Let It Go (9 page)

What’cha doing?
The text reads. She smiles at the contact, one Brody McAlister.

Hi!
She types.
I’m writing. Working on my column. How about you?

Sitting around. Waiting for something to do…lol.
He texts back.
Guess I’m feeling a little lonely.

You wanna come over?
She types, her first thought. Quickly erasing the message, she opts for something a little less direct.
Don’t feel bad. You’re not the only one. Who’s lonely, that is…lol.
SEND.

His reply, now mirroring her initial thought.
You wanna come over?

YES!
She types. Again, erasing her words, quickly replacing her honest answer with one that she finds tolerable.
You think that’s a good idea? I don’t know…

Might be more fun to be lonely together.
He texts.

Are you sexting me? ;)
She giggles, pushing SEND.

LOL.
She reads his reply
. That ball’s in your court. I’m a pretty good spooner. And I tell a mean bedtime story.

Does it have a happy ending? That bedtime story?
She closes her eyes, pushing the SEND button.

Only if you want it to…
He replies.

By this time, Savannah is up out of her chair, pacing the porch from one end to the other, her mind, like
Thor’s
hammer, avidly crushing every urge, every carnal reply her body delivers.

Really, I shouldn’t.
She types
.

No worries.
He texts
. Are you free for dinner sometime this week?

But, I want to…
She hits SEND. Her stomach turns somersaults, wishing she could retrieve the authentic reply before it catapults at mach-one speed, fully visible to Brody
.

You want to go to dinner?
He inquires, obviously confused by what it is she wants to do.

No. I ‘want’ to come over.
She closes her eyes again, sending the message before she can erase it.

Even better!
He texts.
Get your fine ass over here.

“OMG, Savannah,” she mutters from inside her Jeep, pulling up in front of Brody’s house, “what are you doing?”

Her bravery quickly subsiding, she recalls the afternoon’s conversation, attempting to pull some inspiration from Jac’s influential pep-talk about embracing her newfound freedom in her personal life. She eyes herself in the rear-view mirror, her hair disheveled and only half dry, still in her nightclothes. Pinching at her cheeks, hoping to circulate a little color, she quickly dabs some gloss on her full pouty lips.

Brody meets her in the driveway, her fashion qualms coming to rest as he, too, wears uber-casual bedtime clothing, a form-fitting v-neck t-shirt and matching black lounge pants. She chuckles to herself seeing him there under his front porch light, the waistband of his pants reading Calvin Klein.

Maintaining an upbeat, friendly demeanor, a camouflage for her curiously stimulated interior, she hops out of her Jeep. “Thought you weren’t a Calvin-man,” she jousts, walking toward him.

“Never said I didn’t wear them. Just never modeled them,” he replies with that handsome grin, his arms opening wide for an embrace.

Savannah accepts, his strong grip tightly encircling her waist. “Well, I’d have to say I never saw a pair of Calvins look so good,” she says into his ear, taking note of the clean, seductive scent of his cologne.

“Since we’re exchanging compliments,” he prefaces, “I’d have to say I never held a woman that felt so good.” He gives her another squeeze, fully enjoying the toned curves of her body pressed against him before letting her go. He notices her arms are free of an overnight bag. “You come to a slumber party without any gear?”

“Well, I showed up in my pajamas.” She giggles, purposely having left her overnight bag behind, motivation not to stay.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, perceiving she may be a flight risk. “Come on in.” He holds the door open for her.

She stalls at the welcome rug just inside the door, taking in the warm woodsy smell. He grasps her hand, leading her to the living room. The space, large and open, is filled with handcrafted, one-of-a-kind furniture pieces. Artwork and pictures hang from the walls in eclectic barn wood frames. A masculine, dark-colored walnut rocking chair with perfectly executed inlays sits to the side of the fireplace. Her hand trails the top of a vintage oak whiskey barrel coffee table.

“You made this?” She looks at him, an entirely new affinity surfacing.

“Yep.” His eyes take note of how good she looks in his home.

“You said you made furniture, but…” her voice trails off.

“You were expecting a few logs. Maybe some basic IKEA lines.” He grins. “No worries. I get that all the time.”

She turns toward the lavish entertainment center that nearly fills an entire wall of the living room, its color and wood matching that of the rocking chair. “You should have a studio. In the art district. Look at this stuff.” Her eyes ogle about his house, all of the rustic, yet highly exclusive designs intriguing.

“I’m working toward that. Have my first showing in a few weeks. Maybe you could come.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

Caught up in each other’s glance momentarily, Brody breaks the tension. “You want to watch a movie, or something?”

She looks down at her feet. “I pick ‘or something.’” Her eyes trail back up to his, the message in them fully affecting his virile instinct.

He makes quick work of walking to her, his arms remaining at his side, waiting for that one little affirmation, whatever that may be. Savannah releases her pent-up exhale, along with it a sultry moan escapes.
Bingo!
Brody receives his cue. Ducking his head to hers, his fingers lacing through the sides of her hair, he tastes her, softly, proceeding with intent.

Coming up for air, Savannah smiles, tracing her upper lip with her tongue, having nearly lost sight of the sensation over the past two years. “God, I forgot how good that feels.”

“You wanna remember a little more?” he coaxes through ragged breaths, his hands stroking the sides of her neck.

“You might have to wind me up easy,” she says through a sleepy grin, “it’s been awhile.”

“Tick…tick…tick,” he draws out the clock-inspired whisper, promising a slow comfortable pace, his mouth finding hers once again.

They playfully indulge in the warm, wet, savory elation that is the art of kissing as Brody leads her to his bedroom. Intermittent sounds of pleasure and wonder escape them, fully discovering each other’s style and natural cadence of the intricate dance of both tongues and lips. Once inside the room where he sleeps, candles burn dimly, a mindful execution of such an encounter.

Savannah giggles with approval, her ears honing in on the provocative melody of the R&B music playing in his sound system. “Is this how you prepare for all your sleepovers?” she says, pampering his brawny neck with her mouth.

He sucks in air with her growing pressure, a bite, causing his skin to tingle beneath. “I haven’t had any sleepovers in quite some time. Guess that’s all the motivation a guy needs…to try.”

He pulls her tank top from her body, followed by his own t-shirt, the need to feel her flesh against his overwhelming. Scooping her up in his arms, her legs instinctively wrap around his waist, he supports her back effectively firming her front to his. His body momentarily moves in time with the rhythm of the slow, smooth music. Her face now level with his in this position, she runs her fingers through his hair and down around the back of his neck, their eyes engaged and locked on one another.

“I always wanted to try this.” Savannah grins, her forehead making contact with his. “It’s like that scene from
Roadhouse.
With Patrick Swayze.” She giggles.

“I was ready to try it from the first time I saw you at the gym,” he confirms, his easy smile forming. “You were working your glutes. I thought, ‘Man, I’d love to see that ass naked.’”

She laughs, tipping her head back, the perfect segue for him to return the lip-service she gave to his neck. Savannah moans with his contact, the combination of the softness of his lips and the coarseness of his five o’clock shadow providing the perfect friction.

“And now you’re here,” he whispers, working his way up to her ear.

She pulls his head from her neck, her fingers locked in his hair. “And lucky for you, I brought my ass,” she spars friskily, causing him to release a smooth throaty chuckle.

Brody continues to dance her around, spinning in a lazy circle, his hands cupping her full, well-toned genetic accessory with its mention. “So, what did you think? First time you saw me?” Brody feels her out, attempting to read between the lines of her conversation, mindful of her request to be wound up, slowly.

She smiles, her hands nimbly stroking his face, his neck, his shoulders and down his arms, as if she can’t decide which is her favorite part to touch. “I thought you had a great smile,” she says, her words causing his warm grin to surface. “Your body. Ooh,” she moans, scanning over the impressive musculature. “Your eyes.” She looks into his steel blues, genuine and sultry. “Your jaw.” She runs her hands along the strong, squared attribute. “Your walk. The way you carry yourself, confident and secure.” She continues, “You definitely appeal to a woman.”

“To
a
woman,” he repeats, his eyebrow arching, challenging her resistance to personalize the sentiment.

“But if you really want to know what I thought,” she sidesteps. “You know how you grunt and growl when you’re lifting?” She giggles, furrowing her brow.

He smiles, letting loose a forceful macho groan, pridefully backing up her claim.

Her chin drops to her chest before returning level with his gaze, her eyes now curiously intense and inexplicably carnal. “I wanted to know if that’s what you sound like…when you cum.”

He groans, unintentionally this time, an autonomic response to her intimate confession, his body replying in kind, growing firm and erect in all the right places. “Well, let’s find out,” he says, his voice deepening with his kiss. He lays her down on the bed, swiftly removing her pajama bottoms, his eyes reveling in her feminine form. “You are so
freaking
fine,” he opts for the lesser effective expletive, unsure of her tolerance for his usual adjective of choice.

Fully covering her flesh with his mouth and his frame, he leaves no curve unattended, ultimately taking special care of the sweet, moist spot between her thighs. Savannah arches into him, her head pressed back against the pillow, her hands wound in his hair, gripping ever tighter with the tantalizing action of his tongue.

“Brody,” she moans.

Hearing his name escape from her candied lips, he sits upright removing his Calvins. Savannah joins him, her hands stroking his sculpted chest, moving further south around his obliques, finally settling on the formidable wanton unit undeniably begging of her attention. Going down on him, his head falls back accompanied with another infamous growl at the warm, wet sensation of her mouth.

The candlelight, the music, having the woman he has fantasized about for months in his bed, the exquisite scenario ultimately escalating him nearer to the summit. Most pleasantly surprised by her skillful and eager devotion down below (Savannah’s innate attention to detail with most everything, she makes no exception with foreplay), he attempts to numb the titillating sensation with thoughts of baseball, unsuccessfully.

Forcing himself to disengage, he pulls her up to him. “Sweet Savannah,” the words escape his mouth.

Settling his forehead against hers, he strokes her face and neck with his hands, momentarily steadying his breathing, their chests rising and falling with the passage of labored air that bounces back and forth between them. She kisses him through smiling lips, the gesture aimed to let him know she is fully committed to the next level.

Having reined in his rapture, Brody positions her astraddle his waist as they sit upright in the middle of the cozy bed. One hand supports her back as the other skillfully guides the union of their bodies. His steel blues maintaining attentive contact with her dark greens, he inches into her.

Savannah sucks in her breath at first contact of the tip, his girth imposing. He holds off, allowing her to control her acclimation to him. She moans, pressing her fingernails into his back as she slowly takes him in.

His hands supporting her bottom, now fully immersed into her honeypot, his throaty, drawn-out reply follows, “God, you feel good. So creamy and tight.”

“I guess it’s true what they say…about a man with big hands,” she reciprocates his affirmation, an enchanted giggle escaping, indicative of the pleasure he delivers, deeply stroking her.

Their words quelled with long saturated kisses, his hands fully exploring her bottom and her thighs as they contract and relax, gliding up and down on him. Savannah’s hair flows around his face and shoulders, the wispy ends tickling his flesh. Her scent, her energy, her willingness to give herself to him, almost more than he can bear.