against my shoulders in a gentle, dreamy rhythm and I wish I could see inside her head. Her eyes are closed again.
“But you’re impatient, so you push my legs over your shoulder so you can see me. You love looking at me.”
“I do,” I answer. “I could look at you all day. You’re fucking gorgeous here.”
“That feels good,” she says. “But it feels even better when you taste me.”
She’s so right. She tastes unbelievable, sweet and juicy. I hold her open with my thumbs and I kiss her, breathing her in, licking up her wet. All the usual words tumble through my mind—peaches, sugar, cream—but those are fantasy words and the reality of Lola is even better. I wish I could tell her how good she feels, but instead I show her.
“Do I push a finger inside you?”
Another pause.
“No,” she says dreamily. “You lick me deeper, over and over.”
I do it. I drag my tongue through her slick folds, learning which spots make her moan and which make her squeal. She opens wider, her heels digging harder into my shoulders, because it feels good. Sweat dampens her body and I kiss her harder, rougher, surer. She’s told me her secrets and I know how to please her.
“You—” Her voice catches as her thighs tense.
I dig my fingers into her ass, controlling her movement and how she rolls against my mouth. “You want this.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I do.”
“But you want to be the one in charge.” I suck lightly at her clit and she makes a noise I haven’t heard before, a rougher, greedier sound. She’s so close.
I give her clit another kiss. “You think your way is best.”
And she breaks character, forgets the rules of our game. “Make me come now.”
“So bossy.” I give her pussy the smallest of smacks and she moans. “Always certain your way is the best. But what if you’re missing out on something better?”
Another tiny tap. Another moan.
“Too bad for you, princess. I’m not in the mood to play your games today. Naughty bosses don’t get orgasms.”
I could sink into her.
I should finish her.
Instead I step back.
She glares at me, dazed. It’s a bitch trying to lever yourself up with your arms tied. This is why I don’t let my lovers tie me up. Or take control. You end up out of control.
“See you Monday.”
I saunter out the door. I have to hand it to her, though. She doesn’t beg or plead. She pulls it together enough to yell after me.
“You’re the world’s worst intern.”
I’m not fired, though.
Not yet.
Dev
I DRIVE TOO fast down the coast to Santa Cruz. I need to get out of The City and put substantial distance between me and what just happened. Or more accurately, what didn’t happen. Scenic Highway 1 is gorgeous, the classic California experience with enormous redwoods that seem older than God. Late afternoon sun flashes through the branches. The road twists, knifing back on itself with zero tolerance for stupid mistakes, and the curve up ahead claims lives every year.
I did my boss.
No. You cock-blocked her to prove your point. I pick up speed, hurtling through the next bend. I have a problem with arguments. And with power plays. And with feeling out of control. So instead of doing Lola right, I blew up in her mouth and then left her high and dry. It’s funny in a practical-joke-gone-wrong way, but it’s also painfully stupid. I could have done her tonight, but instead I’ve likely not-screwed my way out of discovering who stole from me.
Fair enough.
I’m an employee with zero follow-through. I’d fire me.
I shoot out of the last, tree-lined curve and into the straightaway fronting the ocean. The Pacific stretches away on my right, dotted with oil refineries. Closer to shore, where some truly spectacular waves break, surfers ride their boards. A smallish strip of beach houses and surf shacks cling to the sand between the highway and the water. The break is close—a short paddle, and boom. I’m tempted to stop, but I don’t have my gear and I hate rentals.
Plus, as Santa Cruz has twenty-nine miles of beaches, I haven’t surfed this particular spot, which makes a good ride less likely. I’m not familiar with how the waves break, or with what lies underneath the ocean’s surface. Predictable is good. Like my well-organized life, my surfing habits are a finely honed balance of discipline and routine. I’ve practiced the same surf breaks for years, polishing my skills, growing better until I’m the absolute best. I won the last two surf competitions I entered, wiping the floor with my competition.
I keep moving and make it to Santa Cruz without getting pulled over or wrecking my car. There’s no one-size-fits-all label for Santa Cruz. Parts stink like cheap beer (college town), while other parts reek of hemp oil (the outdoorsy types), money (check the real-estate listings and you’ll know what I mean) and suntan oil. There are beaches, cliffs, awesome surf and sixty-five thousand residents shoehorned into less than sixteen square miles of living space alongside surf bums and cruise ship visitors. All types of people pass through, but living here year-round is a different game. Real estate is pricey, building up is necessary and there’s always at least one house under construction in my neighborhood.
The neighborhood itself is a warren of one-way, twisting streets jammed with cars. Getting a parking permit may require screwing the city council, and I’ve heard two permits necessitates an outright orgy. My house is the queen bee of the block, perched at the very end of a cul-de-sac (score!) and so close to the ocean that spray hits my bedroom windows on a windy day. Three thousand square feet of Spanish mission style, it fronts an amazing stretch of ocean.
I slam into the house, pissed at everything and the world. Despite the miles between Lola and me, she’s still right here in my head, taunting me. I ignore the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It might be guilt or discomfort. Whatever. It’s unfamiliar and I don’t do feelings. Fuck. I almost never make mistakes.
Lola’s scent still clings to my fingers, a little fainter each time I bring them to my nose. Usually I hit the shower fast after hookups, but she smells amazing. I expected to be over her now that we’ve played our game, yet I have a bad feeling there’s no forgetting this afternoon. She twists me up inside somehow.
Giving up on the shower, I head outside. A steep, private staircase leads to the beach, a quarter-mile stretch of sand bookended by some serious rocks. The tide’s been out for hours and the few waves are flat; it’s the worst possible time for surfing, but still a good time for clearing my head.
I
