Pulling up outside of Big Sam’s I find myself grinning when I see Becks standing outside of the front door in a pair of skin tight well worn, faded jeans and one of those artfully ripped up concert t-shirts that falls over her shoulder baring a leopard print bra strap and at least a couple of those loose fitting belts slung low over her hips with all the silver studs and loops. The outfit is topped off with a pair of shiny black platform heels that wouldn’t look out of place dancing around a pole. It’s cheap, it’s rocker chic and somehow she pulls it off, looking like a Vogue cover model slumming it on a sunny Sunday afternoon and when she tips her rhinestone encrusted sunglasses down and smiles in my direction I grin back thinking she’s my cover model.
“You’re late,” she admonishes me as she turns her head to spit a wad of well chewed bright pink bubble gum out on the sidewalk.
“You could let me pick you up,” I point out to which her only reply is to laugh, toss her hair back over her shoulder and lean in for a long, simmering kiss that leaves me wanting to take her straight back into my car, skip the food and go straight for the sex I’ve been day dreaming about for days. Instead, I reach for her hand, only to find myself staring down at another set of bike chain, black rubber and silver stud accessories on her wrist where I’d expected the elegant diamond tennis bracelet.
“You’re not wearing it?” I ask, turning my eyes up to meet hers and I realize that I’m expecting her to have broken into a sweat, for her to stammer out some half assed obviously bull shit explanation about having lost it.
“I’m about to have barbeque sauce up to my elbows,” she answers with a snicker, giving my hand a squeeze and turning around to pull me into the restaurant. “Did you want me to lose it in a vat of extra smoky sauce?” Shaking my head and laughing at my own bias, I stumble after her, wondering how she can not only walk backwards in those six inch heels but how I didn’t realize that she’s also taller than me in them and that I don’t actually mind.
“Becky! Becks!” Her name seems to ring out from everywhere and I find myself following the echo of the sound of her name from the front of the restaurant to the back before I turn curious eyes on her.
“I kinda like barbeque,” she explains with a shrug and a not very innocent bat of her long eyelashes. I had picked the restaurant. Well, I’d asked around and some of the guys had heard about the place, mostly from some kind of contest that it had either won or was held here, none of us were quite sure. It isn’t really the kind of food we’re normally allowed to eat during the season.
“You here to eat me out of house and home Becks?” A handsome, very tall, and very dark African American man with a long row of very straight, very white teeth meets her with a crushing hug and I watch her practically disappear into him while I stand there still wondering what the hell is going on.
“Becky?” I ask as she turns around, looking sheepish.
“Okay, so I kinda won a wing eating contest once,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes like it’s no big deal, except the big man with the big plastic menus in his hand laughs out loud, throwing his head back as his belly jiggles with mirth.
“Once?” he snorts, shaking his head as he gives her a little push that nearly sends her flying except that I’m between her and the wall, “Rebecca is the Pittsburgh wing eating champ three years running,” he says to me which makes her groan and give him a very dark look, which I make a mental note never to be on the other side of.
“Thanks Samson,” she sighs, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. “It’s not like I’m not obviously on a date here. Kinda making me out to be some kind of pig when we can all clearly see that I’m not,” she adds, rubbing his generous ponch before placing her hand over her flat stomach.
“Yeah, I’ve never figured out where you put all of those wings. I’ve always thought you were cheating,” Samson laughs heartily but I can tell just by the way he looks at her that their relationship is almost fraternal and that he doesn’t really mean it, but looking at her, I can’t help but wonder myself.
“Speaking of wings,” she grins at him, ignoring his taunting remark, “find us a table and bring me a big basket of the little buggers will you?”
“Same as always?” he asks, and she nods enthusiastically. “You got it Becks. Why don’t you take your man out on the patio? I’ll be right back.”
“So…how many chicken wings did you eat?” She makes a face but then shrugs and gives me a half smile.
“I don’t know…,” she begins until I raise my eyebrow at her and then she rolls her eyes and lets out a long sigh. “Okay, last year it was a hundred and forty-eight in fifteen minutes.” I’m shocked and not entirely unimpressed by the feat and it must show on my face because I can’t stop staring at that little strip of bare skin between the bottom of her t-shirt and the top of her low slung jeans. “It’s just little bits of chicken sucked off little bits of bones, and don’t look at me like that,” she laughs, giving me a playful cuff across the cheek, “what are you, twelve?”
“I told you,” I grin across at him, using one of the wet naps I had stashed in my purse to wipe a smear of barbeque off of his cheek. “So do you forgive me for not wearing the bracelet now?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman dive into her food like that,” he chuckles, sitting back and spreading his fingers over his stomach, making a face like he shouldn’t have eaten that last hush puppy. “Not that I’m complaining,” he adds quickly with one of his devious grins. “It was kind of a turn on to watch you suck the meat off of all those bones.”
“Yeah?” I grin over at him, sticking my thumb in my mouth and sucking the last spot of barbeque off it, watching his gaze settle on my thumb as it disappears into my lips as his gaze becomes unfocussed.
“Oui,” he replies breathlessly as I ease my thumb out, a millimeter at a time, until it comes out clean with an audible ‘pop’. “Tabernak! Si vous ne me prenez pas la maison et me fair l’amour ma tête va exploser.” It’s funny how I’m beginning to get the hang of this French language, or at least half the time I don’t need a literal translation to get the gist of what he’s saying. The look of pure, unadulterated lust on his face as I reach across the table and insert his index finger into my mouth to lick a spot of sticky red sauce from it is enough. “Your place or mine?” he asks suddenly, springing to his feet and digging in his pocket for his wallet, pulling out a handful of bills and tossing them onto the table.
“So that’s it? A few wings and a couple of ribs and I’m all yours?” I ask, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms over my breasts, regarding him with skepticism.
“I didn’t…I thought….” Looking crestfallen and a little embarrassed, Max stands there across the table from me like a little boy whose just had his hand slapped and is waiting for a scolding.
“You’re funny,” I laugh, grabbing my purse and pushing my chair back with a loud scraping noise. “Like I made your bed for no reason.”
“So it’s my bed?” he growls, giving my ass a hard enough smack that I can’t help but let out a yelp as he reaches past me to push open the door to the parking lot.
“What? You don’t think I’m going to look amazing on all that shiny black satin?” I ask as I walk around to the passenger side of his sleek, dark car.
“If you make me imagine that we won’t get very far,” he warns, stopping to look at me over the roof of the car, with a sort of half assed grin on his face that’s kinda like throwing a red flag in front of a bull.
“Oh so you mean you don’t want to think about me, naked, in your bed,” I begin, hooking my thumb beneath one of my bra straps and pulling it down over my shoulder.
“Tabernak! Get in the car,” Max groans, sliding into the driver’s seat while I giggle hook my thumb under the waistband of my panties, pulling it up over my hip so he’s forced to see it. “Do that when I’m driving and we’ll crash.”
I’m scared to death. I’m probably more turned on than I’ve ever been in my entire life but I’m also scared to death.
With my pasty white ass pressed against the window, I can’t help but glance nervously around as Becky struggles out of her tight jeans, pushing them over her hips and wiggling like a happy puppy beneath me as I hold myself over her, partially because there’s nowhere else for me to go and partially to help give her the sense of privacy I no longer have because somehow I’m already naked as the day I was born while she’s still got her heels and jeans on.
All I know is we’re somewhere between the restaurant and my house and that with her lips wrapped around my dick, I don’t want to or maybe can’t wait until we get back to my place. I pulled into what I am praying is an empty alley, and it didn’t take more than that to get Becks to hop into the back seat and yank off her top.
Grabbing one of her feet, I marvel for a second at the width of the platform on her shoes and the slim, almost weapon like narrowness of the steel stiletto before tugging it off and tossing it into the front seat and then grabbing at the bottom of her jeans and sliding them off over her blood red toenails. Now all that’s between us is a pair of black bikini bottoms with the word ‘rowrr’ written across her mound in leopard print.
There’s a joke in that, I know there is, but right now my mind can’t form the words to say it out loud. Later, maybe in the dressing room tomorrow, it will come to me, but for right now, all I want is inside those panties and inside of her. Grabbing her with one hand and the panties with the other, the little shred of material joins the rest of our clothes in the front seat while she rips a condom package open with her teeth. It’s a savage sound and the grin she gives me while her teeth rip into the foil packaging sends a shiver down my spine and straight into my cock which is saluting her craziness in a painful sort of way.
I can’t even manage a full word as she strokes the latex sleeve over my Johnson. All I can do is groan and mumble something unintelligible as she leads me down between her thighs, down into the dripping wet folds of her pussy and finally into the tight, hot centre of her and then I can’t think at all. My brain is full of explosions, like the fucking Fourth of July, Canada Day and New Years fucking Eve all at once.
It takes a full minute before my brain can even send the signal down to my hips to move and even then, I’m more worried about slamming her head into the inside of the door or whether or not someone’s going to look in and see me, Superstar, doing it in the alley like some kid out of grade school. But once I do start to move, once we start to move, I forget about being seen or whether or not she’s going to slide off the seat. Once I feel her hands on my ass, her nails digging into my skin, and watch her mouth fall open and realize that I’ve done that, that I’m the one making her arch her back off of the leather seat and squeal like an eight year old girl getting an easy bake oven for Christmas, I stop worrying about getting caught and then all I can think about is how good it feels inside of her, how hot and wet and fucking tight she is.
“Merde woman! Fuck I’m not going to last long,” I manage to pant, hanging onto one headrest while I brace my other arm against the back of the passenger seat.
I give his ass a hard, open handed slap, admiring the red, perfectly hand shaped welt it leaves behind. But it doesn’t make him move. He just lies there, prone, naked, on his stomach and groans.
“I can’t…feel…my dick,” he moans, his face pressed into the only pillow remaining on the bed. The rest are either on the floor somewhere, or shredded, in pieces, with feathers scattered everywhere, including in his hair. Plucking one of the small grey feathers out form his light brown locks, I bend down to press my lips lightly to the tip of his hair. “Non, arrêter. I can’t do it anymore. If I try again it might fall off.”
“Oh I don’t know about that,” I whisper, curling my body next to the immobile flesh that is his body. “I pulled pretty hard on it before and it didn’t come off.” This description earns me another groan but his hand also twitches, moving faster than the naked eye can see, and his fingers curl around my wrist.
“I think there’s something wrong with you,” he says quietly, turning so that I can just see one green eye surrounded by a fan of long, dark lashes. “I’m a fucking professional athlete and you have just complètement worn me out. What are you? Some kind of succube?”
“I prefer the term sexual vampire,” I purr back at him, hooking my leg around the back of his so that I can bring my entire body in line with his warm, languid one. “If it makes you feel any better,” I add, nipping at his earlobe, “I can’t remember the last time anyone could even keep up with me this long.”
“And what did you do with votre dernière victime? Bury him? Burn him?” he asks, a playful smile creeping across the half of his mouth I can see.
“Oh him,” I roll my eyes and shrug before pulling my hand free and giving his ass another hard, vociferous, slap. “I had Samson cook him out in his smoker, covered him in barbeque sauce and ate him.” With a snort and a shake of his head, Max reaches for me and pulls me against his body before reaching for the sheet and pulling it up to both of our chins.
“Well then I’ll just have to do better. Let me sleep,” he begs with that devilish grin of his, “just for a un peu de temps, and then…I think there is some whip cream and some sauce au chocolat down in the fridge you can eat me with.”