Page 52 of The Delivery

Mozey tortures me on his way out of the shower, only a small, Paradisian towel around his waist. The rest of him dripping and beaded with water. He’s more than beautiful; it runs deeper than that. He’s probably even delicious to smell, delectable to taste. He turns toward the couch, and the cheeks of his perfect ass are testing the limits of the cheap hotel linen. I groan and flop over in bed until I’m facing the wall.

He hits the light, and my head automatically turns back to him. I can see the iridescent white of the towel through the dark as it falls to the floor. Mozey is naked. He would sleep without any clothes on.

“Probably bugs. Roaches are going to bite your penis if you don’t cover up.”

“Why don’t you either shut up or give me something to cover it with.”

Touché, motherfucker. That would be harassment if we were someplace where it would count.

“I can’t believe you just said that to me!” I say, but maybe I’m feigning the shock. Maybe I love that he said it. Maybe I squirm with warmth inside at his ease and familiarity.

“Whatever, Lana. You are the worst cock-tease I’ve ever met. You act like you’re too good for me, but I know what you want.”

“Typical,” I say in a huff and cross my arms over my chest. “If a girl doesn’t want to have sex with you, then she’s teasing your cock. How about we discuss all of the reasons why it’s a terrible idea. How it could never work out and the only reason I’m here is to help deliver your sorry ass to Mexico.”

“YEAH, OKAY. You said that already. But where is the rulebook that says we can’t fuck along the way? Is it written in the bible in that stand beside the bed? Is it some fucking Russian cultural thing you’re not telling me about? Do you not have a vagina?”

“You are so crass!” I say, flying up to sitting and swinging my legs off of the bed.

“Yeah, and you are so fuckin’ uppity. And gorgeous. You drive me completely insane. You’re even sexier when you’re mad. You’re hot all of the time, Lana. And, God, don’t tell me that’s a sexist thing to say. I know it is, and I don’t fucking care!”

Mozey throws a pillow at me and it lands on my head. My face breaks into a crazed Lana smile, my teeth probably showing in the dark.

“My dick is so hard right now we could use it as a battering ram.”

I laugh out loud and then cover my mouth with my hands. Then Mozey laughs too, and it’s a throaty, bubbly sound.

“Well, if you’re not going to get naked with me, could you at least help me out and maybe talk dirty to me?”

Oh, man! Oh God! This is how it starts. This is the gateway drug. The tipping point of no return. Silence is golden, but it only works when you’re too scared for words.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. And don’t play offended. Lana, I know you’re no virgin princess. You are a prickly pear, and my guess is that you’re a freak in bed.”

My lips part in the dark, and I inhale, taking in his scent from clear across the room. He’s musky but laced with the powdery scent of the hotel soap bar. I lie still and frozen in bed like an animal being tracked, but my insides have gone all gooey and my hips are already searching for him.

“Put your hand into your panties and tell me if they’re wet.”

I hear Mozey’s breath catch, and I know he’s gripping himself. My body flushes with heat to picture his arm muscles flex as he picks up his own rhythm. I snake my hand down my stomach, and my skin prickles with my own touch. I’m incredibly responsive right now. Don’t clip the wrong wire, because I think we’d all die if I were to go off.

I creep my fingers under the lace, and they’re met with more than wetness. It’s a deluge. My body has duly prepared itself for this encounter. My body is ready.

“They’re wet,” I blurt out in the least sexy voice imaginable. I’m like an over-eager housewife blurting out her answer on the showcase showdown. Now all of my family members can clap and chant “good answer, good answer” as they inwardly cringe at my failure. I’m mixing up game shows.

“I’m no good at this,” I whisper, feeling ashamed.

“You are so, so good at this,” Mozey gasps. “That was the right answer.” His breathing has quickened, and I can hear his hand gliding along his stiff cock.

“How many fingers can you fit inside your wet cunt, Lana?” He breathes.

Oh Lord Jesus, did he just say that to me?

I slip in two, and my muscles contract around them. I slide them out and back in again, adding another. With three, I can feel the delicious friction, and my hips jerk in response. What’s the right answer to that question, I wonder?

“How many, Lana?” he says, his voice commanding and on the verge of impatience.

“Three,” I say, still unsexy but at least not nearly as abrasive.

“Good job, baby. Another right answer.”

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