Page 53 of The Delivery

I love that he calls me baby. No man has ever called me that, and I’ve always wanted it. I have singed with envy upon hearing men call other women that. I feel like I just won a prize. My face breaks into the invisible smile again for absolutely no one to see in the dark. I am his baby. And he’s about to come for me.

“Use your three fingers to fuck yourself because I want you to come with me. Can you do that?”

“Uhuh! Yes!” I grunt, and to me it sounds really very unsexy. But I think it works for him because I can hear the hitch in his breath.

“If I came on your body, where would you want it?”

He’s so good at this, that a little piece of me is terrified that he’s done it before with another woman. I want all of his intimacy. Even whatever happened in his past. It all belongs to me. No one else can touch it. I want to own all of it, his virginity, his every ejaculation, his every sexual thought.

“On my face,” I say, gaining momentum in the game. “On my lips and my tongue.”

I can hear his speed increase, his breath running out of his lungs. Good answer, Lana. I can tell that he liked it.

“Oh God! I’m so fucking crazy about you, Lana. Are you gonna come?”

I forgot about myself for a second because I was so captivated by his forthrightness. I love knowing Mozey likes this. I increase my speed, and my muscles contract. I want him inside of me so badly. I want to feel him spasm between my legs even more than my own spasm.

He groans loudly as he releases, and it’s the very best noise I’ve ever heard in my life. The only things missing are his noises near my ear and the weight of his wonderful body as he collapses, exhausted, onto my chest. But this is good enough. This is as close as we’ve come to ever satisfying one another in person.

I whimper a bit as I thrust my fingers inside. I’m soaked and so revved up, but my body doesn’t want my own fingers. Mozey stands, and I wonder if I he’s leaving me already to go clean off. I also wonder if I should stop and pretend that I’ve finished. But the dark outline of Mozey is walking toward the bed. Even his outline is sexy. This man was built perfectly both in proportion and virtue.

I moan because I don’t want him to touch me. I’m embarrassed I didn’t come yet, and I still need to hang onto the distance and the fact that we didn’t fuck. Social worker, my brain says.

“Keep going,” he says, and I can see his confidence just in the outline of his shoulders and neck. He puts one hand on the pillow right beside my face, and the other lands on the edge of my hip. Without caressing me with his hands, he makes our mouths connect. His tongue sweeps inside my mouth devouring the space. He takes the space like it’s his, and he owns it. He all ups and moves into the place. With his kiss I imagine his semen melting on my tongue, the salt-water taste of his sweat. All of Mozey would taste good, feel good. All of my senses are intoxicated by this man, but his physical presence has nothing on what he does to my mind. I push my fingers in deeper and open my mouth to him. I’m about to go off when Mozey whispers into my lips, “Come.”

And I’m right there to meet him.

CHAPTER 24

We drive south through the Mexican state of Sonora along the sea of Cortez. There’s been mostly silence between us, a few uncomfortable stares and some incredible fish tacos with mango salsa from an unassuming stand. Mozey drank a Negra Modelo, and I’m addicted to what’s called Tamarindo. I don’t know what the hell it is, but it tastes both sweet and tart, a little torture mixed with heaven.

The scenery is breathtaking both inside and outside of the car. He is fidgety. He is quiet. He is so fucking hot. This man lives out of a backpack and back and forth between a couple of pairs of jeans. He acquires and discards t-shirts, paint-staining them are the hazards of his trade. I’m in love with smelling him and just sitting this close. I’ll drive him all the way to Tierra del Fuego just to get enough.

Have you ever wanted something so much that you could burst at the seams? The very thought of his kiss from last night makes sweat magically appear on my brow. I clear my throat like a crazy person—five times in a row.

Sometimes he beats out drum rhythms from whatever he’s listening to in his ears. Once with a pen and once with his fingers. Whenever his brow creases, he grabs for his art pad and furiously scratches out something. I am memorizing everything, recording it in case it’s ever taken away.

It frazzles me to imagine spreading my legs for him, letting him take all of me. Letting the fuse burn all the way to the round, black, ticking timebomb. Mozey between my legs would mean everything. All I can think about is his cock, the groans he made, his gorgeous and disciplined, wideopened mouth.

He rustles the map that I told him we wouldn’t need. I guess he’s old fashioned. He plots the drive with a pencil like my mother always did on our shitty summer trips to the KOA campground. He’s toked his inhaler twice in a row, taking hits so deep into his lungs I begin to wonder if he catches a buzz. I shoot him a dirty look over my steering arm.

His shit-eating grin is enormous. As big as the boner I imagine in his pants. He bursts the grin, and it pops as he exhales. He’s laughing and shaking the cartridge like a fiend.

“Lana, quit trying so hard to be a grumpy bitch.”

“Quit acting like a twelve-year-old. You already make me feel all kinds of old.”

“Do you want to try to make it to Culiacan? I think we could do it—no problem. I’ve got some Redbull if you want one.”

“How far is it?” I ask, pressing random buttons on the GPS like I’m factoring the driving time and I know what I’m doing.

Mozey shakes his head and laughs at me some more.

“Like fifteen-hundred kilometers, more or less.”

“That means nothing to me. Please, habla English.”

“Like seventeen to twenty hours by my guess. I thought you were supposed to be Russian.” He’s chuckling at my expense.

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