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I do as he asks the warm shower water hitting my back. He slaps my ass a few times and my breath ratches up.
“God, you’ve got a great ass, Berlinger.”
“Awesome compliment coming from the hot stripper with the beautiful dick.” I arch my back and grind against him. “This is your best lap dance yet.”
He laughs.
I’m on fire for this man. “Inside me, please.”
He nudges my legs apart with his muscular one and rubs his hard length against me until he slides in and I gasp from his fullness. He fucks me slowly at first. My eyes flutter closed and I get use to his size, his hardness.
“Baby,” he says. “You feel so good.” He pushes harder and with each thrust he’s deeper inside me, claiming me, making me his. “More?”
I nod, biting my lip.
He grasps the top of my hips and drills me from behind, my ass slapping up against his stomach. It feels so good under the warm water, him inside me, and I push back against him, moaning. His hand reaches around front and finds the hard nub between my legs, strumming fingers over my sex until I’m panting, crying out his name, over and over. “I’m coming, Dylan. I’m coming.”
“Good, baby.” He thrusts deeper inside me, until he comes, leg muscles contracting, his abs contracting.
We get dressed for real this time and grab a quick bite on our way to the game. A red and yellow flashing neon sign hovers over the large parking lot filled with a smorgasbord of new and old sedans, motorcycles, pickup trucks. It’s early afternoon after the lunch rush at Big Tony’s a little BBQ joint on the side of the road. Dylan and I share a picnic table and enjoy plates of pulled pork and ribs.
“Yummy,” I say. “I could eat this for days.”
“I could eat you for days,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re here with me. Part of me thinks I’m hallucinating. Every time I blink I fear you’ll disappear.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Are you feeling more relaxed? Ready to win the house tonight?” He’s got a smear of BBQ sauce on his chin and I wipe it away with two fingers. Still amazed I am here with this beautiful man. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, that tousle of chestnut hair. Feelings percolate in me. Not lust for a change. Something familiar, something I haven’t felt in a long time.
“No,” he says. “I think we should have sex again. Then I’ll be ready.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I bite back a smile, pushing whatever this feeling is away. “We can’t be late.”
“These things never start on time. Look,” he says and points to the other side of the parking lot. “That picnic table’s way way in the back of the property. Hidden behind a huge pine tree. It’s totally private. You could bend forward the way you did in the shower, I’d lift your skirt, pull your panties -- ”
“No. A picnic table next to the parking lot is not private.”
“We haven’t done a quickie yet. I’d feel horrible if I deprived you.”
“Sex after the game.” I traveled with him to Nashville because I like him. I also traveled here because I desperately want him to get his mojo back.
We arrive at Vanderveen Manor, a large, lush, landscaped, black iron gated estate on the outskirts of town. The greenery’s thicker in the South and a heady hint of jasmine wafts through the air. It’s early Sunday evening when we’re buzzed into the place and instructed to follow the red brick path to the back of the property. The manor’s centerfold glossy, with a big money vibe similar to the Schillinger Estate in St. Charles.
“You got this,” I say to Dylan as he knocks on the door.
“From your lips to God’s ears.” He squeezes my hand.
The entrance opens and a polished young woman greets and ushers us inside an immaculate living room with cherry colored hardwood floors. The room smells sweet, like men used to smoke pipes in here and the aroma seeped into the wood. Built in bookshelves line the walls stocked with antique books. A poker table’s set up in the far corner, players gathering.
The Nashville help staff is just as polite as the folks in St. Charles and Chicago, but even more polished. The dealer could be a model for men’s cologne, slicked back hair, dark eyes. The hostess and waitresses could pass as beauty pageant contestants.
Everything’s pristine and pretty when out of nowhere my skin crawls. Like taking a short cut down a city alley when an unexpected wind kicks up, hurling soot and garbage in my direction, trashing me, making me feel dirty.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Glenn, the Fast Food King walks out of the bathroom, eye fucking me as he zips up. “I heard rumors you’d be hitting the Grind City game, McAlister.”
“Glenn.” Dylan startles. “Didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Last minute thing. Awfully nice of you to bring the girl,” he says, tongue flicking over thin lips.
“The girl has a name,” Dylan says, spine straightening, shoulders squaring. “Evelyn.”
