You may have noticed I’ve been gone – bitch we’re waiting on the book. Of course we noticed you were gone. – I’m sorry, guys. Bad writer! I know, I’m not proud of myself, but I do have a half way decent excuse. I had surgery three weeks ago, and I’ve been recuperating. I’ve also been working on the book. I’ve started editing, so it won’t be long now. Meantime, here’s a snippet from right after Lou and Lucky become a couple. The relationship is new and full of angst, at least on Lou’s end. But it’s lovely and fresh and sexually exciting. I hope you like it. – SS
She wanted to reciprocate, to stroke his long, beautiful body, to shape his muscles, squeeze hand fulls of his little ass – she’d managed only once before and longed to hold that work of art again – though he had a penchant for holding her wrists in his, keeping her where he wanted her, he said. She wanted to lick and bite and suck until her jaw ached and she was short of breath from being crammed so full. But she could barely move. Her limbs felt too heavy. All she could do was lay there like a live wire, writhing and twitching while he did as he liked, shaping and molding her flesh, stroking and heating her like rising dough.
It was intoxicating, fucking extraordinary, really. She’d never felt loving like that. And because she was helpless under his hands, she had to be content with his sighs and moans, with his twitching and writhing when she managed to break free and clasp the back of his neck and bring his mouth to hers, or gave him the bite of her nails in his back, the lift of her hips beneath the heavy strokes of his clever cock.
She adored the fevered beat of his heart through her skin when he smushed her into the bed. She reveled in the pounding when he veered over the edge, unable to control himself, his grunts, that fierce glitter in his eyes right before they closed and his mouth fell open, and he shook and trembled in her arms.
She could feel his satisfaction. It was like the slide of fur along the skin, though in reality all he’d done was gasp out a weak laugh. But that laugh was enough. She felt proud, accomplished. It felt better than winning her Academy Awards.
“You make me think in similes,” she whispered into his chest when it was over, and felt him smile into her hair as he pulled her closer.
What the hell am I getting into? She thought, yawning, and before she could worry over the answer, she fell asleep.
The next day Potts brought a small tree into the apartment.
“What the hell is this?”
“A lemon cypress,” said Potts. “Smell it.”
She sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the strong lemony scent. It wasn’t unpleasant. “What’s it doing here?”
“Lucky said it’s good for aromatherapy.”
“I once killed a cactus.”
“You don’t have to do a thing. He said he’ll take care of it.”
Lou snorted. “If he doesn’t it’ll be dead inside a week.” She did not do plants, and they bloody hated her.
But over the next few days they began appearing everywhere. In the lobby, when she showed the refurbished apartments they were there in corners in huge terracotta pots. Soon flowers graced every flat surface in every common area, including the laundry room – bright bunches in glass jars – Lucky found a case of them while cleaning up one of the storage closets, said Potts – and potted plants that looked too slender and young for the large pots they would supposedly fill out. Somehow her handyman’s green thumb had even coaxed ivy to grow along the walls.
“Isn’t that bad for the foundation?”
“It can be if let go too long,” said Potts. “But it mostly brings in oxygen and helps to clean the air.”
She eyed him. That had been said with some satisfaction. “You like all these flowers and such.”
He looked at her and then away. “Well, they do brighten up the place. The scent is marvelous, and they’re supposed to cleanse the air,” he repeated.
“Hmmmph,” said Lou, but she was half convinced Lucky’s organic staging was helping to rent the apartments.
The rent she was asking wasn’t quite as high as it could go for the neighborhood, but it was close, and parking was extra, but her new tenants didn’t blink an eye or seem at all inclined to argue. They signed their leases gleefully, practically snatching their freshly made keys from her hands.
So Lou just rolled her eyes at the plants, which seemed to double in size by the day, thirsty buggers, and cashed the checks.
“How are things going?”
“Bloody marvelous, if you must know. That handyman of yours is almost too good to be true.”
“I told you he was the shit.”
“Yeah, yeah, you did.”
“Can I have him back now? I’ve got some work around here needs doing.”
“No, just for the day.”
“Well, alright,” Lou said reluctantly. “If he wants to.”
Tommy laughed softly. “Listen to you. Feeling proprietary are we?”
“Yes! He does good work.” And I’ve got used to see him ‘round the place, and laying in all his manly splendor across my bed. “I’ve gotta go. It’s almost tea time. You know how Potts gets if his tea’s late.”
“No, but I know how you get. Tell Lucky to call me. Mua!”
“Miss? It’s time for the frosting.”
Potts was determined to teach her how to cook. So far it was a fairly hit or miss prospect. Oddly enough most of her hits were at tea time. Apparently her inner Wilma didn’t want to make a bad show in front of her handyman.
“Can’t you do it? This is what I pay you for.”
Potts didn’t even react, bless him, he just pointed, as if to say in his starchy British way, bitch please. Get to work. So she did. And had the very great pleasure of watching Lucky lick his long sexy fingers clean of buttercream after polishing off three of the organic ginger carrot cupcakes she baked.
She grinned, not caring that her chest was poked out far enough to give the illusion of breasts. Tomorrow she’d bake a real cake. See what he did with that. Suddenly she scowled. What the hell was she thinking? She didn’t bake cakes for God’s sweet sake. She’d got a handful of orgasms out of the man, and she was already changing who she was to please him.
“These were wonderful, Lou,” he rumbled, smiling at her as he accepted the last cucumber sandwich from Potts.
“Tomorrow I’m baking a cake,” she said. But under the table she pinched herself hard enough to bruise.
She went back to work, and stayed nose to keyboard for hours. Thank God her muse hadn’t changed. Ideas were pouring out of her faster than she could type them out, and she was typing damn fast. She had to. If she stopped she began to think, and then it felt like she was sinking into a pool of Lucky.
Before whenever she felt like that she’d stayed up for days, working, cleaning, anything to keep her mind from settling into its self-imposed quagmire. She did that until she just fell out. Now, oddly, there was no panic. There was no driving urgency to mask her feelings. There was only this strange sense of inevitableness. It made her sink too, but somehow she didn’t mind that the waters were slowly but surely closing over her head.