Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,26
me when I chat with Eleanor. This not having sex for an extended period of time thing is tough. I feel like every little thing she does sets me off and gets me hard. Her laughter gives me a boner, for Christ’s sake. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like when we actually meet in person.
I’ll probably spontaneously combust.
The hot water feels good on my aching muscles and I pour extra body wash into the palm of my hand before I wrap my fingers around the base of my hard dick. Closing my eyes, I envision Eleanor. Her sweet face. Sunny blonde hair. Curvy body. I try to imagine her naked. I’ve never really caught sight of her full length, so I’m not sure how tall she is, or how great—or not great—her ass might be, but I have a feeling she’s perfectly proportioned.
Meaning with her more than ample chest, I’m pretty confident she must have a luscious ass too.
Pressing my forehead against the slick tile, I start to stroke. I think of her plump lips and her even plumper tits, and a groan escapes me. My imagination runs wild. Dim lighting. Rumpled white sheets. Eleanor’s naked body stretched across the bed, her blue eyes sparkling as she smiles up at me. I settle in above her, my cock in front of her mouth, and she parts those glossy lips willingly, a sexy moan escaping her when I nudge just the head in. That mouth clamps down around my dick, milking me in this slow, rhythmic suction, her lids lifting, her eyes sparkling as she releases my cock, her tongue sneaking out for a lick and holy shit—
I’m coming, a guttural groan escaping me as I squeeze my fingers tight around the base of my shaft, milking all the come out. My knees are weak and I brace my hand against the shower wall, blinking my eyes open as the warm water rains down upon my head, blurring my vision.
Damn. That was fuckin’ good. I start to laugh as I rinse off my body.
If it’s that spectacular in my imagination, wait until we actually get together.
“Hi!” Eleanor’s cheerful voice blasts out as she bounces around, her phone falling to the side from wherever she’s got it propped up, giving me a prime view of her ample chest. “Oh no! Hold on.” She reaches for it, and now the phone is on the floor and I wait impatiently for her to set it against whatever she uses when we have these conversations.
“Having problems?” I’m teasing her, and I hope she can tell.
She laughs, righting the phone so I can once again see her pretty face. And she looks extra pretty tonight. “I’m a little clumsy, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” I’m sitting at my kitchen table, my voice echoing since I’ve taken everything off the walls—not that I had a lot of things hung up anyway—and most everything is packed away. “How was your Monday?”
“It was good! It’s my day off so I got to sleep in.” I remember how I imagined her in bed, tangled up in a white sheet. “I did laundry. Had lunch with friends.” She pauses, biting her lower lip and damn it, my dick twitches. See? Depriving myself is turning me into a needy bastard. “What about you?”
“I’m pretty much done packing. I leave for Las Vegas tomorrow,” I tell her, scrubbing a hand over my face. “That’s going to be a long drive.”
She wrinkles her nose, and damn, she looks adorable. “How long will it take?”
“A little over eight hours? Eight and a half maybe?” I exhale loudly, already anticipating the endless drive and not looking forward to it. “I’ll need lots of caffeine and some good songs to sing along with to get me through.”
“Oh! Do you have a good singing voice?” She looks so hopeful. Too bad I’m gonna dash her hopes.
“Nope. I sound terrible most of the time. At least, that’s what people tell me. In my own head, I think I sound just like the professionals,” I answer.
“Speaking of professional…” Her voice drifts and my heart drops. Has she found out what I do? Did she somehow discover my true identity and she’s ready to call me out for it? I deserve whatever beat down she wants to give me. “My friends and I were talking during lunch and I realized…I don’t really know what you do.”
“What I do?” I frown at her, playing it off.
Doing a shit job of it.
“For