I grasp her shoulders, dip my head, and shut her the hell up with a deep kiss. Then I tell her, “I’m not blowing you off. And you don’t have to apologize.”
I know, I know—are you out of your f**king mind, Matthew? No, I’m not nuts—I just don’t mind a chick with passion, spark. And a little possessiveness is no big deal. Plus, as Barney Stinson has already explained, Delores is hot enough to be as bat-shit crazy as she wants to be, and I still won’t kick her out of bed.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going to let her get by without payback. Which is why I pull her tight against me and rub my head against her face and hair. Spreading the love—and as much of the Slurpee as I can.
“Ah!” she yells and laughs and smacks me on the back.
Eventually, I lean away and say, “There. Now we’re even.” I kiss her lips quickly. “I’m going to head home for a shower.” Then I get an awesome idea. “You want to join me?”
She’s smiling as she rubs the stickiness off her cheek. “I have to get back to work.”
I nod. “But I’ll see you tonight?”
It’s only as she’s walking away that I notice the white lab coat she’s wearing over her black leather dress, purple tights, and high leather boots. I call out, “Hey, Dee?”
“Bring the lab coat home with you tonight. And a pair of safety goggles if you’ve got them.” You may think it’s too early in our relationship for role play. But I’ll tell you a secret: It’s never too early for role play.
For the next few nights, Delores and I hang out. We go dancing at clubs and stay in; we start movies but miss the endings; we have long hours of sweaty sex—the kind you feel dirty about afterward and can’t wait to do all over again.
We also talk—surprisingly. In bed or across the dinner table.
On top of the dinner table.
Dee’s chatty. A sharer, an explainer. She also has . . . theories . . . on just about every topic imaginable. Though all of her theories are entertaining, some are pretty out there. Take this, for example:
“John Hughes was a raging sexist pig.”
“How do you figure?”
“Look at The Breakfast Club. The guys get five main stereotypes—the jock, the criminal, the brain, the ass**le teacher, the cool laid-back janitor. What do girls get? Two. The beauty queen and the whack job—subliminally telling generations of teenage girls they can be beautiful or they can be crazy, but not both. Because at the end, when the crazy girl gets beautiful, she’s no longer crazy. It’s f**ked up. I’m going to start a petition about it.”
“Microwaves are evil—I’ll never own one.”
“The sharp rise in childhood illnesses, allergies, and developmental disabilities can all be traced back to the moment microwaves became common fixtures in the home. It’s malevolent consumer abuse. But you have to keep it to yourself. Corporations have ears and eyes everywhere, and there’s no lengths they won’t go to, to cover it up.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Then, there’s this little gem:
“You actually think the Egyptians built the pyramids?”
“Sure—it’s well documented.”
“Oh, you poor, gullible man. How were they able to move stones as big as a house? How were they able to make underground, structurally sound tunnels and rooms without any engineering equipment? Or, for that matter, how were they able to shape and cut the blocks at precise and identical angles?”
“Well . . . if the Egyptians didn’t build them, who did?”
“Of course. There’s tons of proof that aliens have been visiting Earth for centuries—you don’t even know.”
Nope, and I don’t want to. That last one is too freaky—and plausible—for me.
I wake up Saturday morning to the sounds of running water from the shower. And the screechy echo of Delores’s singing from inside it. “I Knew You Were Trouble” by Taylor Swift is probably the most annoying song ever written—but hearing Dee’s awful rendition just makes me chuckle.
Never one to waste good wood—particularly the morning kind—I grab a condom out of the nightstand drawer, slip out of bed, and step into the bathroom.
“. . . trouble . . . ah . . . ah . . .” Her eyes are closed and her head is tilted back to rinse her long hair under the spray. “. . . ah . . .”
I get into the shower and waste no time, going immediately for Dee’s succulent nipple that’s already pointy and proud. She’s not startled. She doesn’t yell. Her pitchy “ah” changes to a muted moan, and her hands slide across my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.
I like that she knows it’s me, without opening her eyes.
I realize the likelihood of anyone else worshipping her beautiful tits at this place and time except me is slim to none. But what I mean is . . . she knows my touch. My sounds, my movements. We’ve become used to—attuned to—each other in the greatest of ways. I know she likes her hair pulled just before she’s about to come. And she knows it drives me crazy to watch her finger her nipple ring or when she traces my abs with her tongue.
Once she’s rubbing—squirming—against me, I release her breast and devour her lips, sliding my mouth against hers and my tongue inside her warm heat. Without breaking the kiss, I roll on the condom with deft fingers. Then I wrap an arm around her waist and lift her against me with little effort.
Her legs take their natural place around my hips. Cock in hand, I drag the head across her pu**y and even with the warmth of the water raining down around us, I feel how hot and eager she is.
I push inside her fully, pressing her back up against the tiled wall. She tears her mouth from mine and moans. Her head tilts back as I start to move—strong, deliberate strokes that fill her completely. I pant against her cheek. She bites my shoulder and I groan.
Her legs squeeze me tighter, and I move faster. Wanting to go deeper. Harder. More.
She grunts. “I love your cock. It’s perfect.” She grinds against me, lifting herself up and down on me, in time with the movements of my hips. “Fuck me, Matthew . . . f**k me with your perfect cock.”
Her words get me hotter. Make me harder.
I feel the flutter of her muscles starting to contract around me—tightening—making each thrust of my hips all the more intense and eye-crossingly pleasurable. I speed up even more, wanting us to come together.