Page 44 of Goode Vibrations

“It’s yours. I edited it.”

She stared at it for a long time. “I…wow. It’s actually…not bad.”

“Not bad? Pop, it’s fuckin’ brilliant.”

She smirked at me, bemused, or amused, or both. “Pop?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just…” She turned away, but not before I caught something.

“What?”

A shake of her head. “Like you with that playlist. That nickname is just a…a thing. I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

“Sorry, then. Won’t say it again, if it bothers you.”

A hesitation. “I don’t know if it does, actually. It’s been a long, long time. Since I was little.” She turned back to me, smiling, and it only seemed a little forced. “Maybe try it again sometime, and see how I feel about it.”

I wanted to know, but considering how I’d avoided discussing my shit, it wouldn’t be fair to press her on hers. I pushed off the bed, headed for the bathroom, peeling my shirt off as I went. She was watching me, and I felt her gaze as sharp and intense as mine had been when she got out of the shower. I paused just inside the bathroom, contemplating shutting the door. Instead, I reached in and turned on the water to heat up. Glanced at Poppy, and then shucked my board shorts. Stood naked, facing the shower but looking at Poppy.

She was motionless, eyes roaming me. Standing near the bed, iPad in one hand. Eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “Is this one of those moments where you’re trying to make the ice cream last longer?” she asked, after a moment.

“Actually, this time, I think it’s more about getting clean so I can get dirty again. You’re all clean, wouldn’t want to get my grime on all that nice clean skin.”

“Oh.” That answer seemed to appease her.

I stepped into the shower and drew the curtain closed.

As I showered, I kept wondering if I’d hear the rasp of the curtain rings, feel her step in with me.

I never did, and it only made me hungrier for her.

9

Poppy

Ididn’t want to get dressed. I wanted to stay naked, catch him fresh out of the shower, dripping wet and steaming.

I found excuse after excuse to not get dressed, to stay wrapped in my towel, even when the air conditioner’s icy blast made me shiver.

Eventually, the water shut off—and by eventually, I mean half the time I was in the shower, and probably because I’d already used most of the hot water. He tossed the curtain aside and stepped out. He had forgotten or not bothered to bring a towel closer than from the rack over the toilet, and with the layout of the bathroom, that meant he had to either get one from inside the other end of the tub, or get out and reach over the toilet—which is what he did.

Naked, water sluicing off of him.

At the sight of a naked Errol, my nipples tightened, hardened to points, aching with intense and immediate need, and my center pulsed with damp arousal. He was a god. Every inch of him was lean and hard and corded with ropy muscle. He wasn’t…how should I put it? Neither Instagram fitness model shredded nor Mr. Olympia bulky. He was a whole different kind of fit—he was lean and hard from a life lived doing hard things. His arms would stretch a T-shirt sleeve, and his abs were cheese-grater defined, his hips angular, his chest flat and hard. His thighs spoke of an ability to hike miles on end carrying all his gear. His hair, wet and flat, hung to just past his shoulders—it would curl up and shrink as it dried into wavy locks just shorter than shoulder length.

He grabbed a towel, let it drop from his hands to open it up, patted his face dry, his beard, and then dragged it over his head, grabbing the ends to shimmy it over his back, his buttocks—and holy moly, that ass wastight, so hard, so round, I just wanted to bite into it like a fucking apple. He whipped the towel around front, scrubbed off his abs and palmed his junk with it. And the way he handled his manhood was with rough familiarity, obviously, but I felt he should have been more reverent with such beauty. It was so gorgeous, his cock. It needed to be carved out of marble and displayed as the paragon of male glory—this is what a real man is hung with. Just my opinion, obviously, and no man is less of a man because of what he may or may not be packing between his legs. I’ve had as much fun with a small dick as a big one, but…it is true that size matters. It’s just a matter of subjective opinion, woman to woman, what that perfect size is.

Errol was perfect, for me.

So perfect. I wanted to hold it in my hands, pet it. Kiss it. He had such a pretty penis that I just wanted to snuggle it. Even slack, it was beautiful, which was quite a marvelous trick, since most limp dicks were nothing short of comical. His was just…pretty. This morning’s activities rampaged through my mind as I watched him finish toweling off.

His fingers between my thighs, under my skirt this morning. His cock in my hand, filling my mouth until my jaws ached to take all of his thick, turgid, salty inches. His mouth on my pussy, the way he made me come, as if he was greedy for my orgasms.

I knew I was for his—I wanted to feel him come again. And again. I wanted to make him shout the way he had, out of control, riled and wild. I wanted to do such dirty things to him, and all of them were in my mind, all at once.

The towel held in front of him, draped from chest to dangle tantalizingly in front of his sex, he swaggered into the bedroom. Blueblueblue eyes on me.