Page 34 of Just Playin'
Willow
Iwake with a grumbling tummy. Its frantic moans aren’t due to the copious amounts of liquor I chugged down last night. It’s the delicious scent of frying lamb and fresh-cut lettuce instigating its gripes.
I sit up slowly, anticipating more than a hungry tummy. I’m shocked when only a slight thump drums my temples. With the exception of my horrid morning breath, I don’t feel any different today than I do every other morning.
As my mouth works through its dryness, my half-asleep brain demands that my eyes open. With my hangover not as bad as I expected, the need for a greasy breakfast isn’t dire, but nothing will keep me from unearthing where that smell is coming from.
The thumping head I was predicting rolls in like a vicious thunderstorm when my eyes finally follow the prompts of my brain. I’m in a room much too fancy to be a dorm. There’s steel, wood, and manly features as far as my weary eyes can stretch. It’s a sexy room with an industrial, loft-type feel to it, but it’s not a room I belong in.
Cringing at my first walk of shame in over three years, I snatch the bedsheet close to my body before slipping out of the ginormous bed I’m sprawled on. With the plain white T I’m wearing hitting my knees upon standing, I soon ditch the bedsheet.
Years of ballet classes come in handy when I tiptoe across the vast room to gather my skirt, shirt, and sky-high heels from a large wood chest. After peering over the steel and wood railing to the floor below to make sure the coast is clear, I slip the unknown man’s shirt over my head before throwing on the clothes I wore last night.
The clean scent of body wash lingering out of the bathroom on my right makes me wish I had time to shower and brush my teeth, but the happy whistle of the man downstairs assures me I’m out of time. While tugging my skirt up my trembling thighs, I try to recall who I went home with last night. I really hope it wasn’t Archer; that guy was a creep. Tim wasn’t too far behind him, and although Bryce was cute, he had those nervous fumbling hands. I’m sure the only zippers he has unclasped in his life are his own.
Whoever it is, the lack of ache between my thighs makes me grateful for my blank thoughts. As my grandma always liked to say: “If you don’t feel them the next morning, they didn’t do their job.” I’m not feeling anything.
With my heels in my hand and my purse tucked under my arm, I commence my painstakingly slow tiptoe down the spiral staircase separating the loft bedroom from the main residence. If my hungry tummy had its way, I would take a left at the bottom instead of a right. I don’t know what my unknown host is cooking, but it smells good.
I swivel around, ready to make a break for it, when the quick glimpse of a profile sneaks into my sight. So much muscle, so much height, so much scrumptiously delicious man meat on display, my foot misses the final step. I try to regain my balance. I flap my arms around like a recently beheaded chicken and stick out my ass like it will counterbalance the many pounds I carry on my chest. My efforts are useless. I’m going down, and I’m going down hard.
As my cheek skids across the floor, my skirt creeps up my thighs so high, if it weren’t for my boobs, it would asphyxiate me. My shirt becomes a mid-drift top, and my only hope of coverage goes skidding across the wooden floor with a clatter. My heels’ brutaldong, boink, dongroutine sounds like Santa galloping across a hot tin roof in the Australian outback. It’s loud and unmissable.
I’ve barely concealed my panty-covered backside when a deep voice on my right says, “Serves you right for trying to sneak out.”
While I attempt to muster up a lie, Elvis takes a giant bite out of a loaded doner kebab. When white sauce dribbles down his chin, my pussy recreates the scene. It doesn’t use tzatziki sauce as its liquid of choice, though.
As I stand to my feet, without any assistance from Elvis, my eyes shift past the wide span of his shoulders. The mess in his kitchen reveals his delicious-smelling brunch wasn’t picked up at the store. He made it. The chopped lettuce, diced tomatoes, and sliced cucumber are proof enough, much less the seasoned lamb still sizzling in the pan.
My lip drops into a pout when I return my eyes to Elvis. I didn’t need any more proof on how cruel life can be, but if I did, the very definition of unfair is standing right in front of me. This isn’t fair—he isn’t fair! You can’t have a perfectly structured face, panty-wetting smile, cooking skills, and a body that defies both logic and my panties’ ability to hold moisture.
Elvis doesn’t just have a six pack, he has eight. His serratus muscles are so defined, it looks like he has fingers on each side of his abs, and his Apollo belt is so perfectly carved, his hips are in direct symmetry to the trail of hair leading from his belly button to an area I’m certain is as stacked as his spectacular body.
I freeze as a disturbing notion rolls through my head. Minus the frantic quivers his naked torso, bare feet, and sultry smirk has caused my pussy, it’s still void of any feeling. There’s no ache of exhaustion or a snippet of the sensation you get after being stretched. There’s nothing. Zilch. Sweet fuck all.
A whine creeps up my esophagus when the truth smacks into me. That’s why he’s so incredibly handsome: he got double the looks because he only got half the deal downstairs.
Elvis looks at me like I’m batshit crazy when I demand, “Stick out your tongue.”
“What?”
“Tongue, E. Stick it out.”
He smiles a grin that reveals he loves his nickname as much as I do before doing as requested. He has a nice tongue. Nice pink coloring, wide, and nicely curved at the tip, and his reach is undisputable when it hits his chin once it’s fully extended.
“Alright, good. That’s great. Now your fingers.”
“What the fuck are you doing. . .?” His words trail off when I snag his hand with mine, un-ball his fist, then mentally measure the length of his fingers.
There are no issues here. Not a single one. His fingers are longer and girthier than some men’s penises, meaning we are more than fine, we’re great. I can live without penile penetration if the rest of the package can take up the slack.
Feeling much better, I drop Elvis’s hand, side-skirt him, then enter his kitchen. I make myself at home by whipping up a lamb kebab. I should be going home, but my excitement at discovering I spent the night with Elvis instead of one of the three musketeers I was hanging with last night is too thrumming to ignore. Even my run-in with the teary-eyed girl yesterday morning and Skylar’s demand we watch football couldn’t dampen my happiness yesterday. Our kiss was the highlight of my entire day, so if I’m presented with the perfect opportunity to recreate it, I’m not giving it up for anything.
Elvis watches me from the side, not the least bit confronted I’m taking over his domain. From the grin on his face, anyone would swear he’s loving my command of the reins. I can see him changing his mind when I start grilling him.
“What happened between us? First, second, or third base?” I take a big bite of my recently rolled kebab before raising my eyes to his. “I didn’t fall asleep halfway through, did I? That’s only happened once before, and I was adamant I’d never let it happen again, so please tell me I gave as good as I received.”
Praying it will hide the mammoth smile stretching across my face from the lowering of Elvis’s eyelids, I take another bite of my kebab. He’s so worked up right now, the vein in his neck is pumping as hard as the buzz keeping my clit firm.
