Page 8 of Whispers on the Water

Her moaning transforms, turning into yelps of pleasure. “Don’t stop, Greg,” she manages to yell out. Her pussy tightens, and I can feel my cock swelling, the pressure building at the base of my spine like I’m about to blow straight through her.

Fake-Stacy is screaming my name, and I can’t resist. The way her lips form my name like she’s drunk on the word is too much. The white-hot release finally busts from my tip, exploding into her at the exact time she gives a final yell.

Ropes of pure pleasure pour out of me as my vision explodes into a kaleidoscope of color. I collapse onto her, hoping my weight isn’t crushing her lungs. My arms shake when I try to get up, and I fall again, rolling off the couch with a loud thud as I try to catch my breath.

Laying on the carpet, I put one hand on my forehead. After a few seconds of scattered panting, Fake-Stacy leans over to look at me. “You okay?” she asks, a chuckle on her lips.

“You’re my new idol, you know that?” She slides off the couch, ending up straddling me.

“Feelings are mutual.” I can’t help but respond as her hand rests on my chest, sending a wave of warmth through me. “I’m gonna be sore for a week.”

“Promise?” My hands find their way to her ass, gripping firmly. The thought of her walking around with an ache caused by me alone is enough to send my already satisfied mind into overdrive.

She gives my chest a playful tap before starting to stand. I watch as she grabs her clothes and slips back into her dress. I prop myself up on an elbow, confusion creasing my brow. “You’re leaving?”

Her smile is coy. “Yes.”

A chuckle escapes me despite the surprise, “Did I just get played?”

She’s at the door now, putting her sandals back on. As she opens the front door, she casts a glance back. “I think we both did.”

I find my underwear near the edge of the couch and pull them on as I stand. “Fair enough. But, uh, can we play each other again? Soon?” I can’t believe I’m already asking for more. I may not be a guy who does this often, but when I do, once is usually enough. But Fake-Stacy was different, and I can’t help wanting to know we’ll get to experience what just happened again.

She shakes her head, disappearing through the door with a soft click. I collapse back onto the couch, hand running through my hair. I can’t remember the last time I was so quick to ask for seconds, if ever. “Did that just happen?” I say to the empty room.

I lift my fingers to my nose, her scent still clinging to them, intoxicating. A stirring reminder of what just transpired sends a jolt through me. She’s branded me with her smell. I want a fucking candle to keep it burning night and day. I know vagina candles are real and I’m completely in if it smells like Fake-Stacy. I know in that moment that I want to find her. Bring her back and tangle my sheets with her scent.

But, fuck me, my job comes first. Though I don’t want to, I can’t waste time on looking for this goddess that stampeded into my life like 10,000 rhinos through the dust covered Sahara that was my previous sex-life. There isn’t time to find her again, no matter how much my body is already begging for more.

Chapter five

Sam

Ihop out of the cab, sandals in hand, and make a beeline for Ron’s bar. To my surprise, there’s Tommy and Tilly, parked at the long counter, drinks in hand, courtesy of Ron, the heart and soul behind this place. They must have left when I did. It’s pushing two in the morning, yet the place still buzzes with the tail end of our regular crowd. The soft rock humming through the speakers wraps around me like a familiar blanket. After tonight’s escapades, this place, with all its imperfections, really does feel like home.

Tommy catches sight of me first, straightening up with that tell-tale mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the walk of shame!” he announces, lifting his drink high. The bar erupts in a chorus of whoops and cheers.

My cheeks heat up with a blush as I take a seat at the bar, suddenly longing for the privacy of a shower to scrub away the night’s evidence. Yet, I’m not ready to spill the details of my night, especially not the parts that would really get their imaginations running wild.

“Oh my, look at you, all satisfied. That guy was a total hunk! I’m almost jealous; he would have totally wrecked me,” Tilly teases, never one to mince words.

I can’t help but playfully bump her shoulder. “Stop that!” I chide, trying to keep the conversation light.

Tommy, on the other hand, stays silent, nursing his beer with a look that’s a mix of contemplation and annoyance. I can tell he’s purposely avoiding making eye contact with Tilly, and it dawns on me that their earlier dance might not have been the change in their friendship as I’d hoped.

“You really hit the tourist jackpot this time. He looked loaded,” Tilly continues, ever the observer.

Shaking my head, I correct her. “Not a tourist. He’s local and definitely not rolling in dough.”

Their simultaneous “Local?” isn't a surprise. It is, after all, a clear deviation from my usual cautious approach. “I gave him a fake name,” I confess, trying to downplay the night’s recklessness.

“You didn’t!” Tilly’s laughter fills the space between us.

“Just call me Stacy,” I retort with a smirk, feeling a mix of exhilaration and relief at sharing a snippet of my night. They know I’ve been cautious, maybe even a bit closed off when it comes to men after everything that went down with my ex, but Greg... Greg made me feel alive, desired, and utterly content in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

This connection, this night with Greg, was something else—intense, freeing, and honestly, a little wild. I’d never been so uninhibited, so willingly lost in the moment. Greg had a way of making me feel respected and wanted, all while pushing the boundaries of my desire in the best possible way.

“Well, Stacy,” Tilly jokes, pulling me back to the present, “I’m glad your night turned out so well. Should we make this a weekly adventure?”

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