Truth Undressed (Exposed Series, #3) (6 page)

Then I turned back to the easel and pursed my lips while I added
tiny streaks of orange to the perimeter of the moon in the corner.

“I like that,” he said. “That looks really good.”

I swallowed. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything for a while and just watched me while he
sipped his drink. I was dying to know what he was thinking and after a lifetime-
or what was probably about three minutes- he finally broke the silence. “You’re
cute when you’re concentrating.”

I laughed and the tension melted from my face. “Now there’s a
line I’ve never heard before.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

As I turned back to the easel, Kevin stood up and got right
behind me so he could look over my shoulder. The proximity of his body to mine
made my pulse quicken. It reminded me of how we’d slept together on that dirty
frat house futon, how I’d woken up with his arm over me. Then he leaned forward
and whispered into my hair. “I wish you’d concentrate on me like that
sometime.”

I was so nervous I was worried I would burst out laughing, but I
was determined to keep my cool. “Too bad you’re not my type.”

“Is that so?” he asked, pressing himself against me.

“Yeah. I’m really only interested in blue horse people.”

He laughed.

I felt him place something soft against my temple and stood
still as he dragged it down my cheek.

“There better not be paint on that brush,” I said.

“And if there is?”

“You better clean it off.”

“What if I want to kiss it off instead?”

I looked down at my side where he was dangling the dry brush next
to my thigh. Then I put the plate of paints down on his desk and turned to face
him. “That would be okay.”

He kissed me before I could take a breath, pulling the small of
my back toward him with one hand. His other hand slid up the back of my neck
into my hair until he was cradling my head.

His attention made me feel so safe and far away, and as soon as
I focused on him, my pain began to dissipate. I couldn’t think of anything
except how badly I wanted to forget everything and just make him feel good.

He walked me backwards towards the bed and reached for the
bottom of my shirt. I felt his fingers trail lightly against my skin as he
pulled it off over my head.

I lifted my legs onto the bed and scooted back to make room for
him. As soon as he knelt in front of me, I pulled his face towards mine again
and sunk my fingers deep into his curls. His hands ran up from my waist and
found the clasp at the back of my bra. He released it so expertly I felt a gush
in my underwear.

When the straps slid from my shoulders, he tossed my bra to the
side and cupped my breasts with his hands, dragging his thumbs across my soft skin
until my nipples stood at attention.

Then he lowered me down on his bed. I looked up at him while he
took his shirt off. His chest was developed and muscular. It wasn’t until he
slid down onto his side and propped his head up with his elbow that I realized
I’d been holding my breath.

“God you’re beautiful, Kate.”

I smiled at him and wished the moment would last forever.

Then he kissed me again with a contagious urgency and unzipped
my jeans. I felt a lump in my throat as his hand slipped in between my pants
and my underwear.

His tongue kept swirling in my mouth as he pressed his
fingertips against me. Then he started moving his fingers in a circular motion
until my panties were soaked through. Just like I’d hoped he would so many
times.

I was about to reach for his fly when he rolled on top of me and
started kissing my collarbone. Then he moved to my chest, flicking his tongue
over my nipples and squeezing my breasts until my flesh bulged between his
fingers. His every touch made my body flood with hot energy until I was aching
for him.

I never wanted anyone so bad in my life. I always thought
foreplay was something adults did because they needed to do it to get excited.
I had no idea that it could be so intense, that a man could drive me that
crazy.

I was throbbing by the time Kevin hooked his fingers in my
pants. When he pulled them off, he took my underwear with them so that I was
completely exposed. Then he stood at the foot of the bed and kept his eyes on
me while he removed his own pants.

As his thick cock sprang free from his boxers, I was filled with
nervous anticipation. I watched him walk unselfconsciously to the bedside table
and pull a condom out of the drawer.

I swallowed and nodded.

He tore open the package and I licked my lips as he slid it on, unable
to do anything but stare at the swollen dick in his hands. I swear for a moment
I was actually jealous of his hand because I wanted it to be me that was wrapped
around him.

He moved over me again and reached down to part my lips. It was
a relief to be in such capable hands for a change. He was the first person that
hadn’t thrust his penis at me like they were shooting darts in the dark and
hoping for a bulls-eye.

When I felt the tip of him press against me, I gasped. But when
he pushed inside me a moment later, my mind when blank and I exhaled heavily. It
was as if there wasn’t enough room for his cock and air in my body. And as he
pushed deeper inside me, I could see he was enjoying it, too.

“Go slow,” I whispered. “Please.”

“Okay,” he said.

I was scared of how big he was and worried that if he let loose
he might tear me wide open. It took all my energy to stay squeezed around him. But
my fears evaporated when he pushed all the way in and hit a spot at my very
center, a spot no one had ever hit before. He looked back and forth between my
eyes to make sure I was okay and pulled his hips back a little. Then he hit the
spot again.

He was so deep I couldn’t believe it. Every time he hit the spot
my legs felt like they were both on fire and completely dead weight. It was the
first time I’d ever genuinely had to groan during sex. I’d done it before as a
courtesy in an effort to make the guy feel comfortable and like he was on the
right track. Even if he wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t want to lay there like a
stiff.

But this time I really couldn’t help myself. It was as if the
moaning had to come out to make room for the pleasure. And not only was I
moaning with Kevin’s every thrust, but I was writhing from the thrill of being full
of him.

And then the heat started to build inside me until it became so
concentrated that it was pulsing in waves. And the waves kept coming faster and
faster until the vibrations were so intense it felt like someone had touched me
between my legs with a tuning fork.

“Don’t stop,” I said, my breath barely escaping. “Please, don’t
stop.”

Finally the feeling grew so strong that I felt the energy drain
from every corner of my body until I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. Then a
long moan escaped my lips as I shook beneath him. And before I even stopped
shaking he started to pound the spot inside me where it was so hot.

It felt like he was splashing in the puddle where my pleasure
had pooled. And just when I thought I was going to burst into a million pieces,
he groaned and plunged inside me and stayed there.

When he collapsed on top of me a moment later, I could still
feel myself throbbing around him as we panted together, his breath warm against
my neck.

And I had never felt so high.

Lover #3:
The Older Man

The older man is one of the most fun lovers a woman can have and
an absolute must for those looking to improve their sexual prowess. Of course,
as with any relationship, having equal expectations is often the difference
between success and failure. So here’s what you need to know…

He doesn’t want to marry you (he lost everything in the
divorce). All he really wants to do is watch your eyes light up when you drink
his expensive champagne and have some kinky, no strings attached sex. As long
as you can be happy with this arrangement, you’ll have a grand old time.

What’s the best part of sleeping with an older man?

They give you hope. Why? Because sometimes when you're young,
sleeping with guys your age can be disheartening and full of
is this all
there is
moments.

I suspect the reason for this is because inexperienced lovers
are preoccupied with their own pleasure. Which isn’t surprising. After all, how
can you guess at what makes someone else feel good if you’re still figuring out
your own body’s quirks?

Older lovers, however, know better. As a result, they tend to
invest more time and energy into satisfying their partner. This is because
they’ve reached sexual maturity. Which means they derive pleasure not just from
receiving sexual attention but from giving it, too.

So between a generally higher respect for women and more
experience between the sheets, a lot can be learned from older men. Plus, they know
what they like and they don’t apologize for it.

And it’s important to expose yourself to this because sexual
confidence is contagious.

The first time I slept with an older man was on a trip to
France. A teacher I had in college gave me the number for a friend of his in
Paris. I thought he was just going to recommend a place to stay and maybe a
good café or two, but he agreed to meet me for a drink.

Not only was he a good twenty years older than I was with an
accent to die for, but no one had ever made me feel sexier. That’s the other
thing about older men. They really know how to charm a woman with come-ons and
compliments that don’t feel cheap. And even though men young and old want the
same thing at the end of the day, there’s no reason that getting there can’t be
half the fun.

We ended up spending the rest of the weekend together. Mostly in
his bed with wine or out on the town with his arms draped around my waist as
his salt and pepper stubble tickled my neck.

We stayed in touch for a while after our romantic weekend, but eventually
our correspondence fell off. Which was fine. That’s the way it should be.
There’s no recipe for love. It isn’t something that can be forced. Some lovers
are like gourmet meals. They’re dishes that are only meant to be tasted and
remembered fondly, not indulged in every day. 

But that’s what’s so wonderful about collecting lovers or
experiences in general. They stay with you forever. I’ve no doubt that my life
was enriched by the memory of being fed flaky pastry in bed and having my
fingertips kissed by lips that tasted like fine red wine.

After all, you can’t put a price on a memory like that, and I’ve
always believed that nothing makes a person rich like experience. Maybe I only
feel that way because I never had any money. But I know lots of people with loads
of money who don’t feel as rich as I do.

Don’t get me wrong. Money is important. Really important. But
it’s not good to become one of those people that prioritizes money over
experience. Because money comes and goes, but adventures and memories last a
lifetime.

And it’s not good to waste money on
things
. They lose
their shininess, their novelty value, and the joy from the purchase fades away.
Then you’ve no choice but to search for the next thing that will give you a
surge of happiness. But people who spend their money on experiences never
regret it. Because adventures- unlike material things- hold their value.

But I digress.

The point is, sometimes it’s uplifting to remember that sex gets
better as you age. And no one can teach you that lesson better than someone
who’s learned it firsthand.

Things between Carol and I had been tense to put it nicely.

It’s not like I had completely ignored her since I found out she
wasn’t my Mom. We had exchanged grunts and the occasional pleasantry. But we
definitely hadn’t
talked.

Why should we? What was there to say? We both knew now that she
had deceived me for eighteen years about who she was and lied to me about where
I came from. To be honest, it felt more like there was a landmine in the room
than an elephant.

And even after I had some time to cool off, I was still so
confused. Because when someone referenced my Mom, I still thought of her first.
I mean, she hadn’t actually given birth to me which was a pretty big
disqualifier, but she had done everything else.

She changed my diapers, cleaned my nose so I wouldn’t be a
snotty kid, and was my room Mom at school until third grade. No one had kissed
more bruises or applied more band-aids as I stumbled and tripped through my
early years. And I can’t remember her ever missing a single one of my lacrosse
games.

If it weren’t for her I probably wouldn’t even be able to read
or use a toilet. And if I add all that stuff to the fact that no one caused me
more stress, anxiety, and anger in my life, it was hard to argue that she
wasn’t my Mom. Besides that one not so teeny detail.