was huge. Huge and hot. His shirt stretched tight over his chest and his shadow of stubble just right on a firm, hard jaw. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dimples perfectly at odds with the strength of the rest of him.
Yeah, he could well be the one to give me an orgasm. Several if I was lucky. A whole night of them if the universe cut me a break.
“You look even better than your profile picture,” he told me, and I felt my cheeks burn up.
“The feeling is mutual,” I replied. “You’re quite something in the flesh.”
His smirk grew brighter. “I hope you’ll be saying that when the night is done.”
So did I.
Small talk was small talk, but I kept looking at his mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed against mine. How hot his tongue would be as it sought mine out and ate me up. How solid his hands would be as he took my dress off and reached down between my thighs.
I should’ve told him about my epilepsy to prepare him for any potential seizures but opted to avoid the topic. I kept up on the orange juice as he necked back the beers, and small talk turned to dirty talk, him telling me how much he wanted to slam me deep, and hard and plough my ass with the kind of intrusion I hadn’t felt in years.
Yes, my clit was fluttering.
Finally, it was fluttering.
Stacey called with our pre-arranged potential bail out call, and I told her I was great thanks, and then we were off. Trojan – who was actually called Sean – finishing up his beer and knocking back a double whisky before we headed on out of there.
He didn’t take my hand.
Maybe that was the first sign.
We got into a taxi and he put his hand across to squeeze at my knee, but he didn’t snake it up my thigh like I hoped he would. I gripped his knuckles to encourage him, but it didn’t make any difference. He smelt of beer over the top of his cologne, and his words were more bolshy and less dirty as the journey took us back to mine. More about slamming me hard than how adventurous he could make our encounter.
I encouraged him to find the heat. Holy shit, how I encouraged him to dig down deep for more.
He stumbled a little as we piled out of the taxi and I got my front door key out. He tried to grab me in the hallway but his hands were clumsy. His mouth was clumsier. Hot and wet and swishy.
My clit flutter was fading fast.
I led us through to my bedroom, past Vicky’s lightless doorframe, and got down on my knees as he dropped his pants, and then I sucked him. I sucked him like I wanted him to claim me whole. Like I wanted to love his dick. Like I wanted to taste every inch of him and have him taste every inch of me.
“Fuck,” he grunted. “Fuck, you’re fucking good at that. Too fucking good at that.”
And then he came.
He shot his load in my mouth after one lousy minute, and reeled back clutching his dripping cock.
“Shit,” he said. “I’ll get it up again, don’t worry. You were just too fucking good.”
Bullshit.
He barely even tried while we were waiting for round two. We got cosy on the bed and he rubbed my pussy but ignored every attempt from me to get the rhythm right. I ignored every urge to pretend I was coming just to get him the hell away from me and stop wasting my time.
I stared at him and knew he was hot, but yet again that was flatlining, fading to nothing and leaving my heart in the gutter, abandoning every scrap of optimism for the evening.
“Fuck, yes,” he said with a grunt, and showed me his stiffening dick. “Let’s get this show back on the road.”
Like it needed his dick to be hard to get the show rolling again. Selfish prick.
Still, I gave him another chance like the idiot I was sometimes, glass half full and all that crap. I let him take his fill, squirming away underneath to try to angle him at my g-spot, and letting my tongue find a rhythm with his. But it was shit. No matter how hard I tried, and encouraged, and pulled him closer and lifted my legs up his back, it was shit.
He’d done with round two in no time and ditched the condom, and