Page 2 of Fragments of the Past

Anson pats his pockets, searching for his keys. I stand to the side, trying to keep out of his way. He slips one hand on my hip to stop me from moving too far away and uses the other to unlock the front door to his condo. It gives me a moment to study his laugh lines, the deep creases below his temples, and the fine premature gray strands glinting in the streetlight. Dancing in the dark at Sweet Caroline’s, he had a youthful appearance. Although people who have stressful careers tend to age faster. Perhaps he’s as young as I pegged him to be and it’s whatever Anson has witnessed that weighs on him.

Lord knows that’s how it goes for me.

I run my fingers over the scruff of his cheek. The lock clicks in time with him giving me his full attention. His lips press to my knuckles. My palm moves to the back of his neck and we’re kissing again, rolling inside of his foyer, connected as close as we’d been on the dance floor.

We’d only stopped dancing to refill our drinks, and partway through the concert for me to take a fun selfie of the two of us. The headliner was poised behind us, catching his breath and chatting up the crowd. I sent the snapshot to my friend, Layla—something Anson didn’t seem to mind.

I would have sent it no matter what. A woman can’t be too careful.

Anson has me pinned against the wall. The door shuts and we’re bathed in blue shadows. My palms clutch his shoulders as he plunders my mouth. I hear his keys clink into a bowl. The thick bulge in his pants presses against me as he kicks his shoes to the side.

In my peripheral vision, I see a stacking rack filled with several pairs of loafers. I award him imaginary bonus points for being conscientious. You never know what the soles track in from outside, contaminating your safe surroundings. There’s also nothing worse than going home with an incredibly sexy, well-dressed man other than finding out he’s a slob. The sloven are more interested in getting their jollies rather than getting anyone else off.

He dips his lips to my neck, nipping and biting. “Are you sure about this?”

I moan my assent. That should be all it takes. Yet, all of a sudden, were nose to nose. Anson wants me to articulate when all I want is for our bodies to communicate.

I take his imaginary bonus points back.

Okay, half of them. Only the best of the best men don’t take consent for granted. I appreciate the respect he’s showing.

“Yes. I’m sure.” I suck his lower lip between mine.

Anson patiently waits for me to remove my boots. He smirks at the inches it takes off my height when I’m in stocking feet. Similar to the way he pulled me to the dance floor, he moves us up a short flight of stairs.

To the right, I can make out the silvery kitchen appliances because of the range hood nightlight. To the left, is another flight of stairs. In front of us, a lamp illuminates the corner of the living room. In the daylight, the walls must be a light yellow as the light cast makes the tone beige.

He sits down on a deep navy sofa. The plush kind with attached pillows on the back. The style is so humorously basic that every furniture store stocks a variation, and depending on where you shop determines how much you pay. I fall onto his lap, comfortable with Anson and his no-frills bachelor pad.

He has the buttons of my shirt undone in a heartbeat and his thumb grazes my stomach below the lace of my periwinkle bralette. His hand rides higher, cupping and squeezing my tit over my bra. Breaking another kiss, I’m enamored by the reverence of each layer being peeled away and how slowly he’s taking it for how fast we are moving.

I lift the hem of his shirt. It goes over his head, revealing his broad chest to my touch. I stroke a hand over the taut muscles. It’s apt that he wears a St. Rita medal on a chain. She’s the patron saint of impossible causes. Between Anson’s soft, flat nipples is a triangle patch with a trace of hair. Not too faint and not too thick.

I shift my legs off of Anson’s lap and fall between his knees. Twisting so that I’m kneeling on the floor, I reach and unbuckle his belt. Anson lifts his hips. I tug and he shimmies. His boxers slide down his legs along with his pants. His erection springs free. The bulging veins of his cock look harsh in this light, painful. My only thoughts are about how to ease the hurt.

He takes a sharp breath, hissing at my teasing tongue flicking the bead of pre-cum off the mushroom head. His teeth clench when my nails tickle the underside of his sac. Having wanted to watch him come undone since the first slide of heat against my body while we danced, I wrap my hand around his engorged length. He covers it with his own, breathing heavily, and showing me what he likes.

I glance up at him from under my lashes. Pain and pleasure are written all over his face. He enjoys each circular jerk of our wrists. Unabashed men willing to help me masturbate them make every erogenous zone in my body tingle. I have a feeling, given more than one encounter, having him between my thighs could bring me to tears. The hurt-so-good kind that leaves your knees wobbly and you begging for him to never stop.

The roughened thumb of the hand he held his cock with caresses my cheek. “Open.”

He pinches the skin at my jawbone, and I obey. My already damp panties are no match for the mouth-watering glory before me, anyway. I want this. My lips part and I flick my tongue out, licking his cock from root to tip. I play demure so that he’ll wonder if I think he’s big, which I do. But my experience with men is that they enjoy believing they are more than a mouthful. And yes, Anson is, so it’s not as much of an act as I’ve put on before.

“Take as much as you can,” he encourages, putting light pressure on the back of my skull as I bob up and down. “Take it all.”

I hum, stroking and squeezing. His hips thrust up of their own volition.

“Fuck, you’re good at that.” He threads his fingers through my blonde hair. Gathering it in his fist, he pops me off, grunting, “Get up here before I come down your throat.”

I rise, placing a knee on either side of his lap to straddle him. Anson takes advantage of my flouncing skirt. He tucks his hand below the hem and moves my soaked panties to the side.

I grab his face, thrusting my tongue into his mouth the second he spears me with two fingers. I let out a keening moan as his palm skids over my sensitive flesh. The man knows just how to touch me. I lean back, lifting my skirt over my thighs for a better view of Anson finger fucking me.

“You like that? My fingers in your pussy?”

“God, yes!” I pant, the tightness building at the apex of my sex. I reach to pump him, not knowing how much longer I have until the wave of bliss breaks over me and I become incoherent.

“I don’t think you’re ready to sit on my cock just yet, baby. Prove to my fingers what my dick has to look forward to.”

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