Page 17 of Sex Love Repeat

She feels the strength of my arousal, her smile brilliant in my dim office. Then she unzips me, and I am in her mouth.

Fuck. I will never be able to accurately describe her mouth. It is like a throbbing pulse of wet, hot moisture, seconded only by her body. It knows how hard to suck, how deep to go, how fast or slow to take my cock, and when to give it a moment to regroup. Her eyes flicker to mine, heat in their gaze, and I want nothing more than to pull her to her feet and bend her over my desk. I place my hand at the back of her head, watching in drugged awe as my length slides deeper into her mouth, her pink lips tight around me, the playful gleam in her eyes making my c**k harden even further.

I pull back on her hair, trying to lift her up, but she shakes her head, burying me greater, her eyes closing as she gags on my cock. She grips me tightly with her hand, sliding it up and down my shaft, squeezing it, and I feel every bit of stress in my body leave, as if she is milking it out of me. I sigh, leaning back in my chair, content to let her work.

She is beautiful when she sucks a cock. Her cheeks hollowing, the curve of her mouth when she pulls off, the mischievousness in her eyes that telegraphs how much she truly enjoys the act.

I groan, feeling the pressure of buildup. Feeling the push, I’m throbbing in her mouth, close to climax, the three days without her taking their toll on my self-control.

“Fuck baby.” I lean forward, cupping the back of her neck, watching intently the movement in and out of her mouth. “Here I come.”

She takes me fully, her mouth massaging and squeezing the length of me, my head deep in her throat when I come. Wave after wave of release, my hand unintentionally tightening on her neck, my pleasure audible in the groans that I can’t contain.

She swallows it all, her face, when she finally pulls off of me, clean, a smile stretching across it. I collapse back in my seat, tugging softly on her skin, pulling her into my arms, her body curling onto my lap. “Thank you baby. I needed that.” I rest my head on hers. “I’m surprised you’re here. Thought I wouldn’t see you ‘til this weekend.”

“He had to run down to San Diego. I thought I’d stop by, give you some lovin’, stay the night. Maybe kidnap you into a breakfast date.”

I frown against her hair. “Can’t do breakfast. I have a six AM call with Helsinki.”

She tilts her head up, brushes her lips across the rough shadow on my neck. “Then how about I cook you breakfast at five?”

I wrap my arms around her, including her arms and legs in the grip. “That would be perfect. Need me to take care of you?”

She bites my neck lightly. “No baby. Get back to your work. I’ll wake you at five.” She pushes at my arms, breaking free of my grip and standing, her naked skin glowing in the light from the lamp. I pull at her arm, bringing her closer, getting one last taste of her mouth, before plugging my phone back in and returning to the documents on my desk. As she leaves, tugging the door shut behind her, the phone rings.

ACID DROP: When you take off on a wave

and suddenly have the bottom fall out

as you free fall down the face.


It is Wednesday night; I am in PJs and socks, a face mask beginning to dry on my face, in front of the television, popcorn in the microwave. Cross-legged, my back against the edge of my way-too-expensive-but-I-love-it couch, I am flipping through channels, and trying to resist touching my face, to stick my curious fingers into the wet mask, which has not fully hardened.

Soap opera. Flip.

Infomercial. Flip.

Football. Flip.


I wait, my remote extended, waiting to see what the show is about, which hotspot or event is being covered. And then I see him, trudging through sand, a board tucked under his arm, that one-in-a-million smile lighting his tan face. My breath catches as I see pure, effortless happiness, no sign of the haunted Paul I remember. Then, there is a blur of blonde, a streak before the camera, a bundle of bikini and cover-up throwing herself into his arms, gripping his neck and placing a kiss on his cheek. A girl. Maybe she is the reason for his happiness, for the light that shines from his eyes. Or maybe she is a groupie, one of the hundreds of beach Barbies that follow the surfing circuit. I listen to the announcer, to his recount of Paul, of his awards and standings, watching as he swings the girl in a tight circle before setting her down. Pulls her into a full kiss before she bashfully pushes him off. She turns, and I see her face.

It hurts, the expression I make, the contortion of my face as my jaw drops and eyes open wide, dried edges of the mask pulling and protesting as I stare in shock.


Tucked under Stewart’s arm, their faces beaming, as they walked past me in Livello.

A carefree wave to the valet as she left Stewart’s world and headed elsewhere.

On her knees, surrounded by books, spewing out friendliness as she gave away lighthearted mysteries.

Her. Stewart’s love, the reason for his smile. Hugging Paul. Kissing Paul.

The camera flips to another surfer, and my world blurs, my thoughts moving too quickly for rational thought, question after question pounding through my mind. In the background, the microwave shrills a persistent beep, repeating and repeating, like the countdown timer to a bomb of horrific proportions.

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?



I enter the bedroom, flipping on the lights and heading to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I crawl into bed and turn on the television. Halfway through a stain-remover infomercial, I fall asleep.

At some point in the night, Stewart joins me, his arms pulling me tight to his body, his mouth soft against the back on my neck. I nestle into his body, murmuring his name, and sleep steals back over me. The next thing I hear is the soft ding of my alarm.

I move, half-awake, through the motions of cooking. Preheating a skillet. Pouring oil. Beating eggs. The bacon is sizzling in the pan when I lick my fingers and move down the hall, pressing the button next to the light switch that opens the blinds. They move, a soft hum of motors, light peeking through the large windows, the room still dim, dawn on the edge of our city’s horizon.

“Wakey wakey,” I sing, running my hands lightly through Stewart’s hair before planting a soft kiss on his lips. They move beneath my mouth, smiling, and he speaks against my kiss, his eyes still closed.

“It can’t be five already.”

“It is, baby. I don’t joke about interrupting sleep. I’ve got bacon in the pan, so I’ve got to get back to the stove.” I steal another kiss and then leave, trailing my hands across his bare chest, then jog back to the kitchen, snagging a pair of tongs and turning crispy bacon a moment before it burns.