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24 || Wet ass pussy (I)
Big, fat waves crashed over the riverbank, sending jets of water in the direction of the best friends sunbathing in the nearly deserted beach. Blair giggled at nothing in particular. She was bored with the silence. Dylan looked up from the magazine he was reading to stare at her. She shrugged, he resumed reading and she watched him from her sunglasses, basking in the beauty of the handsome man across her.
Best friends shouldn’t know how each other taste but she knew how Dylan tasted. How his hard body felt against her soft one. How his fingers glided over her breasts.
Her lips tingled from the reminder of their drunken kiss. The feel of his hands roaming her body, seeking her warmth.
Did he sometimes think about her? Or that night they promised never to speak about? Blair looked away at the dampness that formed between her legs and pulled the straw hat over her face. Dylan didn’t have to say much, he made her wet with only a glance. And those were the only th
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Throes Of Passion 25 || Wet ass pussy (II)
Blair nodded, the only thing she could do with his gaze holding her captive. “I think so.” Dylan leaned so close his breath tickled her neck. Goosebumps erupted on her skin, he said in a voice she knew wasn’t meant for her to hear, “I want to fuck you, B. I need you to remember how I taste.” In a louder voice, he added, “We should get going then, knucklehead.” She froze, was that it? She wanted it too. She wanted him to fuck her until the only thing she knew was him, he could bend her over like a cheap slut. “You never could hold your alcohol in anyways.” A wave of emotions crashed over her, she couldn’t identify all but she identified the overwhelming disappointment. She gave a feeble nod. “Not so fast,” he said when she tried to scamper off him. “You have to put this on first.” He raised her bikini top and another lump formed in her throat. She was quiet as he helped her put it on. His lips lowered to her cheek in a chaste peck, she wished it was he
Throes Of Passion 26 || Must Date The Chef (I)
A thrill of excitement shoots through me as my eyes skim the content of the email. I read it again to be sure I’m not imagining things. The email states that I, Pauline Ifunaya Eneh, have been promoted. I scoot out of my swivel chair to perform a happy dance. The promotion took a while but it’s finally here. “You better behave yourself,” Mrs Nse, the lady seated at the corner of my office, snaps. Yeah, I share an office with her, a married woman who is always on my case. I make a funny face, kneeling on my seat to twerk and she rolls her eyes. We barely get along but I will be out of her hair in a heartbeat because I have been promoted. I have my own office now, in another branch. Too excited to sit, I place a call to my long term boyfriend, Edwin. He picks on the first ring. “Hey, baby, guess what just happened?” Mrs Nse makes a sound, I look up and she places a finger on her lips. She needs to take her own advice and shut the fuck up. I plug
Throes Of Passion 27 || Must Date The Chef (II)
Someone is trying to pry my skull open with a crowbar. That’s the only way to describe the throbbing pain at my temples. I peel my eyes open. My vision is a bit hazy but the figures in front of me finally move into focus. There are four things I notice. The waiter is still here. His knuckles are bruised. Edwin has a cut on his lips. There’s a small crowd watching us. “Hey,” Edwin says and scurries to sit beside me. He takes both of my hands when I try to touch the side of my head. “Don’t do that, babe. The waiter hit you by mistake.” I look up to him and nod. Liar. Fucking liar. There is no way the waiter would have reached me. “I’m going to get him fired. But first, let’s get you to a clinic.” His lips descend over mine in a brief kiss I don’t respond to. “What’s wrong?” The crowds have resumed their business, even the waiter is missing. I swipe my hand across my nose. “Nothing’s wrong. I want to go home.” Edwin chuckles. “I’m
Throes Of Passion 28 || Must Date The Chef (III)
It has been a week since I left the hospital and I think I’m perfectly fine. The concussion did give me grounds to request for two weeks leave which was approved immediately. And that was a big mistake. Why? I was so bored and so single I called Edwin. And he apologised. And my stupid self—for a minute—contemplated accepting his apology. My gaze falls to the ringing device on the vanity. It’s him. Edwin. I hit the reject button and place the phone face down. Unravelling my twists, I comb through it to let my bouncy curls fall down my shoulders. Maintaining kinky hair can be tough but once you figure out what works for your hair, life is easier. It takes another thirty minutes for me to finish dressing up. Never mind that I’m only going to Palace Gardens to search for my non-asshole waiter frenemy. I have to look good. When I finally make it out of the house, I have a dozen missed calls from Edwin. Throughout the ride, I rehearse my lines over
Throes Of Passion 29 || Must Date The Chef (IV)
Left? As in, he walked out of the restaurant without letting me know? My head rounds up to Idem. He’s waiting for further questions. “What do you mean left?” “Today was his last day. He resigned. So he has gone.” I blink back the shock. My mouth drops open and I swallow hard. “Anything?” “No. Nothing at all. It’s fine. Thanks.” I pick up my handbag and almost break out in a run in my haste to leave this place. How did: in five minutes turn to: he already left? Scum. Men are scum. Paul. Edwin. Scum of the earth. I don’t remember much of the drive back home or the events after but the next day, I’m awake earlier than I should and ready for work though my leave hasn’t ended. If I had work, I wouldn’t have been at the restaurant. If I hadn’t been there, Paul wouldn’t have embarrassed me. He couldn’t have told me that he had to leave? My car slows as I near the path leading to my office. I’m still pissed. Our convers
Throes Of Passion 30 || Must Date The Chef (V)
Paul’s lips touch mine. He’s gentle, testing the waters. My lips part in a protest and his tongue slides into my mouth. His fingers find their way into my hair, tugging gently on my kinky curls from the root. I rotate my front against his slight bulge. His palm crawls up the side of my breast and the voice of reasoning leaves me. I want him. I need him. Our kiss deepens as we continue the lips tango. His hands move to my face, leaving me with a deep want for his touch on other parts of my body, on my core. To touch me in the ways Edwin never did. I moan against his lips, touching, feeling every part of him that my hands can reach until a phone rings. A phone that’s not mine. We separate to catch our breaths. My hand goes over my tingling lips, then moves to my cheeks. I can still feel the sparks, the tingles from his touch. I want more of it. I need more of it. The thought scares me and I try to itch away from him but he is not having it. His gr
Throes Of Passion 31 || Must Date The Chef (VI)
Paul didn’t ask for my number. I didn’t ask for his. But we have a date. Today. This evening. How do we communicate? I have no idea. Two days since he fingered me in my car and my body hasn’t stopped playing images of that scene. I have orgasmed multiple times from the image alone. Did I ever come that fast with Edwin? I can’t remember. Our sex life was mostly dormant due to his hectic schedule. I tap on my keyboard and the laptop screen comes alive. One hour until my meeting with potential investors. My eyes soak in all the necessary details required to win a proposal, I pen down a few things and continue skimming. A knock on the door forces my head up. The next thing I do is survey my office. Everything is intact. Table, couch, mini fridge. Intact. “Come in,” I say, tucking the pen into its holder. The door opens but no one steps in. I stand. Might be the investors. One glance at my outfit—chiffon top tuck
Throes Of Passion 32 || Must Date The Chef (VII)
Paul is on his way. He’s five minutes away. Why am I nervous? He called me babe and I did the same. He ate me out. We fucked on my office’s couch. So why am I shaking? I pace the length of my living room. A song is playing from the speakers positioned under my television but the lyrics are lost on me. My phone rings. I jump. Geez. This is fine. It’s just a date. What if he doesn’t ask me to be his girlfriend? He has to be the one to do the asking. I snatch the phone from the sofa. “Hey,” I greet. “I’m here,” comes his voice. Another wave of dread rolls through me. I clear my throat. “Cool. It’s apartment two.” The call ends. I tighten the robe around me and wait. Minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I stalk to the door and open it. It’s him. It’s Paul in a tux. My breath ceases. My gaze trails him from head to t
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