Naughty or Nice by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

to handle the next transition, the widening of this door.
    He pulled my hair from my face. “Would you like to . . . the Hotel del Coronado?”
    â€œNice resort. Pretty expensive.”
    â€œI’ll put it on my American Express.”
    I kissed him again. “I already have a room.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œComfort Inn. Suite 2218.”
    His smile was almost as anxious as mine. Still, this had me bouncing my leg.
    He followed me back toward I-8. Hotel Row. Miles of places built for indiscretions.
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    Room 2218 was upstairs, away from the office and street traffic.
    The room was just that, a room. King-size bed that had a little sag in the middle, old cover in blues and earth tones, industrial green carpet, a chair with no arms next to the dresser at the foot of the bed, another chair with arms at the small desk next to the bed. Heavy golden curtains and some sort of atrocious green and gray wallpaper throughout. There was barely enough room to walk by the foot of the bed and the dresser. A mirrored closet was on the other side of a small nightstand, a reflection that would reverberate whatever happened on that bed.
    The door closed behind him.
    There were no more words between us.
    No words meant no more bullshit.
    I pulled the curtains up, left a sliver of light.
    He turned the little radio on, found soft music, then cameover to me. Our kiss took us to the bed. He grew against me and I shifted him so he was on the right spot, then bit my lips and moved against that growth. I pulled his shirt off; he did the same with my top, my breasts rising with my breathing. He took the ponytail holder away and my hair fell, framed my face.
    This liquid sensation ran through me, one I’d had before. It was warm, tickled me all over. The same sensation I embraced the night I lost my virginity. When I wanted to experience something I had never experienced before. Anticipation of a new pleasure excited me.
    He whispered, “What do you like?”
    So many erotic images went through my mind.
    I swallowed. “Surprise me.”
    He moved my hair from my eyes and I touched his chest. He was strong. He touched my breasts with both hands. I tingled. A fire grew inside me. He lowered his head and I closed my eyes, felt his tongue moving back and forth over my left nipple, then my right, making my breasts shine with his saliva. My eyes tightened; my first moan escaped me, followed by squirms, then more sounds that let him hear that dark and erotic side of me.
    I touched his back, raked my nails over his flesh. His patchouli scent was seeping into me, into my skin, and his hair smelled like lavender. I loved lavender. It oozed sexuality. We had other odors, the ones that came from dancing and sweating, and those were just as erotic.
    He asked, “Still nervous?”
    â€œDon’t stop.”
    To tell the truth I was terrified, like when the roller coaster was at the top and I could look down and see that first drop. He tugged my pants down over my hips, my thighs, and they bunched at my ankles for a moment, then he took my shoes off, dropped both, each thump sounding like my heartbeat, and pulled my clothes away from my feet.
    Cool air covered my skin, telling me that I was naked.
    He touched around my vagina. “Brazilian wax.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’s beautiful.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou smell so damn good. Love it when a woman takes care of herself.”
    He tongued my hipbone, my pelvis, took my toes in his mouth. I squirmed and moaned, God, how I squirmed and moaned. He was on his knees, holding the back of my thighs, pulling me into his mouth, praising me with his tongue, flesh that was very gentle, as smooth as water, a rhythm that made me hold the sheets and float, float, float.
    It felt so good that three-letter sounds became four-letter words.
    My shudders and twitches told me that this was real.
    Now a stream of ten-letter moans and four-letter words