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Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the knock on my door.
She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with some obscure rock band’s name on it. I recognize them from the laundry I folded last night.
So I can’t help but wonder which La Perla she’s wearing beneath them. Red? Pink? Black?
God, I hope it’s black.
“Hey,” she says, biting her lower lip. “So, I just wanted to tell you that, like…so I know how it probably looks, but I’m super not pregnant.”
That should have hit me hard. After all, whatever little sliver of hope I might have had with this woman just got a lot fucking bigger.
But as soon as she says it, something else gets a lot fucking bigger, too.
And here’s the thing about erections: sometimes they can make a man say things that maybe he shouldn’t. Things that he maybe might come to regret.
So when Sabrina tells me she’s not pregnant, I pull the biggest dick move ever and I ask her…
“Would you like to be?”
I’m fucking kicking myself before the words are even done coming out of my mouth. But I’m straight off a twelve-hour shift. The sun is coming up, my cock is hard, and the woman of my dreams is standing on my doorstep, telling me the best news I’ve heard all fucking night.
To my surprise, she doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
“How serious are you about that?”
My cock twitches.
“Very,” I say. Without thinking. Again.
But either Sabrina is some kind of karmic gift from a gracious god, or she’s not thinking either, because her next move is one that makes my dick throb and my heart skip a beat.
“Get your fucking clothes off, then,” she says.
She puts her hands on my chest and kicks the door shut behind her.
We spend the next few moments in a frenzy. She tears my shirt off of me, sending buttons flying all over my hardwood floors. I get her jeans undone and her shirt off over her head.
God help me.
The La Perlas are black.
At some point in our desperate scramble toward nudity, her lips meet mine.
It’s fucking fireworks.
No. It’s beyond fireworks.
It’s Disneyland, New Year’s Eve as the clock strikes midnight on the cusp of a new millennium. Mickey Mouse has just announced the end of world hunger, and Donald Duck has just brokered world peace.
“I need you,” she gasps against my lips.
Before she can ask me again, I’m on my knees. My lips move against her body, giving her a different kind of kiss altogether, and her little black La Perlas have been tossed with reckless abandon across my living room floor.
“Fuck!” she moans as I slip my tongue against her clit.
Not only is she wet—she’s fucking sweet.
