Have you ever seen the grapefruit blow job video? It's freaking amazing. Like, the best thing I have ever seen. Anyway, I didn't have a grapefruit in Carter's shower but if I had, I'd have squeegeed the hell out of his perfect, beautiful, incredible delicious dick with that grapefruit.
So, I've gotten off course. And now I'm hungry. Anyway. I didn't have a grapefruit or any other incredible blow job tricks to pull out of my sleeve and I was a little distracted by the ridiculously strong orgasm that lifted me off of the bench. But I don't think Carter minded. In fact, right after said orgasm, he pulled out of my mouth, waited a second, and then offered it back. "I don't want to come," he said, "but god, you give amazing head."
That's right bitches. I can't balance my checkbook, don't know the capital of Iowa (wait – Springfield?), can't cook and hate the new Seamless app, but apparently, in that moment, in that shower, I gave Carter amazing head. I can die a happy and successful sexpot. I tried to contain my pride and resumed my incredible blow job skills. And three or four or eight minutes later, he kneeled back down, pulling me to the edge of the bench, and he put that gorgeous thing inside of me. I wrapped my legs around him but he pulled them off. Lifted my feet and put them flat on the bench, so I looked like some squatting catcher but when he pushed back in, I understood the change in position. I also understood that this man is some kind of sexual freak of nature and I should never, ever, ever, ever let him go.
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He pulled out when he came, stumbling to his feet, his hand fast and hard on his shaft and I watched him come, the entire picture too hot for words. He sank against the wall and turned to me, his eyes heavy, his hand reaching out and he pulled me to my feet and against his chest.
When we moved out of the shower, he dried me off and then lifted me, carrying me to his bed and dropping me onto the covers. I rolled over, keeping the towel with me, and watched him, studiously avoiding the giant canvas stretched above my head. Now that I know his connection to Presa Little, his art collection is no longer impressive. Now, it is just a reminder of their relationship.
It's not my place to ask him to take it down. I know that. Especially not at this stage in our… whatever we are. Still, I couldn't help but ask. "Have you ever thought about selling these?" I waved a hand in the general direction of the masterpiece above the bed.
Carter chuckled, pulling open a dresser drawer and pulling out a white T-shirt, tossing it my way. "No."
That was all he said. No. I wanted to ask "Why not?" or "Really?" — something to extend the conversation past a one-word answer.
But right then, at 12:19 a.m., his doorbell rang. And any conversation we were going to have stalled.
I'll give you one guess who it was.
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