Page 6 of Start With A Slap

She recalled, “You were whispering in my ear, there was neck kissing... that’s all I remember.” She stretched, arms above her head andoh my god I was tied up and we were having a threeway.With hisDad.

What? No!How didthatcome out of her humiliating encounter with Evil Incarnate that day? Was it because she’d tried so hard to purge it from existence?

Clearly the dream was a fuck-you note from her subconscious mind.You think you can pass that on to me?it taunted.How about instead I come up with the sickest scenario possible, and you love every second of it?

In Ivy’s defense, she only loved it in the dream. In the waking world, she was appalled. Horrified. Ashamed! But nothing was what it appeared to be in dreams, right? It was symbolism. In the light of day she’d figure it out. Those bursting painted flowers filling the pitch-black void around them definitely meantsomething...

The point was, sex dreams didn’t automatically equal attraction. She’d once dreamt of skinny-dipping with her physically repulsive psych professor, and if she could enjoy sex in a dream with that bullfrog, anything was possible.

She had no earthly desire to feel her father-in-law’s [soft] lips on her neck or his [warm, taut]chest pressed against her back... No desire to feel his [strong] fingers on her hips to guide her onto his [thick] cock,taking her, filling her, possessingher and maybe Jason could help her come real quick?

Surrendering to her arousal, she draped a bare leg over Jason’s and said, “Are you dead set on the whole midnight oil thing, or do you wanna make my dream come true?”

After about three seconds of consideration, Jason dropped his work on the floor and shed his pajama shorts while sayingin an exaggeration of his West Texan drawl, “I’ll midnight oil all over you, darlin’.”

Giggling as he jumped on her, she said, “What does that even mean?” to which he said, “No fuckin’ clue.”

When he roved a hand into her underwear and discovered the natural equivalent of a bottle of Wet, he pressed her about the dream again. “Be honest, it wasn’t me, was it? Was it Idris? I can do the accent...”

“Oh my god,” she said, gyrating against his hand and stroking his growing erection, “why did we ever have that conversation?”

“Bulleit Manhattans,” he said, while she spoke over him, “Right. Intoxication.” It was a perfect storm of craft cocktails and married friends comparing celebrity hall passes—as in who they could cheat with should the hypothetical opportunity arise. Hers were mostly historical: 1960s Paul Newman, Bond-era Connery, ‘90s Jude Law, Kravitz in all his eras, plus a few 21st century foxes. Jason’s were endearingly imported from the year he turned thirteen, a “world’s sexiest” list of sultry, statuesque brunettes. That being the opposite of her entire look and vibe, Ivy joked that she felt “hypothetically snubbed”. After all, some ofherlist resembled the man she married—one so much so that his friends called him Thor.

Jude Law,she thought, hips undulating faster against Jason’s palm while he kissed her neck. Did Sever kind of look like him? Maybe around the eyes. Though maybe his eyes were more Newman? Bone structure had a touch of Kravitz, with the accent that moved between Bond and Luther... oh god, maybe he wasallof them.

Jason began to trail kisses down her body, but she stopped him. She didn’t need foreplay. Right now, she needed to betaken. For the first time, she wished he had it in him to play-act ferocity and wild lust... Not because of Sever. Sever had nothingto do with it. Sure, it was inspired by the dream that he may have been in, butshe’dcome up with the scenario and she was allowed to get turned on by it.

Taking what she could get, she pulled him up to eye level, wrapped her legs around his waist and rolled her hips to take him all the way in. In unison, they moaned.

As their rhythm synced and rose in fervor, he peppered more kisses on her neck at her behest. Eyes closed, she stretched until her fingertips grazed the headboard, focused only on his kisses, his breath in her ear, his cock sliding in, in, filling?—

“What should I whisper?” he breathed.

—You’re doing it wrong

“Shhh...” She didn’t mean to shush him, but she was so close... and questions like that made her lose her footing in the long climb to orgasm.

Or so she thought—until Jason, for the first time in their sexual history, threw a curveball by dropping “the accent”: “D’you fancy a slap and tickle wif me instead, love?”

For him, it was a playful tease, but for her it was a surprise springboard. She quaked and contracted around him, which made him groan, “Oh, bloody fucking hell.” In the accent.

He clearly didn’t intend to do an impression of his father, but those last three words were spot on, and it was so head-spinningly hot that she almost toe-curled at “hell”. She stopped herself, because if she came at that moment, he would know the accent was a trigger and he might keep doing it, which wouldn’t be right... and what if he knew who he sounded like, and her reaction rubbed salt in his wounds?

She would never let that happen.

As she relaxed and slowed her hips, she brought his face to hers. Here, right in front of her, was the love of her life; gorgeous, funny, compassionate... How could she think aboutanyone else? And of all the Anyone Elses to choose from, how could she think ofthatAnyone Else?

“It’s you I want, Jason,” she said, and she could see his eyes soften in the city-lit darkness. Her heart melted, and she fell for him all over again. “Jason Shane from Fort Stockton, Texas.” She pulled him in for a long, heady kiss... until her double-crossing brain circled back to the dream, the aerial suspension, his strong grip easing her down, filling her alll the way up?—

Her broken cries grew so urgent and so loud that he covered her mouth.

—No talking. You don’t speak

She stilled for a moment, holding him in place as tightly as she could... and then the room fell away, her over-analyzing brain powered down, and her last rapturous thought wasShow me.

CHAPTER 3

Just Dinner

---