SIXTEEN
“DID SOMETHING GET DELIVERED this morning?” Tiny asks as we get ready for our trip to Connecticut. The sound of the garage door lifting on the street floor had jarred her awake, and she’d jumped in the shower before I could convince her that we needed an early morning f**k to start the day off right.
“Yes, something for our trip,” I say, rinsing off my blade. She’s sitting on the edge of the vanity watching me shave, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. I’m surprised at how much I enjoy the domesticity of living with a woman, but a lot of that could be attributed to one particular female rather than the situation itself.
Before, if I brought a woman here—which was rare—I couldn’t wait for her to leave. I actually stopped bringing women to the warehouse at all after one woman refused to get out. I got dressed and waited silently at the stairs until she got the message. I still see her occasionally out at charitable events—the city’s social scene can be unbearably small at times. She’ll glare at me, whisper something derogatory to a friend, and inevitably try to feel me up toward the end of the evening in an effort to prove I’d made the wrong choice. I don’t miss the days of being single.
“I still don’t know how you can use that without cutting yourself.” Her gaze watches my every motion intently. Shaving fascinates her because I’m old school, using a straight-edge razor and badger bristle brush. There have been several mornings where I was late getting into my office because she took a very personal interest in my morning routine. Who knew the badger brush would feel so good on my cock?
“Practice.” She hands me a damp towel, which I use to wipe off the residual soap. Leaning close, I rub my cheek against hers. “How’s it feel?”
“Soft. Smooth.” She strokes my other cheek a minute, and I close my eyes to enjoy the caress. No, I wouldn’t ever kick Tiny out of my place. I want to keep her here forever.
“Want a little relief before we go?” I drop my hand between us and press against the damp cloth covering her legs.
“No,” she mutters grumpily and pushes me away. “I don’t want a quickie. I want that.” She points to the thick erection poking out of my briefs.
“It’s all yours, bunny.” I spread my hands wide, giving her the choice. It’s not like an hour delay is going to kill us.
With a wry look, she hops down and heads for the closet. “I’m tempted to say yes, but I do want to get out the city this weekend, and I’m afraid if I take you up on your offer, we’ll never leave.”
She’s right. I follow her into the closet and pull on a pair of old faded jeans, a white ribbed wife beater, and a beige linen collarless shirt. I do a couple of buttons in the middle but let it hang open. Because I’ve dressed quickly, I’m able to sit on the padded bench in the dressing room and watch Tiny finish changing. I make a mental note to thank Frank for suggesting the bench. I can think of about a dozen things I’ll be able to use it for when Tiny and I don’t have plans that involve leaving the warehouse.
She has new panties on—light purple with a keyhole opening decorated with strings tied into a bow right above her ass crack. I wonder if I tug on the strings whether the panties will fall right off. I lick my lips in anticipation.
Her beautiful br**sts swing lightly as she bends over to pull up a pair of denim shorts that have interesting rips in them. “I hope you don’t wear those out in public.” I can see the lower part of her ass cheek through one of the rips.
“These are my beach shorts. I usually wear them over a bathing suit.”
Her explanation is given matter-of-factly, as if they weren’t the most delectable, tantalizing pair of shorts ever. Golden skin peeks through from loose threads that are barely held together by the side seams whenever she moves. The hint of flesh is more erotic than a bare ass.
“I didn’t read about any of the beaches around here closing because of riots.”
“Ha. Ha.” She mock laughs. “While I think it’s great you’re in love with my ass, no one else is.”
“You’re wrong, but I don’t mind that you think there’s only one man for you.”
She slides her arms into a short-sleeved, red-checkered plaid shirt with pearl snaps. The western-style shirt is tailored and accentuates her narrow waist and round hips.
“Let’s go,” I say abruptly. We need to get on the road, or she’ll be bent over the bench in about two seconds. There are only three small pieces of clothing separating me from her body. With a sigh and uncomfortably tight pants, I pick up our two carryalls and head down to the garage. Tiny’s right behind me.
“My god, what is this?” she exclaims at the sight of the delivery.
“It’s an Aston Martin Vanquish Volante.” I place our luggage in the trunk, noting the picnic basket I’d asked for sitting neatly to the side. On the front seat I see a pair of Aviators, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a scarf. Great service. I make a mental note to do business with the dealership again, even if this car doesn’t suit.
Tiny trails her hands along the bright white paint above the door handle. “It’s very shiny.”
“It’s not as fast as some coupes like the Ferrari 458, but it’s more comfortable. Plus, it’s an automatic.” I pat the rear fender.
“You’re saying this like it matters to me.”
“It should. I bought it for you.”
“But I don’t drive.” She’s still circling the car. She might not drive, but I can see the car interests her. It’s a two-door soft top convertible, which will be perfect for summer months in Connecticut.
“Figured you could learn. When we’re in Connecticut, it’ll be harder to get around without a car, and I want you to be able to go places if I’m not around.”
“I could bike.”
“Sure. But you could also drive. You won’t convince me you aren’t even a little tempted.” I glance pointedly at her hands, which are still running over the edge of the glossy white exterior. It’s a loving gesture—a caress. And it signals what I rarely see in her for anything but me. A little desire. A little want. She asks me for so little, and I want to give her so much.
“You’ve already given me this.” She waves her ring finger at me. “I’m convinced that I could buy a small country with it.”
I shrug lightly. She isn’t wrong. The five-carat emerald cut baguette diamond on a thin white-gold band did cost as much as a small country’s gross domestic product, but that’s information she doesn’t need to know. If she did, she wouldn’t wear the ring out of the house. “It’s non-returnable, so I guess we’ll never know.”