The next day, Fox has a shift, but offers to “have a bangin’ lunch” or swing by around midnight when he’s off work so we can commence round two. Or eleven. I stopped counting how many times we had sex last night. What was even more amazing than the sex—I refuse to tell him that, because his ego is bigger than his dick… which is considerable—was that I came every time.
So despite the fact that I’m a little sore in the Land of Lady Business, it is still during the peak fertility window, so I tell him he can come by after work. He acts like a juvenile and repeats “come” under his breath like he is literally Butt-Head from the cartoon. He even offers to bring meatball sandwiches from Joe’s, my favorite Italian deli. I only had one meeting and some editing I finished up right after, so I have all afternoon to relax and ice the vagina.
Okay, I don’t actually ice my vagina. Maybe just a little on the outer vulva area.
When Fox shows up at twelve thirty with a massive meatball sandwich—there are so many jokes to be made, but really, who has the time?—he tosses it on the table and grins at me while closing and locking the door.
“What?” I ask, smiling just because he’s smiling. I tilt myself to see the dark sky outside. I tease, “Is it a full moon or something?”
He shakes his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You want my meat?”
It occurs to me, more today than yesterday, that I’m going to enjoy these sexscapades with Fox if not only for the fact that his pickup lines are the most awfully entertaining innuendo and utter filthy nonsense that wouldn’t get a nymphomaniac in bed. And by awfully, I really mean the absolute worst. Yet, it works for me. Because they make me laugh, of course, not because they make me hot. Oh my God, I’ll stop now. I can’t believe I’m still on the topic.
“I do,” I say, sprinkling my own brand of cheese all over my response. I go for old Hollywood drama, overemphasizing both syllables while rubbing my hands all over my hips. Let’s not forget the knee is popped out so I look “thinner.” I digress. “I want it in me. Right. Now.”
I strut over with purpose—which in reality looks more like a hooker with leg braces and a hip replacement. I press myself up against his chest and lick his chin. Fox yanks off his jacket and pulls his scrub top over his head. Meanwhile, I grab the sandwich off the table and peel the wrapper to expose an end.
When he reappears after removing the shirt, I shove the sandwich in my mouth and, well, basically I fellate it like I’m going after the world record. For what, I can’t imagine. Just thinking about what I look like is embarrassing enough. But it’s going to make him laugh, I can tell.
Fox looks like he’s about to break, every facial muscle twitching wildly, trying to maintain his fake composure. That’s when I go for the jugular. I rip a massive bite off and start chewing. Let’s also realize I pretty much got an entire meatball in that bite, so I can’t properly close my mouth totally, let alone my lips. I’m chewing like the most dentally challenged cow.
It is, however, worth the effort, because Fox loses his shit. He backs up to the wall and grabs the side table next to the door for balance. I watch him lean over and wheeze for a minute before I run to the kitchen and grab a plate to spit out half the sandwich in my mouth.
“What are you doing?” he asks, still wheezing. “That shit is prime. Don’t waste it!”
“You think I’m not going to fork up that half-masticated mash of meatball mania? Think again, stud bucket. I will eat it with a shrimp fork just to entertain you. And myself.” I’m totally serious.
“Can I have a bite?” he asks.
I stare at him and answer through the mouthful that is left, even after spitting half of it out. “Why in the hell would you want my pre-chewed food? What are you? A fucking baby bird?”
“First of all,” he starts, and I can hear I’m in for a lecture, “birds barf up the food for their chicks. They can’t chew, as you may have noticed, they have beaks, not teeth and jaws.”
I rub both my eyes with my middle fingers and inspect the tips of said fingers, pretend to look for dirt or eye gunk. This way, I’m holding the double birdies out in an extra salute. Because the fucker keeps talking.
“Secondly, I meant the actual goddamn sandwich, you beast,” he says, snickering. “I can’t believe you ate the head off it.”
I swallow, finally, and pose to show my sincere offense and outrage. And by sincere, I mean sarcastically. “Foxypants, it’s not a penis. It’s a sandwich. It does not have a head, a ridge, a vein, nor will it squirt out the good stuff after you rub it a bunch of times. Stop equating the phallic food with the actual phallus. It’s beneath you.”
I can’t believe I got all that out without losing it, because Fox cracks up. When he can speak again, he replies, “It will be… beneath you, that is.”
“Oh, I get to be on top again? Fun times!”
“You better eat that sandwich or I’m going to just bend you over the counter.”
“Ooh, I bet you didn’t know I like it doggy-style,” I say, internally wondering if I had a bunch of liquor this afternoon. Why am I acting all flirty? Well, we’re about to have some sex, so I guess that makes sense. Oh, we are going to be taking a hell of a lot of advantage of this arrangement. There’s no question.
His face falls slack and his mouth hangs open. “You did not tell me that.” He’s far too calm. I have a very good feeling I’m about to get fucked over my counter whether or not I’m done eating. Maybe while I’m eating. Oh God, I’ll choke. Jesus, the things in my head.
“Well hello, Mr. Randy,” I say, because the look on his face tells me he’s going to rip his pants off like a stripper—if only he had tear-away scrubs.
“I’m Mr. Monkhouse, but you can call me God. You know, as in, ‘Oh, God’?” He steps closer.
I laugh. And laugh some more. Then I lean my head onto the counter and rest on my arms.
Wrong move.
Next thing I know, he’s behind me, pressing his growing “interest” in the idea of me over the counter into my rear entry region.
“Remember,” I warn, standing to put him fully at my back, “you try to put it in the back door and you’re fired. That is not the target. I repeat, the asshole is not the target!”
Fox tickles my ear with breathy amusement and I shiver. His hands grip my waist as he whispers, “Don’t move.”
I simply hum as I hear him pull the string on his scrubs, a soft pat sound when they hit the floor.
“Undo your shorts,” he orders, and I wonder why he’s all alpha on me tonight. I like it. Maybe too much. I know we’re supposed to be having fun with this, but if he keeps it up, I’m going to be addicted.
The audience titters and rumbles but I really don’t care right now because Fox has started fondling my boobs. It’s strange how much I like it.
I pop the button on my jean shorts and give them a push before they fall off my hips. A slight clink sounds as the button hits the floor.
“Panties, t—” He stops himself. “Are you wearing underwear with goddamn unicorns on them?”
“Ha!” I lean forward on my arms again. “You bet your sweet ass I am. You want to hold them as you fuck me? Or shall I simply take them off?” I twist to look over my shoulder at him and smile.
A crooked smile grows over his lips, from one side to the other. “Drop ’em, Fordham.”
I maintain eye contact as I work them over my hips and let them fall. He holds my gaze for a moment, and swallows hard before looking away to my bare caboose.
“Jesus, I love your ass,” he says and I snort.
“Jesus’s ass should not be part of the discussion right now,” I tease, wiggling my own.
For that I got a slap. On the ass. Did you get that? He spanked me! Thing is, my immediate response is a moan. I spin to face him, my mouth gaping in surprise—it shouldn’t. We briefly touched on the spanking thing yesterday. His eyes are a little wide, but his lips are curvy.
“Turn around,” he says, his voice low and even. I feel the beaches of down south in Sophie-land flood with high tide. Crime in Italy, can someone turn off my thought processes, please? This is horrible.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, though I turn back to lean over the counter very slowly.
Smack.
“Ohh God,” I moan again. Christ, how have I taken this long to figure out I like a little spanking?
“Yes, that’s me,” he teases, and I try to spin and slap him—playfully, this time, but he rushes forward to lock down my hands.
His erection presses against my ass and I realize he already dropped his boxer briefs. “I’d go commando,” he says all the time, “but that’s how I got written up by HR.”
“Are you ready for me, Lollipop?” he asks. “You may have noticed I’m ready for you.”
He thrusts against my hips, his cock sliding up and down. The next thrust, he repositions himself to slide between my legs, the head teasing along my slit, bumping against my clit before he withdraws.
“Answer me please.”
My eyes fly open. I hadn’t realized I closed them. “I thought I did,” I say.
“In more than moans, woman,” he growls.
I swear I’ve never been wetter. “Please. I mean, yes. Yes, I’m ready. Goddammit, Fox, I’m ready!”
I can almost hear his cocky grin as he slips one hand around my waist, splaying his fingers low across my belly. Part of me thinks, “Oh, it’s like he’s aiming for the baby den!”
Without asking, I tilt my hips back. I feel him pull away enough before he positions the tip right where I’m aching—and not from soreness. I shake my ass, just a tiny bit, and that little prod is enough for him to enter me. His hips are flush with mine in one thrust. The moan that stumbles out of me is loud and breaking in all sorts of ways.
“Sweet Christ, yes,” I mutter. “Do it. More,” I beg. “Come on!”
He doesn’t speak—I swear, before we’re done, I will get him into some serious dirty talk—but he does move. One arm pulls me back against him, and the other hand grabs my hair and wraps it around his wrist. He doesn’t pull hard, but it’s just enough. I find myself grasping for somewhere to sink my fingers into, but the other side of the counter is too far. I pull my hands back and twist my wrists so my fingers tuck under this side of the granite slab. I let my eyes stay closed for a bit, just feeling him pound, in, out, in, out. I get a few more spanks, though I think he just wants to hear me moan when I feel the slap. After the last, I arch my back and jut my hips out farther, making sure he has the angle to pull out and slam back in. My head pulled back, I slip one hand down my front to circle the pussy pearl. I clearly don’t need much help because soon I throw myself forward, my body curling in overwhelming pleasure. It forces him to let go of my hair, but he moves both hands to my hips. His grip is tight, maybe because I’m nearly bucking off him to ride out my orgasm or maybe because he’s reached his.
I’m basically breathing in my own face, a puddle on the counter as Fox lightly collapses on my back. He might be drooling. I may have pulled a hamstring, I’m not sure. Hopefully not, because then more sexin’ like this would be on hold. I have to stop thinking because all my thoughts turn to mud.
“Holy shit,” he mutters.
“Heh.” I remain still and amused in my own personal drool puddle.
“Are you hungry? I think we need to eat that sandwich now.”
I laugh, but he’s not wrong. I’m fucking starving.