Free The Thrill of It by Lauren Blakely

takes.
    She slides into my head, and I am turned on beyond belief. Wanting her. Wanting all I can’t have.
    I put the empty bottle down on the coffee table, yank off my shirt, and inhale it one more time, so she’s filled all my senses. I head to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature all the way up. Then take off my jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor, my boxer briefs next. I step under the water, wetting my hair, my skin, soaping up all over, then rinsing it off. I close my eyes as the water beats down hard on me, and then I say fuck it .
    I picture the moment from earlier, going further, going everywhere I wanted it to go.
    I take off her clingy t-shirt, toss it on the ground somewhere. She doesn’t care because she wants my hands on her. She’s licking her lips, and I bury my face between her perfect gorgeous breasts. I grip myself harder, imagining kissing her breasts, sucking hard on her nipples, hearing her moan. I want to feel her hands in my hair, tugging hard as she pushes me down her body. I want to lick her all over, taste every inch of her skin, from her breasts to her belly, to her legs. Kiss her all the way down to her ankles, feel her tremble all over, hear those sexy, breathy moans she makes.
    I swear I’ve never wanted anyone so much as I picture doing all sorts of things to her.
    Images flash by quickly. Her hands on me, unsure at first, then all over. Then me on my knees, pushing up her skirt, peeling off her underwear in the courtyard, tasting her, licking her, kissing her. She can’t help herself – she moans and sighs and pants like she did that time we were together. She made the sexiest little sounds when I was with her that one night, as if she didn’t know what was happening to her own body, as if it was all happening for the first time and she was overcome, lost in all these new sensations that I brought to her.
    I feel a build in the base of my spine, the release starting to rocket through my body. I squeeze my eyes shut, scalding water pelting my hair, turning my skin red, and I don’t care, because I’m where I want to be right now, on my knees, my hands cupping her ass, bringing her closer to my mouth, until I can taste her coming on my tongue.
    “ Fuck .”
    I groan loudly and come hard.
    I rest my forehead against the tiles for a minute as the aftershocks chase me. God, I wish she were here right now. I wish I could touch her all night long, spread her out on my bed, and bring her there.
    Then spend the night with her.
    Be the guy who doesn’t pay.
    Be the guy she wants.
    The guy she’s not set up with.
    But I’ll never know if she wants me for me. Or because I’m part of her fix.

Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict…
Page 123…
I learned to lie from my mom.
When I was thirteen my mom and her boyfriend took me to a carnival in Great Neck out on Long Island.
His name was Pierre and he looked the name. He wore pressed khakis and a button-down short-sleeve shirt even in the summer, even to a carnival. He had manicured hands, his nails were buffed and filed in perfect half circles. He bought me pink cotton candy and handed it to me daintily with those hands that smelled of honeysuckle lotion. Then my mom spotted the carnival dude who guesses your age. If he comes within three years, you lose. If he doesn’t, you win a stuffed blue bear.
“ Guess her age,” my mom said, thrusting me forward, taking the cotton candy out of my hands before he even saw it, in case it made me look too young. I wore low-rise jean shorts and a cami-tank. My hair was down, falling past my shoulders. I stood there for a moment before him, holding my ground, holding his gaze, like a cat staring down her prey before she pounced. Then I did what I knew mom wanted me to do. I tossed my hair ever so gently, ever so casually, but completely seductively. Like she’d taught me all those times when we prepped for our parties.
The Guess Your Age guy was young. He was a teenager,