Page 6 of Brewbies
But their movements slowed with the intensity of their joining. Her strong thighs flexed as he bracketed her hips with his hands to help with the heavy lifting. The force of their bodies coming together echoed through the air, colliding in a crescendo of passion. With each thrust they connected in a way he couldn’t even define, swirling around each other until they seemed truly intertwined. A unified being radiating pure ecstasy.
“Thatwas impressive,” she panted when they could breathe again.
“Was?” he growled.
Her look of confusion was made adorable by the smear of her lipstick.
Spanning her ribs with his hands, he lifted her full body and chucked her onto her back. “I’m not done yet,” he warned as he lifted her knees up before pressing them wide and lowering his mouth.
Hours later, when the last of the shudders had been wrung out of their exhausted bodies, they collapsed to the mattress, her stretching over him like a blanket. His shaft still clenched in the aftershocks of her velvety sex.
A stranger. She was a stranger.
And he’d just had the best sex of his life.
Last thing he needed was another head fuck.
Last thingsheneeded was him in the throes of a head fuck.
But for the first time, he lamented the end of the one-night stand. Didn’t want to leave her body, let alone her presence.
God, he was pathetic.
Deciding to rip off the Band-Aid, he ran a hand over the hair now falling a little past her shoulders, taken in by the silken texture.
“You relax,” he mumbled with an incredible yawn. “I’ll take care of this.”
Thisbeing the avoidance of a wet spot, the cleanup, condom disposal, pee, and bringing her a warm, wet washcloth to—
“Hello?” he asked his empty room as he folded the washcloth for her.
The answer he found was a pink sticky note and her lace thong on the empty chair back where he’d draped his flannel shirt.
Thanks for the ride. And the flannel. DD.
ONE
Pump Machine
AN ESPRESSO MACHINE THAT USES A PUMP TO FORCE BREWING WATER AT HIGH PRESSURE THROUGH A COMPACTED BED OF GROUND COFFEE.
Darby Dunwell stoodbefore the window of her vintage camper turned coffee truck, staring at her one-night stand, and bargaining with a God she hadn’t believed in since the tenth grade.
Her official breakup with a higher power occurred when Sister Mary Mildred broke a paddle over Darby’s ass after she’d stolen from her reform school’s bake sale proceeds to buy cigarettes off an older co-ed. As it had been Darby’s mocha-nut cupcakes that brought in the lion’s share of confectionary proceeds to St. Vincent’s Academy, she’d reasoned that she was due at least a slim margin of the profits.
Sister Eminem (as Darby had not-so-affectionately called her) hadn’t shared Darby’s financial assessment.
Still fizzy with her first nicotine high, Darby had flipped up her uniform’s plaid skirt, planted her hands on headmistress’s moat of a desk, and invited the Hand of God—Sister Mary Mildred’s paddle—to do its worst.
The resounding crack echoed through twelve years of her memory as she looked athim.
Last in the line of customers, waiting for her to part the Barbie-pink curtains and begin dispensing the life-enhancing elixir, he glowered like he wanted to dick-punch the sun just for rising.
Hungover, she guessed, if he’d necked as much beer the evening previous as he had when she saw him last.
But there wasn’t supposed to be a last.
Because she was never supposed see him again.
