2. Nathan
2 /
nathan
Fucking Dick Butterflies
When I rolled out of bed ten minutes ago, the only thing on my mind was a double espresso and a poolside nap, especially after last night. But this unexpected big-tits reveal has my brain and dick alert so fast, I’m not sure if I’m still dreaming.
No, I’m certain it’s a dream because the event unravels in my mind in slow motion. From the moment the woman’s arms rise and the towel releases its hold, I’m hooked, mesmerized, enthralled, and ready for playtime .
Though her body is all winding curves like a deliciously plump 1950s pinup, it’s clear her personality is more like a quirky character in a rom-com movie. She’s painfully awkward.
With this new perspective, I let the event replay in my mind. It’s not as glamorous but is equally intriguing.
One second, her perky twins are tucked snugly into a beach towel, and the next, her double-Ds are jumping the lane like runaway bowling balls at Galaxy Bowl’s glow-in-the-dark night during my secret college bowling league. The difference? That horny little nerd would have passed out at the MILF flashing her exquisite multi-lane, ten-pin strike.
Somehow, I hold it together. Mostly.
With her towel on the floor, the MILF’s brain seems to have stalled from complete embarrassment. While she stands frozen and ninety-five percent naked, I manage to roll my wagging tongue back into my mouth and tell my dick to take a seat, then snag the towel off the floor to drape it over her chest and around her back.
I’m convinced I only do the right thing so I can lock her in a pseudo hug, making our bodies press together in places untouched by the opposite sex far longer than any man in my position ever cares to admit. Let’s say I’ve been distracted lately.
My gaze connects with her sparkling dark eyes behind her flashy sunglasses, and my mouth turns bone dry.
“I’m an expert at getting women naked, but thirty seconds is my best record,” I say with a smirk, hoping to lighten the mood.
She squeaks in response.
The elevator door opens with a ding. Cool air rushes in from the hotel’s open-air lobby, but it’s still not enough to douse this heat. I can’t explain it, but there’s a charge of electricity passing between us.
“Jeanie!” a man barks, and our heads swing toward the voice.
Confused, I scowl. Not only do I recognize his jarring Chicago accent, but I seem to be staring at an old boss from college, a man who never failed to schedule me during important exams. A man who fired me when I needed the paycheck most, and in doing so, almost destroyed my life.
But his wife? She was another story altogether. She was ...
A montage of images from all those years ago, ones I long stored away for my young-adult spank bank, play in my mind.
Looking beyond the colorful sunglasses, I study the woman in my arms and audibly gulp. In an instant, I’m eighteen all over again, and the tent in my pants pitches faster than a World Series MVP.
How could I forget this body? Christ, the legs? And now, the glorious tits. She’s Jeanie fucking Benton, the Beef Sandwich Queen of Chicago and my first adult crush.
Holy shit . My fingers curl around her a little tighter when I recall a random dream I just had about her.
“Roman?” she says when I wish she was saying my name instead.
I become protective when her terrified eyes lock with his. She sucks in a sharp breath.
My annoyed gaze swings back to Mr. Butthead, as I used to call him behind his back. I would sport a horrified expression, too, if I found my wife in another man’s arms. His black eyebrows, large like caterpillars, rise and fall, taking in our scandalous situation.
Still, I’m unwilling to untangle myself from Jeanie yet. I mean, one lifelong wish just came true. If she weren’t married, I’d pursue all the other ones I made more than a decade ago.
“What are you doing here?” Butthead asks.
Because of his condescending tone, I think he’s talking to me like when I worked the counter at his shop, but there’s no way he’d recognize me. I’m not the same person anymore, and that was twelve years ago.
He’s yelling at her, though it’s clear he’s not horrified for the reason he should be. He doesn’t care she’s half-naked in my arms. No, he’s pissed to see her.
Jeanie glances between us, appearing unsure what to do first—cry or cry. Her doe eyes gloss over and her bottom lip quivers.
Dammit, I’ve done it now .
When I untangle myself, letting go, she clamps her hand over the towel to hold it in place.
Roman is already headed in the opposite direction like he can’t stand the sight of her. He’s talking to himself, his arms swinging as he stomps around travelers and their suitcases.
“Um. Thank you.” Jeanie quiets, becoming a husk of the woman who called my lips moist like cake moments ago. She gestures to her towel and carefully sidesteps to the exit.
I stop the closing elevator door with my palm before it rams her body and we have another runaway-bowling-ball accident.
“And sorry,” Jeanie adds for some unexplained reason.
“Sorry for what?” My gaze falls to her chest. It’s hard not to when I’ve seen what’s underneath the towel. I’m no saint, but I’m fully aware if anyone looked at my lady this way, I’d kill them.
For a split second, because I deal with fans like this daily, I think she did this on purpose, that she knows who I am. That’s until the redness in her cheeks rises like fruit punch.
It’s then I decide she’s not some chick scheming to get into my pants. Jeanie Benton would never. She wouldn’t have to. Even in her disheveled state, a smart man would crawl to her on their knees and beg. I would if the opportunity presented itself.
“Just, sorry,” she says pitifully before spinning on her heel.
My mouth hangs open in shock as she runs away. Not because of what just happened. Okay, maybe a little because my younger, pimple-faced dreams just came true, but partly because of what I see right now.
I tip back my head and laugh, a real laugh that opens my chest and rumbles through my body.
Jeanie’s beach towel may completely cover her front, but it hangs open down her back from her hair to her toes. It seems she doesn’t have one secret, she has two.
She isn’t only topless beneath her towel. The panties she is trying to pass off as bikini bottoms are thongs. So now, both her creamy butt cheeks are flashing me.
And the best part? There’s a cute little butterfly tattoo on one side. As she marches on, her cheeks swish back and forth, making the butterfly appear to flutter, just like the ones swarming inside my dick.
Fucking dick butterflies.