Page 100 of All Twerk, No Play

Emotion tightened in my throat. This probably seemed sudden to him. He didn’t know how much safer I’d felt facing Spencer with his strength at my back, realizing how disposable I’d felt compared to how cherished Eric made me feel. Even now, with the crown of his cock notched against my entrance, he was taking responsibility. Making sure I felt safe and protected.

I didn’t know how to tell him all that without killing the mood, or maybe bursting into tears.

But right now, I could share something equally true. I whispered against his lips, “You’re not the only one who's been fantasizing about this.”

He released my wrist, letting me rock my hips until his cock was fully seated inside me,

“Hold on a second, I need … god, your pussy is so tight,” he said with barely concealed restraint, resting his forehead on my sternum. “If this is how it feels, I’m going to like being your boyfriend.”

He lifted my hips to glide me up and down his shaft, setting the pace. I’d never been on top, never wanted to feel so exposed, but with him, I didn’t feel self-conscious. I threaded my hand through his hair, loving his hands guiding my hips … but I also needed his fingers on my clit.

No, not his fingers.

I brought my hand between my legs. Would he bat it away, offended that I was doing his job?

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s so hot.” His teeth scraped along my collarbone as my hips pistoned. “Good girl, I’ve been dying to see this. Show me how you make yourself come.”

It was exactly the prompt I needed to take control. My hips rocked, my pussy squeezing as I said, “Hands on the top of the chair.”

His hands flew up to grip the wings, his heavy-lidded eyes brimming with unbridled desire, panting as he watched my hand circle my clit, my hips buck, my breasts bounce. “That’s right, good girl. Use my cock, take what’s yours.”

The pressure in my core built, leaving me breathless, on the edge. But I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want to go alone. “Come with me, baby. Now.”

He released the chair to restrain my hips as he thrust up, bouncing me on his cock, triggering my release as he emptied inside me. I cried out, pulsing and writhing until I collapsed against his sweaty chest, panting into his neck. I kissed his jaw, tracing a lazy path along his neck.

“If this is what happens when you play piano, then I vote you get one for your place.”

I hadn’t thought about that. I wanted that. “If I buy a piano, can you get it into my apartment?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he shifted his hips. “Literally, if you do this after you play.”

I laughed into his neck as his fingertips ran gentle circles on my back. I’d never felt closer to anyone. “Can we stay here forever?”

“Me inside you? Whenever you want. This Scrooge McDuck mansion? Hard pass.”

"I Saw Her Standing There," The Beatles

Victoria

Thegardenpartywasperfect: elegant floral arrangements, manicured lawn, extravagant hors d’oeuvres, and a jazz quartet by the pergola. And I hated it everything about it.

In college, I’d always avoided these events, staying at Yale or working in the City. At least then I’d had Dad at my side, but when the governor arrived, the men retreated into the billiards room to smoke cigars and complain about the women’s frivolity.

The afternoon sun beat down on the buffet of food I couldn’t eat, surrounded by women drunk on Bloody Marys and generational wealth. They had nothing interesting to say but wouldn’t shut up: “Did you see Ember’s facelift? It looks like she got hit by a crowbar.” “You should have heard Braxlee’s dressage instructor. Who does she think pays her salary?”

Beverly was the Snark Circus ringleader, perched on the top tier of the deck to observe the crowd like she was judge, jury, and executioner. The ranks closed in around her, women vying for her attention with their usual insults about my freckles and arrogance, now with bonus barbs about my boyfriend: “Did she hire him off Craigslist? Or pick him out of the escort book?”

Amid the bland canvas of fluffy pastel dresses and acerbic insults, I recognized a stylish white woman in her mid-fifties in a vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress: Margot Durand, my mother’s former secretary, who had worked her way up to Chief Marketing Officer.

She navigated through the crowd, an affectionate twinkle in her eye. “Your dad said you looked like Regina, but … wow. Even more beautiful than the photos on his desk.” A flush crept up my neck as I introduced Eric, his hand sliding around my waist. “I wasn’t planning on coming today, but I heard that snake came back early from France.”

“He’s not a snake,” Eric joked, squeezing my hip to lighten my mood. “Snakes are deadlier, he’s more of a weasel.”

“Definitely in the rodent family,” Margot agreed. “Anyway, I decided to brave Beverly’s bullshit to save you.”

I smiled, remembering my afternoons with her assembling client gifts, learning shorthand, and sneaking peppermints from her top drawer stash.

When Mom died, Richard and Dad were so grief-stricken that Margot coordinated the funeral. She convinced Dad to enroll me in boarding school, hoping distance from his depression would give me a fresh start. When I left Spencer, I lost touch with Margot, and for the first time, I felt a wave of nostalgia instead of nausea thinking back on those years.

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