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* * *
I slid into bed and lay there for a while listening to the faint city noise far below my penthouse window, thinking about the events of the evening and where I’d left things with Mark.
Mark and I had always been covert with our affair, or at least tried to be, which made the fact that he came into the ladies’ room in the middle of a big publishing event even more out of character for him. I wasn’t sure what the heck he was thinking, unless he just couldn’t wait to fuck me and break the news that he knew about the Costa Rica trip.
We had used Graham as our go-between because we wrote for the same publisher. Graham was never judgmental, though I knew he didn’t care much for Mark
and worried incessantly about me. He thought Mark was arrogant and smug, with far less talent than other writers who never made it big. Graham did it for me, not for Mark. I knew he was thrilled that I was leaving town to research the new book series in Costa Rica. In fact, Graham was the one who made that happen, in part, I believe, to get me away from Mark.
Mark treated our affair like the plot of one of his spy novels. We communicated through Graham or by “burner phones” that he purchased at Wal-Mart. I didn’t even have the number to his regular cellphone. And I never called him without texting first to make sure the coast was clear to call. It was all very cloak and dagger, which was fun at first. Then it got old because he would not respond to my texts until the middle of the day and then want to come over for a quickie.
Meeting up usually meant at my apartment or someplace out of the public eye like a “no tell motel” or Graham’s apartment on those rare occasions that he would agree to let us in. Once we met by chance, as I was running through Central Park, and snuck off for a quickie in the bushes. Like I said, Mark was all about the quick fuck. He was like a breeder rabbit. He’d hop on my back, hump till he came, then quickly move along. I’d miss good old Mark, but probably not as much as he’d miss me.
CHAPTER TWO: Chad Walters
I squeezed Bree’s tits as she rode me like a bucking bronco at a Texas rodeo. Man, there was nothing more stimulating than a perfect set of double D’s bouncing in your face. I had always been a breast man, which was why most of the women I had fucked in my life had a nice rack to catch my eye. Bree was no exception. The first time I saw her was from the tits up. I know, I’m a pig. Sue me.
I held on tight to Bree’s waist and let her ride my cock as I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. As usually happened when I had my hands full of tits and a tight pussy around my cock, Zoe’s face flashed through my mind.
Zoe Maxwell, my college sweetheart… actually, that sounded too juvenile to describe what we had. We were lovers, not sweethearts, though when she left town she took a big chunk of my heart with her. Of course, I would never have told her that. I was too macho, too full of myself, too much of a control freak. And that’s what drove her away.
Sometimes, I wondered what she was up to now. Probably married with kids, some poor schlep of a husband, little house with a nice lawn and picket fence in the ‘burbs… Whatever.
But talk about tits. Zoe had these perfect, natural, beautiful size C’s that defied gravity, with large nipples that looked like raspberry gumdrops. All the fake tits in the world couldn’t hold a candle to Zoe’s beautiful bouncing boobs.
They were absolute perfection.
Everything about her was perfect.
Her skin was sun-kissed bronze and smooth.
Her body was toned and tight as a drum.
Long legs, high and tight ass, long blonde hair, the most kissable lips, little turned up nose, and those eyes, those sapphire eyes… they were hypnotic… mesmerizing… I could stare into them for hours.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. I was waiting in the checkout line at the 7/11 with a case of beer and five bags of chips for a frat party. I turned around to find her standing behind me, her big tits in a tight t-shirt, her long tanned legs sticking out of a pair of cut-off jeans. She was barefoot, no makeup, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. And she was buying tampons, of all things. I pretended I didn’t see the light blue box, but I envied those tampons for where they were destined to go.
I struck up a conversation about the weather or some random shit just to talk to her. I smiled. She smiled. Our eyes met. We shook hands. Sparks fucking flew. And that was it. I pretty much knew I’d be fucking her by the next day. And I was. Because I had no choice. If I didn’t fuck her, I’d just die.
I turned on the charm and went full-court press on her ass. At first, it was just a game to me, as all women were. I would woo her with my ways, wear down her resistance, fuck the shit out of her and move on, like I always did.
Then, the more I got to know her, the more I wanted to be with her, and only her. She drove me fucking wild, man. A typical woman would get jealous as fuck if their man was flirting or getting hit on by other women. Not Zoe. She was not the jealous type. In fact, many times she’d joke about going home with other dudes, or bringing another man into the bedroom with us. I was like WHAT??? No fucking way! Homey don’t play that shit!
She was doing it just to fuck with me, but sometimes I thought she was serious. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. I just didn’t want to find out. I’d go fucking crazy just to think of another man fucking my Zoe.
So, I calmed down with the macho-male bullshit and made sure she knew I just wanted her. And things went great for a while, then slowly started to go to shit. She said I was too controlling (which I was), too demanding (guilty), too much of an asshole (uh yeah), and that I didn’t appreciate her. That one hurt because it wasn’t true. Granted, I had a hard time showing my feelings (I’m a guy, duh), but I appreciated the fuck out of her. Hell, I probably even loved her.
Then one day she just breezes in and tells me she’s moving to fucking New York after graduation to work in some publishing house as a copy editor. I was like, why the fuck do you want to do that?
She just shook her head and walked out the door. That was seven years ago. We talked a few times over the phone after she moved away, but finally I just let it go. Was I pissed? You bet your ass I was pissed. She just up and left, ripped my fucking heart out like it was a fucking Band-Aid on a scraped knee. The sad part about our time together and her leaving was the residual effect it had on my love life. Call it carrying a torch or whatever, but I haven’t been able to feel complete with another woman since Zoe walked out of my life. I keep finding myself comparing them to her. And no woman has ever come close to curling my toes—or breaking my heart—like Zoe Maxwell.
* * *
“Oh, Chad …” Bree’s moans jarred me back to reality. “I’m cumming…god… your cock... cum with me… cum…”
“Cum for me, baby,” I said, digging my fingers into her hips and arching my back to fuck her deeper and harder, as if I could push the memory of Zoe out of my body by shooting a hot load inside Bree. But it seemed the harder I fucked Bree, the more I thought about Zoe. It was a never-ending battle between my heart and my mind and my cock. It was a painful battle.
It was a pain that I wanted to heal, but wanted to keep as a reminder of a time in my life when everything felt simply perfect.
