Her Teddy Bear #2 (3 page)

Trevor led me up the stairs, talking about the craftsmanship of the wood railing. It was a lovely home—not as fancy as his actual house, but I could see some of the same attention to detail carried over. The place had his fancy computerized lighting system, available as an upgrade.

The master bedroom looked a lot like Trevor's bedroom, except the four-poster bed was a Queen, not a King, like his. I commented on this, and he said, “Makes the room look bigger.” He winked. “One of the tricks of the trade.”

“Oh, I'm in the theater business,” I said. “I know a thing or two about showmanship. For example ...”

I glanced down at my hands as I inched my denim skirt up over my thighs.

He licked his lips. I definitely had his attention. We were alone in the show suite—for now—so I lifted the skirt all the way, showing him my bare pussy.

“Again, no panties!” he said.

“Just wanted to give you a little preview before dinner tonight.”

“Damn.” He got down on his hands and knees on the thick, new carpet, and crawled toward me like an animal.

I dropped the skirt down and backed up a few steps. “Bad doggy.”

“I'm a bear,” he said as he grabbed my legs. “I take what I want.” He pulled the skirt up and dove at my pussy, licking it hungrily. I gasped and staggered two more steps back, so I could lean against the room's dresser for support.

I moaned, then tried to nudge him away, saying, “Someone's going to come in on us!”

He had my skirt up around my waist and he licked up and down my lips, then dug in deep with his tongue. He stopped just long enough to say, “People try to have sex in show suites all the time. That's why we have three staff on duty at all times.”

“Well, I am going to stop you … in a minute.” I leaned back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed the sensation of being licked. His hands were also busy, though not on my intimate area. Rather, his hands kept running up and down my legs, hungrily. The movement and pressure of his hands extended the pleasure he was giving me with his mouth, throughout my entire body, sensitizing every bit of me. Even my face felt pre-orgasmic.

“Enough,” I said, gasping. “Save some for later.”

“I want you,” he said.

I thought of him talking to the blonde, of him smiling as she giggled at everything he said. He'd been very naughty, flirting with her right in front of me.

“So, take me,” I said. Waves of pleasure were washing over me, and I would have done anything to get more. I wanted him, all of him.

He picked me up and dropped my bum on the surface of the dresser. In a matter of seconds, he had his pants open. He yanked down his underwear and released his erection, the tower of it springing forth from those dark, heavenly curls of his.

He seemed blinded by lust, thrusting at me, banging the head against my leg and my lower stomach. I grabbed his shaft and tugged him toward me, helping him guide the tip into place. I was wet from excitement plus his saliva, and he slid in easily.

Over him breathing in my ear, I heard the sound of a door opening.

“Trevor,” I said.

He thrust into me, hard. “I like it when you say my name.”

“Trevor, I think someone's come in the door downstairs.”

He grunted and thrust into me again, not just into me, but also angling up. He practically lifted me off the dresser with his cock.

And it was the most incredible sensation.

So much pressure, and in just the right places.

I wrapped my legs around him and begged him to do it again.

He did, thrusting in and lifting me up, again, and again.

My heart pounded, my pulse crashing in my ears, throbbing in my neck.

He thrust in again and again, and I felt his cock expanding, getting ready to come inside me.

“Oh, Trevor,” I murmured in his ear.

He banged into me once, twice, three more times, and then he paused, letting go. He stayed deep, lifting me up completely off the dresser, with the help of his hands on my hips, and he came, deep inside me, at the same time I did. My fingers dug into his back, through his light jacket.

My voice choked in my throat, and I was unable to say anything, barely breathing, as the pleasure showered down through me.

As we stopped moving, still clutching each other, I heard someone downstairs say, “Hello?”

“Oh, shit,” he said, and he withdrew and grabbed his pants from around his feet. He shook his head and quickly did up his trousers as he walked a few steps to the wide-open door. “Just one minute, I'm with a client,” he called down.

I was trying to get myself moving as well, but my legs were like rubber, my whole body limp and spent.

Trevor turned back, looked at me, and said, “You okay?”

“I'm great!”

“I didn't hurt you?” He looked genuinely worried.

“No,” I shook my head. “Not at all.”

He looked relieved. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't be sorry, that was amazing.”

He called down the stairs again to the stranger, “Be right down,” and then he disappeared.

I made my way to the master en suite, praying the plumbing in the show suite was hooked up and working. It was, thank goodness.

After I finished using the bathroom and put my panties back on, I walked out just as Trevor was showing a young couple around the room. I wasn't certain, but I thought the scent of our action might still be in the air, as subtle as the perfume of the potpourri, but musky.

The man, a hip-looking black fellow with funky glasses, went right to the dresser and ran his hands over the surface. “This is good, sturdy furniture,” he said.

His wife said, “Is there a furniture package? I do like that furniture.”

The man went to the four-poster bed and stroked one of the posters, his eyebrows dancing suggestively. “I've always wanted one of these,” he said.

The woman giggled and said to Trevor, “We're newlyweds.”

Trevor grinned at her and said, “Oh, I remember that phase.”

At that, the mention of his ex in such a happy manner, I got a terrible sensation in my gut, and the room began to swim, as though I might faint. I had to grasp onto the door frame to keep myself steady.

Things were moving so fast.

Not long after showing the couple around the bedroom, some of the sales staff returned to the show suite and took over.

Trevor poked around, taking more photos, and even got a long construction ladder from outside so he could crawl up into the attic space to look at the insulation.

The whole time, the three sales agents made small talk with me. Well, the two guys did, and the fair-haired woman just stared at me. I knew it was crazy, but I felt like she knew we'd had sex up in the bedroom.

So what?
Who was she going to tell? Trevor was her boss, anyway. He could do whatever he wanted.

As I stared at the rented art on the walls, trying to find a deeper meaning in the mass-produced paintings, I wondered if that might be a problem:
Trevor could do whatever he wanted.

We decided to have dinner back at my house, rather than his, since mine was closer. I suspiciously wondered if he was trying to keep some distance, keep me from getting to know him too well.

As we were preparing the pasta, in my family's kitchen, I finally got the courage to say something.

“Trevor, would you say you think about your time with your ex-wife … fondly?”

He frowned over the vegetables he was chopping. “Where is this coming from? If you want to talk about the past, why don't you tell me about some of
your
relationships?”

“We don't have to have a huge discussion, but just a little info would help me fill in the blanks.”

“What blanks?”

I poured a second glass of white wine for myself. “Earlier today, at the show suite, you said something about being a newlywed, and you had a big smile on your face.”

“That?” He gave me a tough look, like a caged animal. “Sales, Naomi. You do know I work in sales.”

“I guess I'm just being silly.” I took another sip of my wine. “Just being a silly girl ...”

He didn't say anything to the contrary.

By the time dinner was ready, I wasn't hungry.

We sat in the same breakfast nook where we'd had lap-sex that morning, and we ate our pasta.

Finally, he picked up the clues and said, “What's up?”

“I don't want to pressure you to talk, because you say you're no good at it, but I'm wondering if that's just an excuse because you don't
want
to talk about relationships.”

“I don't see why anyone would want to talk about relationships. It's like talking about the weather. What good does it do?”

“Don't tell me you're against communicating.”

He stabbed his fork into the pasta. “I'm not
against
anything, except excruciating talks.”

My sister's words echoed in my head:
transitional relationship; rebound fling.

And that was when I decided I wasn't going to push. If he didn't want to talk, we wouldn't talk. He was handsome and kind and we'd been having the best sex of my life—I had no idea I could have sex in the morning and afternoon and not feel sated, but, rather, crave it even more by nightfall. Like a drug. A tall, handsome, slightly hairy drug.

I had my shoes off, so I casually nudged a foot over to the top of his foot and rubbed his toes.

He gave me a gentle smile. “That's nice,” he said.

“Mm hmm.”

“Hey, remember that time you … uh ...”

“What?” I sipped my wine and gave him a flirty look.

“When you did that thing.”

“When I fucked you in the show suite? Earlier today? Or when I let you fuck me right here, in the breakfast nook?”

He chuckled. “No, that time at my house, when you did that
thing
.”

I searched my memory, and what a pleasant memory it was. We'd had a great time at his house, the highlight being giving each other oral sex at the same time. What could he be so embarrassed about?

“Oh! You mean when I sucked your big toe?”

He blushed. It was the first time I'd seen him get embarrassed, and it made me want to rip his clothes off and eat him up right there, instead of dinner.

“Maybe you could do that again,” he said. “If you want.”

I gazed into his eyes. “You want me to put your big, hairy toe in my mouth and lick it and suck it and stroke it?”

He turned even more red and nodded.

Funny, there were some things he didn't seem to mind talking about.