For a moment, Chloe Ellis thought she was going to die.
"I have to remember to breathe," she told herself, because her breath was coming in harsh gasps. The problem was, remembering how to breathe came in a distant second to realizing just how wonderful this felt.
Those thoughts faded as she realized she was approaching another orgasm. Her boyfriend Jed had already wrung two out of her, one she was sure was prompted mainly by the litany of filth that poured from his mouth as he made a meal of her vagina. "Oh, so good, Chloe, you taste divine, I could stay like this between your legs forever." He was always chatty during sex, so it was hardly a surprise as he lapped up and down the length her slit, pausing every now and then so he could spread her labia with his fingers and push even deeper inside her.
There was one troubling aspect that momentarily disturbed her. Somehow Jed, a good ol' Nebraska boy, had acquired a British accent.
But then two of those fingers had replaced his tongue and were finding spots inside her that she didn't even know about but was goddamn happy to learn, and his tongue was circling around her clit, tighter and tighter, and then somewhere someone was screaming, "I'm coming!" over and over again.
When her climax finally ebbed, she was completely seized by another thought: "Jed, I really need your cock inside me." And then she looked down and the face of Bradford McAllister stared back up at her.
Chloe bolted up in bed. "What the fuck?" she muttered as sleep fled like a routed army.
* * * * *
Of course it wasn't Jed who was eating her out. That relationship had ended years ago, when he disclosed to her that his five-year plan was to be the frontman for a grunge band, and Chloe Ellis had decided that
her
five-year plan didn't include being the girlfriend/wife of the frontman for a grunge band. Besides, when it came to eating pussy, his enthusiasm far outstripped his talent: he couldn't have found her clit with a headlamp and a map.
Better than her ex-husband Mark, though. Twelve years of Catholic education had created in Mark an aversion to oral sex, at least with him as the perpetrator. "If I did it all the time it wouldn't be special," he told her, until she realized that his going down on her coincided with the oil changes required for her car. She didn't need it to be
that
special. She'd dumped him two years ago after she'd come home one afternoon to surprise him. He was indeed surprised, but not nearly as much as the redhead who tried to cover up her tits with the bedsheet.
She was pretty sure that Bradford McAllister knew how to eat pussy. Six-foot three, his Armani or Tom Ford hanging perfectly from his toned frame, his stubble perfectly trimmed, his hair perfectly coifed, and a smile that oozed sex like flop sweat, topped off by a British accent that had women literally swooning in his presence. She'd never seen his dick, of course, but she had a pretty good hunch that was perfect, too.
He was the one of the top people in product marketing at Kendall Korp Advertising Agency, and she'd been brought in as a temporary contract employee about two months earlier. He'd spent the first minute after they'd met eye-fucking her, then said, "I see you'll be working under me," with a smirk that made her want to punch him in the face.
He was the most attractive man she'd ever met, but also as annoying as fuck: for the first few weeks he made it clear that his real desire was to find out how well they would work horizontally. She just as persistently rejected his advances.
Not that Chloe thought she was too good for him. She was certainly attractive; dirty blonde hair just past her shoulders, a body she kept in good shape by running four days a week and working out at the gym three, a cute button nose, and gorgeous blue eyes. Not bad for a single mother just on the wrong side of thirty.
But the big problem was that she'd lost count of the women she'd seen McAllister with over those two months. He was unquestionably a man-slut; he'd shown up for one business party with two women on his arm, their busts indicating they had no chance of drowning, and both named Brittany, albeit with different spellings (Britney? Brittanie? She couldn't remember now), probably so that he had less chance of shouting the wrong name in the throes of passion.
So, yes, Chloe Ellis could have a one-night stand with Bradford McAlllister, and she was sure it would be a good one. But that wasn't who she was. There's been a sprinkling of boyfriends before Jed, and even a brief liaison with a woman while Chloe was going through her lesbian chic days in college. She'd never had a one-night stand, though, and didn't plan on changing that.
No matter what she dreamt.
Those dreams came rushing back as McAllister popped into her office with a disarming smile and a cup of coffee he set on her desk. "Just as you like it," he purred. "Mocha Delight with almond milk and sugar-free caramel drizzle." That was maddening, too: while he turned the dial on arrogance and obnoxiousness up to eleven, he was kind to her, and his initial smirk had gradually been replaced by an expression which showed that he actually cared about her as something more than his next sexual conquest.
Which she so did not need right now. She kept her libido at bay by closing her eyes and imagining he had a huge goiter on his neck.
He mistook her discomfiture for something else. "Did your date the other night not go well?"
Oh yes. Her "date." No, that had not gone well. Bill - or was it Will? - took her to a restaurant where she was served undercooked fish and asparagus that looked like it had been sitting in the frying pan since last night, so that wasn't good. His spending seventy-two of the seventy-five minutes they were at the restaurant talking about his job as a car salesman wasn't good, either. She'd briefly mentioned that she'd attended her daughter's parent-teacher conference the week before, and he'd looked at her like she had Ebola. After she'd half-heartedly consumed whatever of her dinner she could manage, he'd invited her back to his place for a "nightcap," which she understood was his euphemism for trying to stick his dick in her mouth. She would have scooped out her eyeballs with a spoon before accepting that invitation.
"We're not talking about my love life, Brad," she said, now trying to imagine his face covered with hideous boils.
McAllister's eyes widened. "Aha. I notice you didn't say 'sex life.' So the poor chap left you unsatisfied, as I could have easily predicted."
Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. "Brad, unlike some people I know, I don't sleep with anyone and everyone, and I certainly don't sleep with someone I've just met."
"And that's why I'm willing to offer my services, Chloe. We've been partners for some time now, and we've grown familiar with each other."
"Which has bred only contempt." She stared ahead, not looking at him so she could pretend he had a lazy left eye and drooping eyelid.
"Oh, Chloe, what a lovely surprise! Didn't know you were a fan of Chaucer. Me, not so much; epic medieval poems are a bit of drag, actually. Not as bad as
Beowulf
, and we don't even have anyone specific to blame for that monstrosity."
Yes, that's it
, Chloe thought.
He'd make harsh grunting sounds while he had sex, and his O-face would make him look like he was having a bowel movement.
"At any rate, Chloe, you seem unusually frustrated this morning, and as always, as your dedicated partner, I'm more than willing to fill that gap."
Yeah, you're going to fill my...
"Brad, we are not having sex. We are never going to have sex. The End."
The look on his face reflected that he did not accept the finality of that decision.
She doubted if the look on her face did.
