathed hoarsely.

“You’ve got a lot of time and life left to live,” I said on a smirk, my nose flirting along the side of his. “I’m sure you’ll have this again.”

“God, I hope so, Zo,” he muttered against my lips, the muscles of his ass flexing with his first slow stroke and his veiled reference to a repeat with me shining despite its subtlety.

My teeth dug into my fleshy bottom lip as a throaty moan coated the back of my airway, skirting its way up my tongue and landing right on the tip of his.

I had never smoked a cigarette in my life, but lost in the passion of sex, I had never sounded closer to emphysema. My moans were textured and rough, and I knew Miller could feel the vibration of each and every one.

“Ah, God,” I breathed roughly, idiotically wishing I could feel the skin of him directly on the skin of me. Thankfully, I was smart enough to
just
think it.

“Use me, Zo,” he ordered affectionately. “I’ll help you move, but you make it work for you. Pick the angle, the speed, whatever you need. I guarantee whatever you choose will work just fine for me,” he declared, giving me the freedom to open myself up completely and lose any lingering inhibitions.

I did as I was told, using the leverage I could get on his shoulders to control my movements, grinding forward on every down stroke and keeping the speed set to slow.

I could tell he needed it faster in order to get to the culmination, and frankly, so would I, but I didn’t want to get to the end. For once, this sexual encounter felt like it was much more about the journey.

His fingertips dug into the fleshy part of my thighs hard enough that I could feel the ridges molding themselves to the contours of my skin and hoping to leave a mark.

He was touching me because he wanted to, had to even, not because it was the thing to do. And I could feel the difference.

I felt special. I had a face and a name, and both of them were the ones he wanted looking back at him.

This was how a real man made love to a woman.

When his eyes weren’t on mine, they followed the movement of our bodies, the sight of the two of us joined together, and mimicked the journey of his hands with such a realness that it felt like a physical caress.

A groan fought its way free of his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing with the release. “Touch yourself, Zoey,” he demanded, and I thought it was because he lacked a free hand to do it himself.

But I was wrong.

His long fingers intertwined with mine, making it hard to tell whose hand was whose, and together, we surrounded the connection we created as he slid into the warmth of my arousal.

“There’s no going back from this,” I whispered involuntarily, speaking thoughts aloud that I had meant to keep private. Having experienced both sides of the coin, I knew there was a flip side to sex where this feeling didn’t exist. Where all the motions were the same, all the right moves were made, but the pleasure never came.

For a woman, I figured that was where emotion came into play. And maybe the same was true for a man, but I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t one.