Free One Night Only by Violet Blue Page B

for a special treat. But don’t tell him that he cannot come in your mouth…or up your ass, or across your tits, or wherever else he might ask if he can do it…just because someone else did it first. That’s not just rude, it’s spiteful too, like him telling you he won’t eat your cooking because his ex-wife’s potatoes were hotter.

    â€œHey, what are you thinking about?” Robin’s question burst into my mind.
    â€œOh, sorry.” I shook my head. “Something a friend of mine was saying, about how more lovers lie about what we just did, than just about any other act there is.”
    Robin chuckled and ruffled my hair. “‘I promise I won’t come in your mouth.’”
    I kissed his softness, felt it stir and raised it with a gentle fist. “Good,” I said. “I’m glad to hear that.” I lowered my head to suck on his helmet, then stopped and looked back up at him. “Oh, and yes, I’m feeling a lot better now. Thank you for asking.”
    â€œI kind of figured that out for myself,” he said slowly. “And now, in the spirit of the absolute honesty with which we have apparently sworn to abide, please carry on with what you were just doing, or this time, I promise, I really won’t come in your mouth.”
    I raised one hand and saluted smartly. “In that case, maybe I’ll come in yours.” And he was already reaching for my hips before I’d even finished my sentence.

HOLE IN YOUR POCKET
    Donna George Storey
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    D oes every woman have a man like this in her life?
    You step into the classroom on the first day of your first seminar, and your eyes are immediately drawn to him. You hear a little Oh, my in your head and spend the rest of the afternoon shooting quick glances in his direction. He grins at you, and your stomach does a flip. After a few collegial chats in the history department’s student lounge, however, you learn he’s engaged to someone back home, not that you’re ready to settle down with anyone yourself. Not even a slim young man with honey hair, sapphire eyes and a smile like the first day of summer vacation.
    You quickly become “friends.” The two of you take long walks around campus as veils of orange and pink and violet trail across the western sky. You always feel smarter and prettier around him. You talk about everything, even things you don’t tell your new boyfriend who just wouldn’t understand. Sometimes he tells you about his fiancée, and you always do your best
to sound respectful, even in awe, of their beautiful relationship. You notice he doesn’t smile quite as much when you talk about your boyfriend, unless you’re complaining a little, then he hints, diplomatically, that you deserve the best in life and should never settle for less.
    In all that time you never do anything more than hug, hugs that never last long enough because you want to float in the heat of his arms and take all sustenance solely from his delicious scent of cumin and shampoo. Even the bristle of his five o’clock shadow on your cheek feels like the finest velvet. You’re dreading his wedding, but you go anyway because he’d be hurt if you didn’t. His wife is prettier than you are by all common measures—her hair is blonder, her breasts are bigger, her legs are longer—but somehow you sense the marriage won’t last. You tell yourself it’s your own jealousy and vow to stop lusting after a married man.
    He moves to D.C. to take a job teaching modern European history at Georgetown, and you lose touch for a while. But then, a couple of years later, you run into each other at a conference. You stay up until three in the morning in an Irish bar drinking and talking like the years have melted away. You begin to email regularly—chatty notes about work, politics, the meaning of history. It’s all very safe and