Page 20 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
Three months, almost four? Something like that—a long-ass time without sex.
Damn—no wonder I’m a horny disaster.
A weekend alone with Ryder.
Gah. How can I say no?
But how can I say yes?
I’d fall for him.
Or, rather, fall even harder. It’s already bad, and I’m already only just barely holding my feelings for him at bay through a carefully choreographed process of avoidance, suppression, and just not thinking about it.
But then we have text exchanges like the one that just happened, and all that goes right out the window.
His smile, his silly, wry, goofy sense of humor, those mesmerizing hazel eyes, the thick red beard…that body, hard and heavily muscled without being intimidating or scary.
He’s sexy and hysterical at the same time, and apparently that’s like catnip for me.
A weekend alone in Chicago with Ryder.
A hotel room, all to ourselves, for forty-eight hours.
This is not going to go well.
Or, to be accurate, it’s going to go amazing, and then, if history holds true, he’ll turn out to be an asshole and I’ll already be head over heels in love with him and I won’t be able to help myself from indulging even though I know I’m only going to end up getting hurt.
Basically, I’m gonna get hurt anyway, so I may as well just have fun and enjoy myself as much as possible before the heartbreak.
I hold out for an hour, and then text him.
Me: get us a room.
I turn off all the lights and climb into bed, under the covers.
And try to go to sleep.
Only, the second I close my eyes, I see Ryder. Swathed in shadows, moonlight gleaming on his muscles, his fist sliding up and down his thick shaft.
I open my eyes, but the image still unfolds in my imagination.
My room is dark, with only a sliver of moonlight across my bed. I toss off the covers, groaning, overheated for some reason.
My phone chirps.
Ryder: I’d say you just made my day, but it’s more accurate to say week…month…hell, lifetime.
Me: Lifetime?
Ryder: Too much?
Me: Only if it’s not true.
Ryder: It’s true.
Me: How do you know? All we’ve done is kiss.
Ryder: If all we’ve done is kiss, and those kisses were the best kisses ever, then it stands to reason…
Me: It stands to reason, what?
Ryder: It stands to reason finally having the glorious privilege of being alone with you, getting to slowly remove all your clothing piece by piece, and then getting to spend the next forty-eight hours making you feel things you didn’t know were possible would be far and away the best thing I will have ever experienced.
Shit.
My imagination takes the fuel of his words and pours it onto the raging fire of my underserved libido.
Ryder, kneeling in front of me, his mouth between my thighs, doing things that make my knees tremble and my eyes roll back in my head. His shaft throbbing in my hands, pulsing between my lips, sliding into my tight wet channel…
My fingers slide down to my core, and I try to imagine what Ryder would look like standing over me, his hands in my hair as I take him into my mouth—what he would look like as I straddle him, taking him into me, riding him to orgasm after another.
I come in seconds, whimpering.
The strip of moonlight has widened, laying across my chest, illuminating my breasts.
I snap a photo, still quaking from the aftershocks of my self-administered climax.
I send it to Ryder. All you can see is the shape of me, outlines in shadow, except for a two-inch wide strip of silver moonlight across my nipples and areolae. It is, honestly, a rather erotic piece of nude photography.
Ryder’s response is a long time coming.
Which, I believe, is not a pun, but rather a double entendre.
Ryder: Jesus, Laurel. You realize you sent that to me right as I was seconds from coming?
Me: Oops.
Ryder: you owe me so many orgasms.
Me: meaning I owe you orgasms you give me, or I owe you orgasms I give you?
Ryder: Yes.
Me: Pick me up at my house at 6:15.
Me: Wait…when you arranged this date of ours, you said dinner was at 6:15?
Ryder: Yeah, I know, but then I decided there was nowhere around here good enough to take you, and the only choice is to take you downtown. So, basically, change of plans.
Ryder: I have to go, now. I have a…mess…to clean up.
Me: Where is the mess?
Ryder: Dirty girl. You sent me that photo, and I came the instant I saw it. No time to even grab a Kleenex first. So the mess is all over my stomach.
Me: Want to know something dirty?
Ryder: Absolutely.
Me: I took that photo seconds after I’d finished coming.
Me: While thinking about you…doing exactly what you were doing.
Ryder. Fuck. Stop! I’m gonna need to go again in a second if you don’t stop, and if I’m going to get out of work in time to shower, change, and pick you up tomorrow, then I have to be up in like, six hours.
