Immoral by Brian Freeman Page B

not going into detail, not wanting to cast her shadow over their evening. Andrea reacted with shock and grief, but like everyone else, she had no idea what to say or how to comfort him.
    Even one little detail, a memory of warming up next to her in bed, made him want to tell all his stories. But he was stubbornly silent.
    It was now actively snowing outside. The streaks of ice, slowly slipping down the window glass, obscured the view. Stride glanced at the Parsons table next to the chaise and realized the pitcher of margaritas was empty. He glanced at his watch but couldn’t read the time in the shadows.
    “You have succeeded,” Andrea declared finally.
    “At what?”
    “I am now drunk. Thank you.”
    Stride nodded. “You’re welcome.”
    Andrea looked over at him. Or he thought she did. He could barely see her.
    “Tell me something,” she said. “Do you want to fuck me?”
    It was the kind of question that called for an immediate answer, although this was the first time since Cindy died that Stride had faced it. He knew what half a pitcher of margaritas and his stiffening crotch told him to do, but he still felt unfaithful. “Yes, I do.”
    “But?” she said, hearing it in his voice.
    “But I’m drunk, and I don’t know if I can, uh, rise to the occasion.”
    “You’re a liar.”
    “Yeah.”
    “You haven’t had sex since she died.”
    “Nope.”
    Andrea slid out of the wicker chair. She staggered to her feet. “Tough,” she said.
    Stride didn’t move. He watched her hike up her skirt and yank down the black stockings and floral panties underneath. She peeled them off and tossed them aside. She was a real blonde, with a wispy patch of pubic hair nestling between her slim thighs. With clumsy fingers, she undid the buttons of her blouse, then unsnapped the bra inside. She pushed aside the fabric, exposing her small breasts with erect pink nipples.
    Andrea bent over him and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. Her fingers squirmed inside his pants and found his erection.
    “Looks like you rose to the occasion.”
    “Looks like it.”
    She extracted his penis with some difficulty. In one swift motion, she swung her leg over the chaise and straddled him. Using one hand to spread her vaginal lips, and the other to hold his cock, she lowered herself onto him. Stride felt his penis sinking into her wet folds, and he groaned.
    “You like?”
    “I like.”
    “Good.”
    He reached up to her breasts and caressed her nipples with his fingertips.
    “Harder,” she said.
    He pinched them, then squeezed her whole breasts in his large hands. Andrea gave a loud shout of pleasure and sank forward, kissing him, forcing her tongue inside. Her buttocks rose and fell as she pumped up and down on top of him. Stride squeezed his hand onto her mound and found her clitoris and began to rub it in circles.
    The porch creaked and whined. So did the chaise, complaining under the pounding of their combined weight.
    Stride felt himself swelling. She was bringing him quickly to a marvelous, drunken orgasm. And it looked like she was having one, too. Her head rose back, and she had a wild smile on her face. Stride leaned forward and took her nipple in his mouth. She held his head tightly against her breast. He licked and tugged at the nipple, and the feel of her erect areola on his tongue sent him over the edge. Stride’s hips rose up to meet her as he spasmed. He came with his mouth still closed over her breast. Strangely, Andrea started laughing.
    “God,” she murmured, half to herself. “And the bastard said I was cold in bed.”
     
     
     

Chapter 11
     
     
    “Well?” Maggie asked.
    She kicked the snow off her boots on the floor mat of Stride’s truck, then folded her arms and stared at him expectantly.
    “What?” Stride asked, smiling despite himself.
    Maggie whooped. She punched Stride in the arm. “I know that smile,” she said, beaming. “That’s the smile of a man who got lucky last night. Did I tell you?