The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (23 page)

Surprises

OCTOBER TURNED INTO
November, which in California meant that not much changed, weather-wise. It stayed sunny, for the most part, and I spent even more time at the beach house with my Sun God, for he really was my Sun God, learning to surf, and doing some other stuff. He also was frequently at my home, and we did some other stuff. And we saw each other in other places, and did some other stuff.

You can figure out what kind of stuff I'm talking about.

Okay, I'll spill.

One Wednesday, in early November, he surprised me at my office, showing up at the reception desk, holding paper bags of sandwiches for lunch. When Neveah paged me, she didn't tell me who was there, she just told me that there was a package waiting for me at the front desk. But once I walked out front, I saw my surfer standing there, with his dark jeans belted low on his lean hips, a button-down, plaid shirt over a white t-shirt, which hugged his biceps, and flip flops. Some package. His dimples made an appearance on his tanned face and his curly, light hair looked especially wild in our staid office. But a delivery of a hot, sexy man who brings me food? Yes, please.

Quietly following me down the hall to my office, not saying anything, since my co-workers were busy, he looked around, taking in the surroundings. One side of the office, the side with windows, had attorney's offices, one after another, all the way down the hall. The other side of the hall opened to cubicles for legal assistants.

Ryan's presence made me notice things that I normally took for granted. For example, I listened, and heard how the office had a quiet hum of computer keys typing, papers printing, and copy machines churning out legal documents, in addition to muffled telephone conversations. As we strode to my office, I really looked at the local photographs on the walls; over the years I had become inured to my surroundings and never really looked at them anymore, even though they were naturally beautiful. He always had this effect on me, making me feel things and experience things that I had previously numbed out or blocked.

But of course, the thing that I was most aware of was him. Ryan had this bigger-than-life presence; at least, I thought so, and I felt it. He radiated energy, which attracted me to him and made me more "me." I felt things more with him, I saw things more with him, I heard things more with him, and I felt more alive when I was with him.

More than his effect on me in a personal development sense, however, was that he still fucking turned me on every fucking time I saw him. You would think that I’d get used to it, that there would be some sort of habitualization or familiarization with his sexiness.

But no.

I thought that I'd never get used to him. It felt like he was
it
, for me. I don't think he was "my type," whatever my type was. "My type" was probably a guy in a tie. He certainly was not like any other man I had ever been with. He was so manly, but gentle, so bossy, but egalitarian. His male beauty was almost too much for me to take at times. I never thought I'd have a thing for a surfer. But here it was: the guy for me was a super sexy surfer.

What’s more, I loved it when he entered the room, any room, at any time. My heart always beat faster when I saw him. He always surprised me, and I always wanted to see what he would do next. In some ways, I had always gone through life waiting for the other shoe to drop. If things were going well, I expected it to end. I expected that there was an end-date for good things happening to me. But with Ryan, it seemed like it just got better and better every time we were together. It felt like we were open with each other, like our relationship was real, and like we trusted each other.

I thought that we were the physical embodiment of the classic "opposites attract." My pale, his tan. My dark hair, his light. My soft curves, his hard muscle. But we fit each other really well. Even though we were opposites, we felt good together and balanced each other out. I imagined our relationship as the yin-yang symbol, him all hot and fiery, male passion and energy, me all feminine and, well, cool.  The moon to his sun.

Oh, fuck, I've just proved that I really am a fruit and nut from California. I'll just show you to the New Age bookstore down the street and get you some organic cold-pressed green juice and a CrossFit session before you have your reading with the psychic.

Moving on.

So now he showed up in my office, a surf God in his flip flops and jeans, while I was dressed conservatively in my black pencil skirt, cream cashmere sweater, black patent leather kitten heels, and fucking pearls.  Truth: I liked the pearls when I was going for the Liz Taylor lookalike thing.  Okay, so I was dressed a bit like a sexy secretary. It was a good day for him to come by as a surprise.

Once we got to my office, I felt shy. Here was where I spent most of my days, and this was my sanctuary. I was showing him another part of me. I spent an awful lot of time here, so I had tried to fix it up to make it reasonably pleasant for the hours that I spent billing clients. My office was stylish, with a traditional dark wood desk and credenza, cream colored, upholstered, client chairs, and orchids that I bought regularly from an orchid grower just south of Santa Barbara. My diplomas were framed, serving as a resume on the wall. Although there were papers on my desk, and a few boxes of files on the floor, it was mostly neat.

I walked into my office and shrugged, saying, "This is me," and he looked around appreciatively. But then he closed the door behind him and launched at me with a scorching kiss. Hard, wet, and thorough. Then, as he sucked and bit along my jaw, his glorious full lips moving towards my ear, he started nibbling my ear, and murmured "I couldn't wait until the weekend."

Panties, wet.

But.

"My door doesn't lock."

We both looked at the back of my doorknob, which had no lock, but a hang tag dangling, the type that were in hotels to ask the maids to pick up the room, only this one said "Do Not Disturb, Teleconference with the Court."

Oh, that wicked Ryan grin.

He separated away from me, opened the door a fraction and slid the hang tag on the front of my door, letting it swing. Then he shut the door.

"How you doing today?" he asked, moving back towards me.

"Fine?" Where was he going with this?

"I think we can do better than 'fine,'" he whispered, and bopped my nose with his tan index finger. Then he gently pushed me toward my desk, propping my ass up so I was half-leaning on it, and got down on his knees and pushed up my skirt over my ass.  Then he hooked his fingers in my panties (thank God I only wore my new pretty ones these days) and slipped down the lacy, black high-cut-showing-my-ass-cheeks panty down my legs, and off.

I noticed that he didn't take off my shoes.  I wasn't gonna take them off, either.

"Spread."  The tone of his voice brooked no argument.  You know, I still couldn't believe that I was doing this here, in my office, essentially a public place, with co-workers all around, and an unlocked door. But I spread.

He lifted me up so that I was sitting on the desk, pushed my knees way out, farther than I had left them, and licked and laved his way up my inner thigh, heading towards the promised land in the middle.

"Fuck, I love it that you're bare," he murmured, "you are so wet you’re glistening.  It is, fuck, it’s so—" and he didn't finish his sentence because his mouth was on my pussy, and he was therefore otherwise engaged.

As they said in some eighties movie I saw during retro night in college,
fuck me gently with a chainsaw
.

Ryan did not hold back in anything, but he especially did not hold back in thoroughly exploring my sensitive pussy. He licked, and gently sucked my clit and then ran his tongue around it, the entire length, circling both sides, hitting all of the nerve endings. Then he repeated his ministrations. Tongue on clit, then my whole pussy. Repeatedly. Over and over again. He teased with the tip of his tongue, then lapped me steadily, then teased, and was steady, until my body tensed up and built up and tensed and built, until I was about to cross that bridge into the land of the orgasm.

It seemed that the antidepressants were not an issue any more. Thank you, Dr. Google for believing in me.

No. Thank you, Sun God.

When I was about to come, my arms straight and bracing the desk, my legs spread and tensing, my eyes closed, my head thrown back, my breathing stifled by my attempt to clamp my mouth shut, he inserted one long finger, and then another into me, and then, ohmigod, started finger fucking me for real as he ate me, caressing, cajoling, and coaxing an orgasm from me.

I had to bite my lips to keep from making noise.

My entire body convulsed as I perched on my desk, Ryan's curly hair between my legs, my lips pressed together tightly, keeping a moan from escaping. My arms, holding on to the desk, shook. My breasts shook. My legs shimmied. I climaxed. I released. I came.

He stayed there, licking me, riding it out with his face and his fingers, extending it, then easing me down, as the convulsions slowed.

Then he got up, gracefully, and smiled at me, putting his forehead next to mine.

"Time for lunch?" he asked.

"Nuh-uh, buddy. Your turn. We've gone this far. Might as well christen the desk. I'll name it after you. Did you bring a condom?"

"Yeah." He pulled out his wallet, fished one out, and ripped it with his teeth. "I like the idea of you looking at your desk and thinking of me fucking you while you're working on some complicated case." Then he unbuckled his belt, lowered his pants and boxers, and let his handsome, almost fully-erect, cock be free. I rubbed his cock with my hands, bringing it to full attention, and then rubbed it against my wet pussy, lubing it up, enjoying the feel of him, the thickness, the throbbing, and the tension.

"Let me," I said, and he handed me the condom.

I rubbed his cock against my pussy, up and down, with some pressure, and now it was his turn to put a hand over his mouth to suppress a moan. Up and down, up and down, and then he looked at me, pleading, and said, "Enough, Amelia. Now."  I smiled, and rolled the condom down, sheathing him. Then I spread my legs wider, and pulled him to me.

Because I was so wet, he slipped his big cock easily inside, again suppressing his satisfied moan, and he held me to him by my lower back, fucking me on my god-damned lawyer desk.

Fucked me. At work. During working hours.  On my desk.

It was so god-damned quiet, just our heavy breathing, and the slaps of our skin, against the hum of the office.

Ryan sucked his index finger and then slipped it between us, rubbing my clit again.

Oh, beautiful torture. I couldn't say anything, I couldn't really move, I couldn't do anything, I couldn't think.

Finally, I was not over-analyzing sex with Ryan.
I was just doing it.
I was just feeling the connection, feeling our bodies, feeling the pleasure, feeling great.  Feeling being connected to him.

Again, he built me up, and this time I came at the same time that he did, our bodies shaking together, our groans suppressed in a wild, seriously desperate, kiss.

He collapsed on me, burying his face in my neck, holding me up on my desk, his cock still inside me.

After a bit he leaned back, pulling both of us up, slipped out, divested himself of the condom and put it in the pocket of his jeans, tidied himself up, helped me on with my panties, and asked, "Now, time for lunch?"

And I burst out laughing.

A few days later, on my lunch break on Thursday, I wandered through Sephora on State Street and ended up in the NARS cosmetics aisle.  Then I realized how far I had come in the few short weeks since I had known Ryan.

I had come. Ha! No need for me to buy the ORGASM blush. I looked at the other blushes and wondered how the MALIBU color would look on me instead. It seemed more appropriate with my surfer guy.

Thursday evening, I left work early, and decided to surprise Ryan at his house, the way he surprised me at my work.

Even though I was still dressed for work, with a black blazer, slim trousers, and pumps, I thought, "Fuck it," and put down the convertible top, tying my hair back. I drove along the coast from Santa Barbara to Faria Beach, the wind wild, the sun on my skin, music playing, feeling good. I turned off Highway 101 to the turn-off and followed it along the beach, to Ryan's house,

… where I saw two people standing in his open garage door;

… where I saw a female booty in short shorts and stacked sandals on long, slim, tan legs;

… where I saw Ryan's arms wrapped around this blonde female's back, embracing her;

… where I saw him move in and press his forehead to this female's forehead;

… where my entire world died.

Silly Things

BASTARD. FUCKING BASTARD.

Words did not exist that were strong enough to express how I felt.

I realized that I had a few choices.  I could go back and confront him.  I could call him and yell at him.

Or I could do what I did on autopilot, and get the fuck out of there.