“You are so luscious,” he murmured in her ear, words shattered by the spray and the steam, cut into bits and pieces her overwhelmed, pulsing mind and body could barely understand, the allure of his hands on her breasts, one pausing to shift himself and plunge into her, then resuming its spot on her overflowing cup, taking her to an aroused madness. As friction grew, his thrusts timed perfectly, her swollen, red passage seemed tapped into her lungs, her heart, her lips and her everything.
Mike's hands roamed her torso, teasing her clit as his gliding tightened, thrusts harder and more focused, the feel of his body behind her hardening as his own climax surely built. Her fingers clawed at the tiled walls, needing flesh to dig into, to hold on to for the wild ride of an explosive, wet, dripping orgasm that –
Beep, beep, beep. “Ack!' she squeaked, hand flailing for her phone. An alarm? What? Eyes unfocused and clit in the throes of an orgasm (huh? In her sleep?) she fumbled the phone, its ineffectual clunk on the floor making her cringe in horror. Another broken glass screen wasn't going to please the geniuses at the Apple store.
Retrieving it and sighing loudly with relief at its intact condition, she stared dumbly. An alarm for a meeting at work. Jesus. So why was her pussy on overdrive, pulsing as if she –
Oh.
A flash of her dream drizzled into her subconscious – and then a tsunami of tactile and mental dream memories hit her.
Seriously? Coming from a dream? Was she that far gone?
As her clit drummed a beat like a bass drum being attacked by a throng of marching band directors, the answer made her weep with frustration.
Yes. Apparently.
Josie was, quite possibly, Dylan and Mike's savior, because it appeared that she had convinced Laura to give them a shot and to come over for dinner. One very, very long week had passed without word from her, and then – a text. A quick phone call. An invitation heartily extended and hesitantly accepted.
Accepted. That's what counted, right? They had a chance.
Mike knew they could blow this so easily, so he had deferred to Dylan as the cook tonight. Admitting he was better in the kitchen was hard, but he had to face facts: something about the Italian in Dylan made his food a little extra...something. Extra flavorful? Extra intense?
Extra fine. Like the man. And if that little bit of extra could be the deciding factor between Laura's giving them a chance or walking away, Dylan could cook.
Choosing the wine, though, was Mike's fierce prerogative.
“Oh, a nice red!” Laura teased, taking the glass by the stem from Mike's nervous hand. They were standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen in his and Dylan's apartment, the entire place decorated in a slick, cold grey and black scheme he had never liked, but that been a legacy of choosing this place a few years ago. The price had been a stretch for him and Dylan, though Jill had shouldered a bit more of the rent; after her death they'd learned she had paid well over half the real price, the two of them blindly forking over a rent check to her every month, never knowing the true cost.
So he understood – on a more trivial level – how it felt to be duped. You're really comparing that to this? his conscience exclaimed, riding him. Not even close.
“It's a Chilean carmenere.” OK, OK, he argued back with himself. Not the same. Stop comparing and just stay in the moment. He took a deep breath, held it for seven seconds, and let it out in four. Center yourself, man. She's worth it.
“It's, um, very red,” she agreed, drinking half the glass in one long sip. Her hair was down and flowing tonight, framing her face with soft curves that mirrored her body. Casual, in a simple v-neck pink sweater, low-rise jeans that made his hands itch to grab that voluptuous ass, and with a tentative, but guarded, approach that made him want to reassure her, Mike wasn't sure how the night would end but he did know one thing:
He and Dylan were going to pull out all the stops to encourage Laura to take a giant, unconventional leap.
Even if it meant –
His fingers slid over her forearm, the touch soft and reassuring, meant to get her attention – not her arousal. He nodded toward the living room. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Laura had a way of tipping her eyes up first, eyebrows hitching up slightly, then bringing her entire face into the light – Mike's light, that is, given his height – that was so endearing his heart felt like it blossomed, a lotus flower of love. Love? Where'd that come from? His conscience panicked.
“Sure,” she said, eyebrows furrowed now. He didn't want to worry her. In fact, what he was about to say was all about getting her to relax. He compared what he was wearing to Dylan's flour-coated polo shirt, jeans, and bare feet. On balance, he'd done fine after changing three times – a simple blue button down and his most comfortable jeans seemed to fit in. Spending so much time worrying about little details was, at best, nothing more than angst and nothing less than an exercise in occupying his scrabbling mind.
Either this would all work out or it would just fall apart. And either way, he had to find peace with the outcome.
She leaned against the arm of the deep, scarred leather couch, a couch made shiny from too many hours of his and Dylan's asses being planted on it, watching some sports game (Dylan) or a quirky documentary (Mike). Jill's butt had left its considerably smaller imprint, too, for she had tortured them with her Christopher Guest obsession until Mike had finally gotten it – and loved those movies, too.
Shaking his head slightly, he willed himself back to the present, where Laura's perplexed look was shifting, microsecond by microsecond, into wariness. No, no, no – not what he was going for.
“I just wanted to say, first, that we're really glad you came tonight.” The skin between her eyes wrinkled with something other than a smile.
She looked up and simply said, “Thanks.”