This story is by Clay Huston and was part of our 10th Anniversary Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
“That restaurant was amazing, baby.”
“Wasn’t it?” I reply. “The tomato sauce and the gnocchi! Almost as good as yours.”
“Oh reeaally?” Christina says incredulously. “Thanks honey, but my one cooking class in Italy doesn’t quite measure up to their professional chef.”
“Maybe I just like watching you make it,” I say with a grin and a wink.
I open the car door. Christina lowers her head and slides into the seat. “Thank you, sweetie,” she says in a cute, high-pitched voice.
Walking around the rear of the car, I can’t help but crack a smile. She knows exactly what she’s doing wearing that black dress. It’s low cut, tight, and she knew I’d see down it when she bent over to get in the car. Drives me crazy. But that’s what she wants.
She’s proud of that dress. It makes her feel cultured and refined. The little corner shop where she found it is well off the beaten tourist path, untouched by the commercial hand. It’s a handmade dress, an authentic Greek outfit if there ever was one.
I pop open my door, pull the seatbelt across my lap, reach up and start the car.
“Alright, let’s get you home,” I say.
She looks over, right into my eyes, and smiles, biting her lower lip in that toying, seductive way.
As soon as I put the car in drive, she reaches over and puts her hand on my leg. She gives a soft grip then caresses the top of my upper thigh. Reaching up, she squeezes my forearm with her hand. That long, pitch-black hair I rave about drapes across her shoulders. The end of her longest layers reaching down just below her breasts. She strokes a lock of her hair, twirling it around her finger.
She’s always been a natural flirt and young at heart. Thousands of kisses later, she still smiles that first kiss smile every time we touch lips. Like a 16-year-old girl who’s aflutter at the thought of a certain boy’s attention. She’s older than me but you’d never guess it. At the age of 32, she has the complexion of a 25-year-old. She would say her days in law school gave her wrinkles and gray hair. If they do exist, I’m blind to them.
Left hand on the steering wheel, I reach over with my right and touch the back of her neck and shoulders that are left exposed by an off-shoulder dress. Her small, pale baby hairs that stand out against her sun-tanned skin, perk up to my touch, goosebumps following right after. I can’t help but notice how her collarbones and jawline are revealed by her lean figure. I lift my hand and weave my fingers through her hair. I give a slight tug. She grabs my hand and brings it down to her inner thigh. Fingers around my wrist, she brings my hand up her leg. Crossing the border between that tight black dress and her body, she pulls my hand closer and closer to where her long, smooth legs meet her panty line.
Home is only 10 minutes from the restaurant, but the drive feels like an eternity.
I speed up to the gate and frantically press the clicker. It moves across the tracks at a snail’s pace, making me want to scream out in frustration. As soon as there’s a GMC-sized gap, I hit the gas and close the distance between us and the garage.
“We really should get that gate fixed,” I chuckle.
I barely get a chance to turn off the car before she’s on me. The garage door hasn’t closed yet and she’s already working my shirt off. Disregarding the buttons, I grab the bottom seam of my shirt and pull it over and off my head in one smooth motion. Christina is on her knees in her seat, leaning across the car into my kiss, pressing me against the door.
“Let’s go inside, baby,” she whispers in my ear.
Without responding I immediately open my door and start digging through my pockets for the house key, leaving my shirt in the car.
Once inside, we kick off our shoes. I start undoing my belt but pause when I look up and lock eyes with Christina. She maintains her stare and slowly reaches up to the dress strap. She pulls one arm out, then the other. She reaches behind to her upper back and unzips the puny zipper that’s holding in her ample, perky breasts.
With nothing else holding up the dress, she goes to peeling off the fabric that’s clung to her all night. From top to bottom, in one motion, she reveals her breasts, then her stomach, her thighs, all the way down to her ankles. She steps out of the loop of clothing and kicks it to the side. My eyes follow the dress, surprised she would disregard one of her prized possessions in such a way. The act shows where her focus is.
Standing in the dim, yellow-tinted light of the kitchen, she’s in nothing but her thong. The overhead lighting casts shadows across her body that accentuate every curve. She’s marvelous.
Her nipples stand erect, perched in the center of areolas the size of a silver dollar. Not too big, not too small. The hang of her breasts is perfect. Not slumped, but not so upright as to look fake. They spill out of my hands when I grab them, and their softness feels like velvet to my tongue. Her flat stomach flows into the curves of her hips. Her hips flow into the crescent of her backside. The mix of her lower back, the side of her hips, and her cheeks resembles a heart. Below the heart is a diamond-shaped space where her inner thighs fail to touch. Her legs are smooth from start to finish. She has scars from the environmentally friendly safety razor she insists on using, but I don’t care. I couldn’t care less about any scar. I don’t imagine any man would. Her legs are tan, even-toned, and defined in all the right ways. I notice her toenails are pink. Why she chooses a vibrant color for a part of her hardly anyone sees makes me laugh to myself.
She steps towards me and finishes undoing the belt that I forgot all about. She rubs her palm against the bulge in my pants and lets out a sharp inhale when she feels the outline of my shaft like it’s the first time she’s ever touched it. My pants and boxers are the next things to hit the floor. The escape from my waistband causes my privates to spring up and parallel the floor.
Now, totally exposed to each other’s gaze, we embrace in a skin-on-skin hug and passionate kiss. Our pace quickens. I grab her hips and she puts her arms around my neck.
She’s petite but curvy. Sonsie, but light enough for me to pick up. I bend at the knees and grab the back of her legs. With her arms still around my neck, I lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist, letting out a gasp and a giggle.
“Take me to bed,” she says in a full voice. “I want you so bad.”
I walk the both of us to the bedroom and fall with her onto the sheets. I’m on top and her legs are still around my waist.
I bring some space between our faces. Looking into her brown, shimmering eyes, I tell her what I’m feeling.
“I Love you.”
With a smile, she says it back.
“And I love you.”
I sit up and reach to her waist. Grabbing the thin straps of her thong, I slide the emerald-colored, lacy garment off her body.
I lower my mouth back to hers. With one arm wrapped around her waist and the other under her leg, I forcefully move my hips towards hers…
*beep beep beep beep*
I crack my eyes.
Still in a haze, I reach over and slap the off button of the alarm. I plop my head into the pillow and let out a huff.
“Dammit,” I whisper to myself. “Greeaaat timing.”
I roll over and wrap my arm around Christina, taking her hand in mine.
“Good morning,” she grumbles in that funny, just-waking-up voice.
“Morning honey,” I say back. “Happy Anniversary!”