He was only supposed to help me move my bed.
We didn’t get that far. The bed frame is scattered in parts on the Master floor, the box spring propped up against the hallway wall outside the bedroom. The mattress, where I lie on my back, knees drawn to the ceiling, blocks the front door.
I squeeze the back of my thighs to still my legs from shaking, but it’s no use. I can feel his tongue down there, and the memory of it sends me over the edge. Philip’s tongue has the strength of an ox, the prehensility of that of a giraffe. His mouth reaches places Levon can’t even dream of, and Levon loves to boast about how big he his, how far he extends when he’s hard.
I hear the shower turn on down the hall. He must want me to join him. What other need would he have to wash? We haven’t gotten dirty . . . not yet . . . and we kind of have this thing with showers.
But I hesitate when I remember Levon, and the reason why we broke up. Truly it was because he can’t stop fucking his ex, but my and Philip’s curiosity of each other didn’t help the situation. Although he had no proof—there was nothing to prove, we didn’t do anything . . . until tonight.
And I can’t ignore that Philip is Levon’s best friend. His roommate, no less! I’d be stupid to think they won’t talk. Get him high enough, and Philip is subject to say anything. We’re both dead if he lets this one slip. Ex-boyfriend or not, Levon will still have a problem with us hooking up, even if it is just oral. And I refuse to give him any chance to justify all the things he did to hurt me for revenge.
But am I really going to lie here in the middle of this mattress, soaking it through, touching myself, trying to finish what only Philip can?
I let my legs drop. They jiggle like Jell-O. The challenge will be getting up to my feet, walking to the bathroom without having the floor slip from under me. Can I even get up? My body feels weighted on this mattress, like I’m being held down by cinder blocks. When was the last time I’d ever cum like that? And did I really want it again?
Yes. It’s like a drug. One hit, and you would kill for that high again. And I need to know that this wasn’t a fluke, that I didn’t just imagine the eruption of ecstasy that gushed out of me just a few minutes ago under the prickle of Philip’s taste buds.
I roll over, reach out my hands, grab firmly onto the fibers of the carpet and drag myself out. How bad is this, that I’m actually crawling to him? That I can barely move, can barely handle his potency, and yet I still want more?
When I get to the end of the hallway, the bathroom door opens. Steam rushes out, and behind it, Philip, fully naked. It’s like the beginning of a concert, when just before the smoke clears, the singer springs onto the stage from a trapdoor underneath, and all the girls in the crowd go wild with delight.
I watch him as he approaches in what feels like slow motion, the mist surrounding him. Anticipation makes me drip. He’s fully erect—there’s no denying what he wants. My jaw drops, but I quickly shut it, not quite willing to return the favor from earlier, despite being on my knees.
“I figured you might need help,” he says with a half smirk. He scoops me up off the floor, glides me across the tip of him as he pulls me up. Who is he teasing, me or himself?
“What you do to me . . .” I can’t even finish my thought. All I want is his wet lips on mine.
“Girl, you better have your hair weave strapped on tight, ’cause I’m just getting started.”
I feel like butter in his arms. I can spread from end to end. I let him whisk me off into the bathroom, where the steam from the shower creates a tension that pushes us even closer together, as if we aren’t already like the skin that clings to our bones. I can’t get enough of him. I pull and dig, desperate to have him inside me again, filling all the cracks and crevices Levon could never reach.
And this time, I’m not talking about his tongue.
I never intended to make it a serial, but every once in a while I come across a prompt that brings my White Jesus characters back to life, and the resulting story tends to get quite . . . raunchy. Are you as hot and bothered as I am?
Written for Marquessa’s #FictionFriday song lyric challenge. Today’s prompt is: Girl, you better have your hair weave strapped on tight… And speaking of holding onto your hair for a wild ride, Marquessa and I are teaming up in November every Monday and Friday to bring you our respective flash fiction challenges, #MarquessaChallenge and #1MinFiction. Are you ready? Then buckle up, because the fun starts next Friday!