I turn it on and step beneath the hot spray, closing my eyes from the pleasure of it. Even alone, I can feel him with me. I know just how his kiss would feel on my exposed throat. I run my hands over my hard nipples, pinching them lightly and imagining how they would feel between his teeth.
The hot water cascades over my breasts, down my stomach, and tickles the small patch of hair between my thighs. I spread my legs wider, enjoying the warmth of it and imagining how his tongue would feel following the same path.
I run a hand down my side and to my pulsing . . .
Sarah hesitated and sought the right word. Slit? Vagina? Lips? I can’t write pussy. Can I?
She avoided the decision and wrote:
(insert right word later).
I slip a finger between my lower lips and imagine that it’s his tongue. There is no need to rush when something feels this good. I softly run my finger back and forth, feeling my (clit?) grow beneath my touch.
I use two fingers to spread my lips wider, and a stream of water rushes in and warms me as I imagine his breath would. I put a leg up on one side of the shower so I can open myself more fully to the spray, to my fingers, to him.
I slide my middle finger inside of myself and clench involuntarily. I’m soft, wet, and so ready. I delve deeper, pumping in and out with a rhythm as old as time itself.
I’m fucking myself and it’s good.
Oh, so good.
I circle my clit with my thumb, still pumping as I rub. One finger is no longer enough. I insert another and lean back against the coldness of the shower wall as I picture his (penis? Staff? Cock?) thrusting inside me. The steam of the spray is his hot kiss on every inch of my skin.
I come on my hand, shuddering and gasping for air. Unwilling to end the pleasure, I bring my wet fingers to my mouth and suckle my juices as if they were his. I lick my fingers lovingly, imagining they are his cock. I take them deep within me, deeper than I ever thought I could, and I love how he fills me.
My mouth is his for the taking, and his pleasure is my pleasure.
I clutch one wet breast while I imagine him pushing his hands into my hair so he can hold my head there, insuring his release is welcomed deeply.
I come again, this time claiming his orgasm as my own.
An orgasm he would have had.
Had he been fucking home.
Sarah slammed her notebook shut, feeling pleased with how her writing was changing, and also about the jab she’d written for Tony at the end.
She cocked her head to the side mischievously as an idea came to her that instantly began an inner debate.
I couldn’t.
That would take serious balls, and I’m . . .
See, that’s the problem. If I do what I’ve always done, how can I expect things to be any different than they’ve always been?
With a fortifying deep breath, Sarah stood, opened the door to Tony’s house, and headed upstairs. This time, instead of going to her room, she went to his and placed her notebook on his pillow.
He’d read her notebook earlier when he should have respected her privacy.
It would serve him right to read this.
Back in the hallway, Sarah leaned on Tony’s closed door. She had no idea how he’d react to her latest entry.
But a woman can hope.
Sarah pushed away the door and decided she’d have to find something to distract herself with while she waited for Tony to come home or she’d lose her mind.
Maybe it’s time to call my brother. He’s not going to be happy when he finds out that I’m not at Lucy’s house, but I’ll tell him I needed to stay for research purposes.
Sarah chuckled to herself as she descended the stairs. I’m not a sex-crazed woman chasing a fantasy night with a cowboy. I’m an author researching my first novel.
She stopped at the mirror at the bottom of the stairs and blushed at the burning desire evident in her eyes. I should try to look cool and unattainable, but all I can think is . . .
Bring on the research.
Sarah straightened her shoulders and headed into the living room to call Charlie. She picked up the phone and dialed quickly. I’m an adult. He’s my brother, not my keeper. He’ll understand.
“Charles Dery, please.”
“I’ll put you right through,” his secretary said, so cheerfully Sarah wanted to smack her.
“Hello?” The male voice was crisp and impatient.
This trip was all about finding her voice—in her writing and in her life. She cleared her throat and said, “Charlie, it’s Sarah.”
“It’s about time you called.” His voice boomed through the line. “Mom and Dad are worried sick. You were supposed to call when you got in. What happened yesterday? We called Lucy and she said you’re not staying with her.”
“It turned out that I couldn’t stay there.”