Page 21 of Insta [FAM]

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With very little resistance, my kids left to stay at Amelia’s, mostly because they know they get away with murder at her place. Now I’m sitting here, clean, shaven, and for no apparent reason, nervous as hell. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me at my worst. Also, we already did the deed. But, fuck, the butterflies I have turned into full-grown pigeons in my belly, and are going completely mad.

There is also the undeniable horniness that goes with anticipating sex. I cross my legs hoping to ease that, but it doesn’t help. I check my watch, it’s ten-to-seven. Why is time passing so fucking slowly? Maybe this is a shit idea, I should cancel and call the girls to come drink instead. Before I can finish that thought, there’s a knock at the door. Early. He’s looking for bonus points.

I straighten my skirt, make sure I look decent, and then go open the door.

Whoa.

So, Mika isn’t hard to look at, but tonight he’s standing there in dark jeans, a crisp white shirt and one hand in his pocket. His hair is down, I can smell him — he smells like sex on a stick. I’m so lost in looking at him that I don’t even think to say hello.

“Hi, Dion,” he says with a smile, catching me eye-fucking him. He looks at me and says, “I guess I'll take you to dinner then, since you have all your clothes on this time.” Oh, low blow.

“This time. But only because I’m hungry. Not because it’s a date. It’s not a date.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he says as I shut the door. Mika is old school; he opens the truck door for me and it makes my already sensitive bits tingle even more. Fuck — I’m in all sorts of trouble. I put on my safety belt, and he gets in. There’s that smell again, good Lord, he’s literally like a walking wet dream. I feel like I stepped into a cheese-balls Hallmark movie. With a grin, Mika pulls away. He thinks he’s won because we’re going to dinner. Maybe he has, because my heart is pounding, my palms are sweating, and I can’t cross my legs any tighter to deal with what’s going on downstairs. We haven’t driven far when Mika reaches over, takes my hand and puts it on his thigh.

“Stop fidgeting — I’m not going to bite you Dion.” He smirks at me. “Unless you ask me to.” Oh, smooth move. I don’t pull my hand away; I can feel the thigh muscles I got a glimpse of when we were rolling in the hay at his clinic. The man is certainly built like an army tank.

“Biting in public might get us on the internet and we both know how much you like that.” That gets me the side-eye. “But if that’s your thing, I won’t stop you.” He lets out a frustrated sigh, and I move my hand ever so slightly higher up his leg.

“Careful, I’ll pull over right here.” He looks at me, then my hand.

“You were the one who wanted to go out for dinner,” I remind him, because we could be at my house right now taking care of the situation in both our pants. I can feel mine, but I can see his. I hope he is going to a drive-thru because there is no way I can sit through a meal and not jump his bones.

Wishful thinking. Mika parks at a well-known, trendy restaurant that is often frequented by the who’s who of suburbia. He opens my door, and helps me get out of the truck, putting his hand in the small of my back as we walk to the door.

It short-circuits my brain, when he touches me my sense leaves completely — because I like it. I like how it feels as though he’s being all possessive. Stop-it.

The hostess makes heart-eyes at him, and I want to kick her in the shins but refrain in the hopes of not going viral again for being feral.

“Follow me,” she says, her perfect hair swishing in time with her skinny hips. Bitch. Can’t you see he’s on a not-date with me? Our table is hidden away from most of the other patrons, and Mika ushers me to sit beside him on a plush bench seat. Hostess with the mostest leaves us with the menu, wine list, and a slutty smile. I'd like to smack it off her face.

“Are you jealous Dion?” Mika asks, catching my death stare.

“Of what?” I answer. “Her?” I chuckle. She’s a kid, working in hospitality. I shouldn’t be jealous. I’m not, I tell myself.

“I’m here with you, and we have an arrangement. You don’t need to be jealous.” He puts his hand on my thigh, his warm hands on my bare skin. I’m very glad I wore a skirt as his hand moves high enough to slip just under the hem.

“I’m not.” I put my hand on his, slowing him down. Our waiter approaches, and I’m happy to see it’s a man serving us. Mika orders a bottle of fancy red wine and asks what I would like to eat. I haven’t looked at the menu, he has his hand up my skirt — I can’t think, never mind read.

“Umm.” I bite my lip, quickly trying to scan the menu for something I might eat.

“Can I order for you?” He squeezes my thigh, and winks at me. The fucker knows he’s got my mind turned to mush.

“Okay. I guess.” He does, and the whole time he’s doing it his hand is moving up my thigh. Dangerously close to my satin underwear that is already soaked. The minute we are alone, Mika looks at me, a hunger in his eyes that is not for the food he just ordered. I pull my legs tighter together as he leans in to whisper against my neck. “Am I making you squirm, Dion?” Yes, fucking hell. “Are you all hot and needy right now?”

“I’m not the one who wanted to go for dinner. We could be squirming together in my bed right now.” My turn to play his game. My hand resting on his, I slide it up so that he can feel how much he is turning me on. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, and he licks his lips.

When the waiter brings our wine, Mika doesn’t even look at him. Our eyes are locked, and his thumb is stroking my clit over my underwear. I’m holding my breath, because if I breathe, I’ll moan, and the man pouring the wine will know exactly what is going on under the table cloth. Mika’s smile is one of pure satisfaction, he knows he’s driving me crazy.

“Stop,” I manage to let out a whispered hiss when the waiter has left us again.

“Do you really want me to stop?” he asks, not stopping at all. He just goes slower. Putting more pressure on my over-sensitive clit, dragging the torture out. Do I want him to stop? Not a fuck.

“No,” I say, and he kisses me before I can say another word. Right there, a giant PDA, this is not a kiss for the world to see. It’s deep, and needy, and erotic, and I want to rip his clothes off and mount him right here in the restaurant. I don’t want him to stop. My hands tangle in that mane of dark hair, and I’m grinding against the hand that’s still up my skirt. We really should have skipped dinner.

“I didn’t think so,” he says, his forehead resting against mine as we both try to catch our breath. Oh, two can play this game. Shifting slightly, I reach over and run my hand down the length of his cock, it’s just about breaking the zipper of his jeans. Mika hisses, and his whole body stiffens, every muscle bulging with restraint. As the food is put in front of us, I grab his dick as best I can with his clothes on and slowly slide my hand over it. The whole time looking him in the eye, waiting for him to lose control.

“Eat your dinner, Dion,” he says when we are alone again, taking his hands off me. Leaving me so close but so far from the relief I desperately need. Fucking dinner! What the fluff was he thinking? Mika, however, is enjoying dragging this out, I watch him enjoy his dinner one painful mouthful at a time. And I want to scoff mine down, but I act like a lady and eat it delicately. My inner slut, however, is wishing I could just swallow it whole so we can leave.

“Would you two like dessert?” The waiter asks, clearing our plates, and before Mika can get any dumber ideas I say, “No thank you. We’re in a hurry to leave.” He looks at me, a little shocked at how forward I was, but the bulge in his pants is a dead giveaway that he’s ready to go. He better drive faster than he did on the way here.

In the truck, I put my hand on his leg without invitation. When I move it, brushing his cock slightly, he lets out a grunt and all bets are off. I make short work of his belt, button and zip, so I can put my hand in his pants and feel what’s waiting for me.

“Watch the road,” I say when I catch him looking at where I’m stroking him.

“It’s a little hard when you’re doing that,” he says, his knuckles white from ho hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.

“It is hard. You should hurry the fuck up so it can be hard inside me,” I say into his ear.

“Fuck, Dion.”

“Yes, fuck me,” I say as he pulls into my driveway so fast his tires squeal.