Her eyes connect with mine as she saunters over.
“You ready for a real party, cowboy?” Her voice is light. Her eyes sparkle as if an entire galaxy were buried in each one.
I feel those words like a hot stone in my stomach.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Come One Come All
Marley
Wyatt whisks us the hell out of the Black Bear, blazing right through Saturday night traffic until we land at the ranch in record time. He hops out and carries me to the porch as if I were his bride, unlocking the door with a flick of his wrist until we land in his dimly lit home. Wyatt slams the door with his shoe and moves us to the living room depositing me gently onto my feet as he races to start a fire.
He appears before me again, breathless without missing a beat. “Here we are.” His voice rumbles straight to my bones like thunder through a hurricane.
“Here we are indeed.” I take a few steps forward and wrap my arms around his neck. “Happy birthday, Wyatt. I have a little something for you.” My teeth graze over my bottom lip as I take him in like this. Tall, forebodingly handsome, his strong arms clasping onto my waist in anticipation.
“Aren’t I the lucky birthday boy?” His dimples dig in tight, no smile. There’s an earnestness about him that spells out orgasm in the making, and my thighs quiver because if I’m not careful I’ll achieve the big O before we ever get started.
“Actually”—I clasp onto the tie that he’s neatly paired with dark denim and chukka boots, my all time favorite—“I’m the lucky one. I win because I have you.”
He winces before his dimples dig in ten times deeper.
“Clothes off.” The smile drops from his face. Wyatt is a man who is used to being pleased, when and how he wishes, and most likely by whomever he wants.
“Yes, Professor James.” I reach back and unzip my dress, letting it drop to the floor in a celebrated thump. I hook my thumbs into the sides of my panties and slowly pull them over my curves. Wyatt’s eyes float down to my hips. His chest expands as if he’s pleased with what he sees. I let them glide off, soft as a feather and carefully step out of the fabric puddle, wobbling on my heels in the process.
God, God, God, don’t fall! I do a little dance trying to right myself and land a few inches closer to him with my see-through lace bra and heels the only foreign objects on my body. I reach back and unhook my bra, letting the girls spring out like a couple of hopped up cheerleaders anxious for the big game. It slides off without any help on my part as if it were fleeing the scene. I take a deep breath and pull my shoulders back as his gaze heats my body by at least twenty degrees. “Your turn, cowboy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He loosens his tie with a vengeance before running his fingers down his shirt and peeling it off. He works his jeans, and, before I know it, Wyatt James is standing before me, naked—impressively fucking naked.
My eyes greedily take him in. This is no boy with gangly limbs, no bare chested prepubescent adolescent masquerading as a college boy. This isn’t Will and his wimpy willy by a long shot. Wyatt is all man. The girth of his chest alone is impressive as hell, his muscles are so bulked up, I’m half tempted to ask if he’s flexing. My fingers brush over his chest—where there is actual hair. Hair. Not like gorilla hair, just enough to let me know he’s passed puberty by a mile. My eyes track lower as I give an audible swallow.
Wyatt is already saluting me with the most impressive specimen known to all of man. Dear God. I fight hard not to take pictures stat and Instagram the shit out of this. Not one girl I know will ever believe me. Who knew that Will was cheating me out of the real deal for so long? This man, this imposing long board of his (and yes it appears sturdy enough to surf on), his woody, his remarkably lengthy and thick penis-arm is almost too much to believe—so much so that I can’t seem to take my eyes off it.
“Oh, my, God,” I whisper a little louder than anticipated. I swear if this were anybody else I’d ask if it were some prosthesis. “Wyatt James, you are hung like a horse.” I drop to my knees, gripping his hard as tree trunks legs on the way down, again more hair convincing me that I’ve yet to be with a man. “You are absolutely amazing.” I say it into his penis as if it were a microphone. My lips fumble toward it, and it sort of wags in the opposite direction.
“You sure you want to start on your knees, sweetie?” There’s a curt tone to his voice as if on some level he’s daring me.
“I don’t see why not.” My lips fumble for him again, and this time I latch on. My tongue does a revolution around the tip. Oh, wow, he’s a mouthful. I’ve just confirmed what I’ve feared all along. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever be able to walk again. I’m sure a fair amount of vaginal trauma will take place tonight, and, when it does, I’ll keep reminding myself that having a boyfriend whose penis doubles as a flotation device is oh so worth it—newfound hobble aside.