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“Lean back,” I whispered, looking down at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.
He listened, sitting back into the light brown cushions. It was dark, but I could still see everything I wanted to. From his juicy lips to his lickable chest, down to the thighs I wanted to crush me like a Coke can.
I moved to straddle him, sitting down on his lap. I could feel his hard length pushing against me, throbbing upward. My entire body turned into bundles of live wire. All my nerves were frayed and sparking.
Our lips met again in a breathless kiss. I couldn’t get enough of his taste. Of his feel, his scent, his everything.
Why the hell does this have to be an overseas thing?
Nope. See? There I was, getting carried away on a current of dumb and naïve bliss. What did I expect? For this night to turn into something bigger, something better? All because of what? Our incredible and explosive chemistry and intense sexual attraction?
Well… when you put it like that…
Beckham’s hand slipped under my briefs and time froze. The warmth of his fingers massaging my balls was heavenly. I gasped, his fingers closing and tugging, as he looked up at me, overflowing with lust and admiration and—
“Holy shit!” he shouted.
“Fuck!” I shouted.
“What the fuck?” someone else shouted.
A stranger had opened the apartment door. He was stumbling back, forearm over his eyes, a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand.
I was on the couch, a pillow covering my crotch, my pulse pounding hard in my head. I could practically hear it like drumbeats between my ears.
“Get the hell out of here, you drunken twit.” Beckham sounded furious. He was up and storming toward the door, his frame an imposing six-foot something. The drunken intruder mumbled “sorrys” and “wrong flat” before Beckham slammed the door shut. He locked it this time and turned back to me, his face clearly spelling out the apology before he even said a word.
“I am so, so sorry.”
I shook my head. “Don’t even worry about it.”
I’m just like four seconds away from passing out, don’t even stress.
“I swear I locked that thing. Didn’t think the neighbors here were all drunken bloody idiots.”
He flicked on the light before sitting back down on the couch, the soft leather sinking with his added weight.
The room was washed in a warm yellow light. It was empty of any personal things and really only held the couch we were sitting on and a television on a stand that was way too small for it.
“You sure you’re okay? You look a little pale.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Do you, uhm, have anything to drink? Like water. Lemonade maybe? A virgin piña colada if I’m being really extra.”
Beckham stared at me for a moment.
“Totally joking about that. I don’t expect you to make me a piña colada, and I’m certainly not a virgin. But I can be extra sometimes. Okay, now I’m just blabbing. I really think I need that water.”
He laughed and I felt, inexplicably, a little better.
But only a little.
Beckham got up, the black slacks hanging dangerously off his hips. I watched him go to the kitchen. The way his back moved was mesmerizing. I would have been dying to dig my fingers into it if I wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack.
He returned with a cool glass of water, the ice clinking against each other as he walked.
“Thank you.” I grabbed the glass and gulped. It was something I had learned from therapy. To get an icy cold drink and focus on the path it takes, focus on the sensations around the tip of the tongue, around the back of the mouth, down the throat, follow it down into the belly. It helped center myself when my feet felt unmoored from the ground.
“You know,” I said, setting the glass down on a coaster, “if I knew we were putting on a show, I would have charged the guy.”
