More Than Water (10 page)

“Do I look smarter?” I ask, playfully pointing my index finger to my cheek.

“Definitely.”

Ducking his head, Foster connects his lips to the skin on my neck and then the space under my chin while slipping his hand under my blouse and over my bra-covered breast. I fumble with the hem of his shirt tucked into his pants. Then, I pull his clothing upward, and like a total amateur, I manage to get it stuck around his neck. He lets out a half-gagging, half-choking sound before rescuing me from my sloppy seductive efforts by removing the layer of fabric himself.

My hands are like magnets being drawn to his firm chest, and they connect with his comforting skin.

Skin. Skin. Skin.

Warm skin.

Toned.

Fucking sexy-as-hell and all-over-me skin.

I-want-to-feel-more-of-it skin.

My mouth runs along his collarbone.

He tastes good, too—a combination of man and mint.

Foster lifts my top over my head before dropping it to the bed, and then he reaches behind my back. I sit up to assist him in the effort of de-clothing me. He tugs at the hooks on my bra a few times.

“Fucking girl clothes,” he says, flustered, yanking at the force field of intimate apparel. “These damn hooks.”

“You can formulate a hydrogen bomb, but you can’t undo a bra?”

“The university doesn’t offer classes on this shit.”

“I’ll complain to the dean.”

The garment finally unhinges, and my breasts are freed. With apparent frustration, Foster removes the bra from my body in one fell swoop and then cups one breast with his palm while mouthing the other. He tweaks a nipple with his fingers and nibbles gently on the other with his teeth as we slowly lower back to the mattress.

I arch my back, encouraging him to keep fondling me the way he is, because
fuck me
the feel of his body touching mine is giving me incredibly salacious ideas. And I genuinely don’t care if what we’re doing is wrong because I’m adopting a new rule until morning
. If it feels good, it is good.

My hands skim and press along his lean arms and firm back as he continues to suck and lick my chest. Reaching his waistband, I follow the line of denim to the front of his pants and attempt to undo the button.

“Need help?” he asks, kissing his way up to my ear.

“Yes. Your pants are like a chastity belt. Are you trying to keep me out?”

Foster laughs against my cheek and snakes an arm between us, popping open the button. I unzip his pants and grip his length under his boxer shorts. He growls into my ear, and
holy fuck
, does that ever make me want to pump his dick.

So, I do.

What is he doing to me? Foster Blake, the library and chemistry geek?

He’s making me hot and bothered. That’s what he’s doing. My wet panties are accumulating the evidence.

“Shit!” he whisper-shouts. “Evelyn, is this what you want?”

I pause, my hand stilling around his cock, as he lifts his head from the crook of my neck and searches my features. He removes the glasses from my face and sets them aside.

He waits for me to respond.

“I don’t know what I want,” I say without a thought.

“Me neither.”

Our breaths slow in unison as a slight seriousness takes over the mood.

“I don’t want to stop,” I add as I begin to push down his boxers and pants together.

“Neither do I.”

“You’re very agreeable.” I laugh.

He releases an adorable grin. “Only on special occasions.”

“And this qualifies?”

“It’s notable.”

Foster pushes back from the bed, undoes my pants, and slides them down and off my legs. He then slips off my panties.

“I guess that part didn’t get a new dye job,” he teases, referring to my non-tinted but well-groomed trail.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Not really. I’m more surprised it doesn’t match your hair.”

“There’s not much there to dye.”

“Touché.”

Quickly, he drops his pants and boxers to the ground and then steps out of them and toward the bureau. There, he opens the top drawer, searching hastily through the contents. When he returns to me, he tosses a condom on the bed and then begins to crawl over my waiting form.

“That’s quite an impressive beaker you have,” I say in the most non-seductive way possible.

“You were checking out my instrument?” he questions, dragging his mouth north of my hip to my breast.

“Just doing my research.”

Hovering, he kisses me on the mouth a few times, almost like he’s still making sure I’m not backing out. I realize that I need to make the first move. I reach to the side of the mattress, find the condom, and tear it open. Making my intentions known, I nudge his shoulder, so he’s lying on his back. Sitting up, I roll the latex contraceptive over his instrument and then straddle him.

“So, what do you think?” I question.

Confusion crosses his face. “About what?”

I tease his length with my sex, gyrating over his lower body. “My tits? They’re pretty great, right?”

“Your tits are fucking amazing.”

“Just checking.”

Taking control, Foster rolls us over, so he’s on top, demanding missionary position. I’m not complaining one bit.

Without wasting any more time, he eases into my entrance, filling and touching an unrecognized void. He slides his hands under my shoulders. I circle my arms over his and then wrap my legs around his waist.

Rocking into me and moaning into my hair, Foster pounds away my recent frustrations from the last few days.

Apparently, a good dicking helps with that
.

As we continue to move our bodies in cadence with one another, a strange sensation comes over me.

Foster is different.

I feel different.

The sex is different than any I’ve ever experienced before.

It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel wrong.

It just…
feels
.

Under the yellow lights, Foster leans in toward James, licking his lips a few times in preparation for their inevitable kiss. The men waggle their brows at one another as the table chants, encouraging them to lock lips. We all can’t wait to watch them swap spit.

Taking the plunge, their mouths collide, and we all hoot and holler in astonishment and laughter. They stay joined for some time as we continue to cheer them on, like it’s some sort of circus act.

“Where’s the tongue?” I demand. “Tongue! Tongue! Tongue!”

The men and Chandra join me in chanting, “Tongue! Tongue! Tongue!” with full knowledge that it’s part of the bet.

Foster lost, and now, it’s time for him to live up to his end of the bargain. After all, we shook on it.

They disconnect their lips, and then James licks Foster’s face—twice, once on each side, salivating all over his cheeks.

“Ew,” cries everyone watching, all in different tones ranging from disgust to delight.

“There,” James announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lots of tongue. Happy?”

“Not really,” I say, laughing. “But it will do. Technically, the bet has been fulfilled.”

I turn my attention to Foster as he dries his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He lifts his eyes to mine, shakes his head, and then teasingly draws the shape of his lips with his tongue.

More tongue.

The room darkens and shifts until I’m seated at the bar with Foster at my side and a line of shots before us.

Another drinking game.

“Go,” I say. “Your turn.”

“Never have I ever kissed two girls on the same night,” he says.

Shit. He’s got me.
I take the shot.

“You have?” he asks, astonished.

“I was a freshman once,” I reply nonchalantly. “My turn. Never have I ever shaved all of my pubic hair.”

He laughs. “I think you’re lying.”

“So? Who cares? Have you?”

“Yes.” He pauses and then takes the shot.

“Foster, you’re a kinky, kinky shit.”

He places the glass on the bar’s surface. “Or I swam competitively in high school. My turn. Never have I ever walked in on my parents going to town.”

A discerning sound escapes my lips in disgust. “Thankfully, neither have I. So gross.”

“No kidding.”

“Hey, girl,” Chandra says, appearing at my side. “Are you ready to go?”

In contrast to earlier in the evening, I’m actually having a lot of fun, and the night still feels young. I’m certainly not ready to go.

“No. You go ahead,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you were planning on going to Jeremy’s anyhow.”

“I don’t want you walking home alone,” she states since we always have a safety-first rule. “It’s pretty late.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Foster offers to me. “I don’t mind.”

“Or I can call a cab.” I shrug and then address my roommate, “Go on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Darkness.

The scene shifts as I open the ladies’ room door into the dimly lit wooden hallway. Foster is exiting the men’s room at the same time, cleaning his glasses with the end of his shirt. A sliver of skin peeks out between his garments. I follow his hand as he returns the black frames to his face. His hair is slightly disheveled, his eyes are dilated, and his cheeks are tinged a slight shade of pink from the excessive amounts of alcohol we have been consuming over the past few hours.

“You know,” I slur, leaning against the doorframe, “you’re kind of hot, Foster.”

“You’re drunk.”

“A little. So what? So are you.”

“True.”

“But you’re still cute. How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Because it’d cut into my masturbation schedule.”

I chuckle and step closer to him. “Well, I definitely understand that.”

My lips crush against his.

My gut flips.

I step back, creating some space, in hopes that the intimate moment won’t linger.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

Foster approaches me.

“Me, too,” he responds as his warm breath laced with alcohol brushes my cheek.

His lips are suddenly on mine, and his body presses my back on the wall near the secluded restrooms. My hands sculpt around the shape of his shoulders and arms.

Gravity pulls on my stomach, our bodies tumble into the dark, and we are no longer standing.

I’m lying naked with the mattress squeaking at my back. The scent of mint, alcohol, and sweat waft through the air as heavy pants surround the room. Grunts are flying from my lips and from the man over me, burying himself inside me.

“Fuck, Evelyn! Your body is incredible.”

~~~~~~

My eyelids rapidly flutter open, seeing hazy shades of creams and whites. The heaviness in my chest and within my head leaves me with little desire to move.

I squeeze my lids tight, slowly count to ten in unison with the intake of air to my lungs, and then open my eyes again.

I hate hangovers
.

The covers are so warm and cozy…and then, a few seconds later, I’m sweating. I need to get out of this heated bed.

Rolling to my side, I reach around to grab the blanket’s edge, only to touch a hefty hand.

Realization strikes me.

I’m at Foster’s apartment.

In his bed.

And completely naked.

There are two ways to handle this situation—sneak out or awkwardly spend the morning together. I decide to opt for the former.

Slowly, I slink out from underneath the weight of Foster’s arm, and with absolutely no grace or coordination, I thump onto the floor.

Ridiculous hangover
. No body control.

My head pounds madly like a heavy metronome when I turn it from side to side, searching for my garments. One might think to prepare for a mistaken sexual encounter by laying out their clothes the night before, so they could make an easy getaway. Apparently, I’m an amateur in this department of crazy one-nighters.

For better or for worse, this is my first experience with a situation like this. Most of my nights with men are usually the result of a natural progression during a date. This is new territory for me, and now, I resemble the foolish girl on one of those romantic comedy movies. If I’m lucky, I’ll stub my toe on the way out to complete the one-night-stand cliché.

Spotting my panties and pants, I slowly crawl across the floor and begin to dress, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As I’m zipping up my jeans, Foster stirs under the covers, rotating his head on the pillow. I pause, waiting to see if he’s waking up. I examine his features, which appear so much softer while he slumbers.