Page 118 of Summer with the Single Dad

Now the song by Gwen Stefani popped into her head. “This shit is anus. A-N-U-S.” Oh no, that sounded bad. Shit and anus. What was wrong with her?

Ugh! She was so deep in her own head.

She always went deep into her head when she was having sex. It was probably one of the reasons why she hadn’t had an orgasm until she was thirty-one, or pleasured herself until this week.

She needed to get out of her head and into her body. Let her libido take over.

So …

“Yes,” she breathed. “Let’s try.”

“Relax,” he hummed. “Push out as I push in.”

She swallowed, but did as he instructed.

It hurt just a smidge when he first pushed in, but then he slid in with ease and boy was that a weird sensation.

Not bad-weird. Just weird-weird.

“You okay?” he asked, still in a mad lip-lock with her clit and pressing gently on her G-spot.

“Yeah.” Her words sounded a million miles away.

Then he started to move that finger. The one in her ass.

“Holy … holy …” Her eyes flashed open and her upper body sprung up and forward in the bed. “Tabarnak!”

Bennett’s body jostled with mirth and she could feel him laughing, his mouth still on her.

“Good?” he asked, totally rhetorically.

“Ummm …” She slid down to her back as her thighs trembled.

He moved his finger again, this time in the opposite direction of his fingers inside her pussy.

Why she called it a “pussy” and not a “vagina,” but insisted on calling it an “anus” and not a “backdoor” or “rosette,” she wasn’t sure. She also wasn’t going to give it too much thought while he was currently taking her to a new height of pleasure she’d never scaled to before.

Get. Out. Of. Your. Head!

Right.

The sliding, the slippery friction, and that incessant pressure on her G-spot was driving her wild. Her head thrashed back and forth on the pillow, sending her hair splaying around her face. He sucked harder on her clit, like he was trying to remove it from her body.

Then, just when she thought she was going to black out, or lose her mind and need to be committed to a psych ward for mass hysteria, he switched from sucking to flicking with his tongue.

And she exploded.

She erupted.

She went volcanic like she’d never gone volcanic before. If squirting was actually a thing, there was no doubt in her mind that she was going to do it tonight. Right now. With Bennett.

Wave after wave of intense pleasure spread through her. From her center—where he pressed, fidgeted and flicked—and down to her toes that curled, her fingers that gripped the bedsheets for dear life, and her forehead—which scrunched like she was thinking way too damn hard to solve the case of the missing orgasms. But they weren’t missing anymore. After thirty-one years, she finally found them. And now, at thirty-five, she’d unearthed even more decadent pleasure.

She was an orgasm archeologist for her own sexuality.

Did that even make any sense?

She was too hopped up on dopamine and oxytocin to care.

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