Bittersweet Homecoming (13 page)

Positioned between her parted thighs, I place my hands on either side of her sex and separate her outer lips before lightly blowing on her clit. I flick the sensitive bud back and forth a few times with the tip of my tongue, and her hips undulate, seeking more contact.

A quiet sigh reaches my ears when I lick the length of her sex and collect her mounting arousal on my tongue. Her eyes are closed, with her head tilted back. Her hand is at the back of my head, fingers buried deep in my hair, and I love it.

I slowly push a single finger between her pussy lips and sink into her heat to the second knuckle. She’s like a warm, wet pillow surrounding my finger. I pull my finger all the way out until just my fingertip remains before burying myself back inside.

My finger retreats again, and I rub my now coated digit around her clit and between her folds, spreading around her arousal. Her pussy burns even hotter and wetter than before.

More quiet sounds and words of encouragement tumble from her parted lips. Her body is active on the mattress and I work to match the rhythm her hips have set.

My ring finger joins my middle finger and I curl the pads of my fingertips up against the rippled area.

“Oh my God!” she quietly exclaims. I repeat the motion and her body jolts upright. “Shit,” she calls out in a strained voice. “I’m cumming.”

I continue to rub the spongy area and suck on her clit while her thighs quiver and shake around my ears.

She falls back onto the pillow and the down material plumps up around her head. She looks exhausted, but wired. I know the feeling well.

“Jesus.” She drapes her arm across her forehead and lets out one long breath. “What was that?”

I roll onto my back beside her. “Your G-spot.”

“Is it always like that?” she asks.

I stare at the ceiling and drum my fingers on my abdomen. “Usually.”

“Damn it,” she exhales. “If I’d known that, I would have gotten with a woman sooner.”

I remain on my back, unable to look at her. I’m not embarrassed about what we just did, but now that it’s been done, I don’t know what to do.
Do I stay or do I go?

I turn my head towards her when I feel her touch my shoulder. She lightly fiddles with my bra strap. “So …” I can tell she’s thinking the same thing.

I sit up in bed and look for my discarded tank top.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I figured I’d head home.”

“But you didn’t … I didn’t …”

“It’s okay,” I give her a pass. “I know it’s not for everyone.”

Her hand comes to rest on my upper thigh and stays there. “I kind of wanted to try.” She gives me a half smile. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Her words have my backside glued to the mattress when I had once been eager to leave. “Oh, um, no. I-I don’t mind.”

Her pink tongue darts out, and she licks her lips. I can feel her heated gaze everywhere. “Should you lay back down?”

“I-I suppose I can do that.”

She resumes her previous position of straddling my hips, but this time she’s completely naked and I’m more than a little distracted. I know she wants a turn, but I don’t want to be done with mine yet. I try to flip us over again, but she’s too strong. Her hands clamp around my wrists and she pins me to the mattress.

“Don’t.”

She’s a mom, and years of picking up a small child has given her arm strength that I simply don’t possess.

My shorts have somehow stayed on to this point, but a button and zipper later and they’re tossed onto the floor with my tank top. She cups my panty-covered sex, and I can’t hold back when my hips buck against her hand.

I continue to help move things along by reaching behind my back and unfastening the back clasp of my bra. She helps the rest of the way when she slides the twin straps off of my shoulders and tosses my beige bra toward the bottom of the bed.

I wait anxiously as keen eyes drink in my body. I consider myself in shape, but I’m not anywhere as chiseled as she is. I also haven’t had enough to drink to not be self-conscious about my half-naked body, but when her knee slips between my thighs, worries about how my body looks in a darkened room scatter from my mind.

Her fingers slide the crotch of my panties to the side. “Is this okay?”

“Seriously okay,” I gulp.

She swirls her finger around my clit without dipping inside.

“Jesus,” I cry out.

“Shhh . . .” she hushes me. “Or am I going to have to gag you?”

“Oh, God,” I quietly groan. It’s awkward, but also kind of a turn on. I haven’t had to temper my noises in years, not since I had a roommate in college over a decade ago.

Her fingertips trail over my shaved pussy lips, and I can feel myself becoming wetter as the seconds tick by. Her touch is light and exploratory but mostly conservative as she avoids my clit and my slit entirely.

I can’t help my groan of frustration. I’ve been on the edge of orgasm since we left the bar.

She lowers herself on the bed, positioning her upper body between my parted thighs. The mattress springs squeak as she rearranges herself, and I might die if she doesn’t touch me soon. But at the same time, I’m trying not to be impatient and to go at a pace with which she feels comfortable.

I can only really see the top of her blonde head before she presses her mouth against my panty-covered mons. She kisses me over my underwear and lightly tongues my clit through the material. The way she rolls my sensitive clit back and forth feels delicious, even without direct contact, and my eyes flutter close.

Eventually, when she’s grown tired of that, she tugs on the elastic leg band of my underwear. “I need these off,” she huffs in frustration.

I immediately lift my backside off the mattress, and the undergarment is ripped down my hips and legs. The night air is cool, and I love the way it feels against my overheated, overstimulated pussy.

Even though I’m completely naked, she still avoids my most intimate place. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or simply making me wait out of sheer torture. She nibbles on my inner thigh while her fingers walk up my abdomen. My teeth sink into my lower lip when she takes a detour to trace a fingertip around one of my nipples, which instantly hardens under her touch. She pinches the sensitive nub between her thumb and forefinger and gives it a light tug. Her mouth continues to suck and lick the tender flesh of my inner thigh. She’s not where I need her most, but I’m also not hating this unhurried exploration of what my body likes.

Her breath is hot against me as she kisses her way closer to my clit. I watch with mounting anticipation as the distance between the flat of her tongue and my sex is eliminated.

“Oh fuck,” I quietly groan when her tongue finally wiggles against my clit. She flicks it back and forth with just the tip of her tongue. Her hands squeeze my bare thighs and travel up to my hips where they remain.

She licks me, slow and tentatively, down my center. She smacks her lips as though deciding if she approves of my flavor.

“Stick a finger in me,” I urge in a whispered command.

Her touch is light against my already damp slit. She trails a short fingernail the length of my sex before rubbing the underside of my clit. I can feel the pressure of her fingertip against my entrance before she pushes a single finger against me, so slowly, so gentle.

“Yes,” I hiss.

She pulls her finger almost all the way out before pushing back in. I’m wetter now and my inner muscles work to accommodate her.

“It feels different than I do,” she whispers in near reverence.

“I guess vaginas are like snowflakes.”

Her finger flexes and wiggles inside me experimentally.

“Try another one. I won’t break,” I pant. “Promise.”

A second finger diligently follows the first, and my mouth falls open. “Oh God,” I whisper. “Right there.”

Her mouth attaches to my clit the moment she bottoms out. Her tongue flutters perfectly against my clit, and her fingers continue their dedicated assault between my thighs. I throw my arm across my face and bite into my own forearm to keep from making too much noise. It’s all I can do not to claw her back or scream her praises.

“Just like that,” I cry in a pained whisper. “Please don’t stop.”

She pulls herself up on her knees, a movement that gives her more leverage. Her fingers quicken inside me. I watch the tightened muscles of her right bicep flex and harden with each thrust. Her two fingers are like a blur, and the other fingers on her hand smash into my pelvic bone and inner thighs. It’s inelegant and clumsy, but it’s working.

My hand falls between her shoulder blades, just beneath her neck. Her skin feels inflamed, and I’m sweating, too.

“I’m close,” I breathe. “Oh fuck, Charlotte. Oh, God. You’re gonna make me …” I feel the beginnings of the mounting orgasm tightening in my stomach and travel lower. “Oh fuck, yes. I’m gonna cum.”

I throw my head back and slam my eyes shut as the intense sensation radiates through my body. My lower body arches off the bed, but she stays on task as I ride out the orgasm.

My center is still throbbing with the aftereffects of orgasm, but I’m up and flipping our spots so she’s on her back again.

She looks up at me with wide, dreamy hazel eyes. “More?” she asks, wonderment in her tone.

I dip my head and kiss her soundly on the mouth, tasting my arousal on her lips. “We’re just getting started.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The bedroom window is open, and I can hear the sounds of traffic in the distance and of mixed birds erratically chirping outside. The woman beside me is long and warm, and based on the evenness of her breathing, still sleeping. Eyes closed, I inhale the scent of the room. It’s a combination of fabric softener and something clean and fresh, the northern air, no doubt.

My eyes flutter open when I hear a squeaky door hinge. Charlotte’s bedroom door is slowly opening. I slept in my contacts so my vision is slightly blurred, but there’s definitely a small figure running toward the bed. Before I can squawk out a warning, the duvet cover is billowing around me and small limbs are crawling across the mattress. High-pitched giggling sounds off in my ear, and all I can think about is
Where Are My Pants?

I’m naked beneath these blankets, and I know Charlotte is as well. She’s awake now and playfully wrestling with her daughter while I remain rigid beside her, clinging to the underside of the sheets as though they’re my only life source.

Amelia stops jumping on the bed when she realizes that her mother is not alone. Her nose wrinkles and she cocks her head to the side. “Who are you?” she asks.

I open my mouth, not sure of what to say, but Charlotte answers for me. “She’s a friend of mommy’s. We had a sleepover party last night,” she says. “Why don’t you go brush your teeth and I’ll make us some breakfast?”

“Okay!” As quickly as the little girl had appeared, she hops off the bed with a solid thud and scampers out of the room.

I stare at the doorway, which has remained open. “Sleepover party?” I repeat.

Charlotte shrugs. “She’s six.”

“Do you have sleepover parties often?” I pose.

“Would you be jealous if I did?”

“Uh . . .” I don’t know how to answer the question.

Thankfully, she lets me off the hook. “No. I try not to bring people home because of Amelia.”

“Then . . .why me?”

Her hazel eyes stare back at me. “Because I wanted to,” she says as though it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

Without waiting around for my response, she throws the blankets back and gets out of bed. She walks across the room to her clothes bureau, unperturbed by her nakedness. I don’t mind watching, and she doesn’t look like she minds having an audience.

“Do you want to stay for breakfast?” she asks over her shoulder. “I was thinking waffles or eggs.” She pulls a tank top and sweatpants out of two separate drawers.

I prop myself up on my elbows and continue to watch as she dresses. “Will you let me help?”

“Can you cook either one of those?”

“I’m sure I can burn both of them.”

Her wide mouth twists into a knowing smirk. “How about I put you on orange juice duty?”

I pretend to think it over. “I think I can handle that.”

I hop out of bed myself and grab her around the waist. The floor is a rough carpet beneath my feet. “I had a lot of fun last night,” I murmur into her ear. I give the outer shell a quick lick and something surges inside me when I feel her shudder.

“Me, too,” she says quietly.

She spins around and her nose knocks against mine. We’re about the same height in our bare feet. “Do you have plans today?” she asks.

“I should probably try to get some writing done,” I sigh. I lean forward so our foreheads touch. “I’m seriously stuck, but I should at least try.”

She sneaks a quick kiss, too chaste and fleeting for my liking. “Let’s get some food in you so you’re not working on an empty stomach.” She taps her pointer finger against my forehead. Once. Twice. “You need some brain food.”

“You’re kind of great, you know that?”

“I have my moments,” she muses. “I’ll start breakfast. You can take your time in here, but if I don’t come out soon, Amelia will be back.”

My jean shorts are in a heap on the floor. When I retrieve them, my phone slips out of the back pocket and bounces off the carpet. My phone is nearly out of battery. Reception is spotty at best in this town, and when the device is roaming for a signal, it drains the battery. There’s no missed messages, no phone calls, no text messages. Nothing from Kambria. I suppose I should feel justified, or at least relieved that she hadn’t tried to call me back at the exact moment that I was in bed with another woman, but feelings of guilt creep up on me, nonetheless.

Charlotte’s house looks different in the light of day. It’s airy and clean and flooded with ample natural light. The house had seemed small and crowded with old floors and low ceilings, but now everything feels fresh and renewed. But maybe the house hasn’t changed; maybe I have.