“I’m not, either,” Sam said.
Kingsley arched his eyebrow at her.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I get to decide?”
“I’ve been submitting to Felicia for a month now. I’ve gotten good at it.” He tickled her rib cage with his fingertips. “You tell me.”
“I want to pay for my shirt,” she said. “That’s what I want to do.”
“You want me to come on you. You’re a lesbian. Isn’t this against the rules?”
“I don’t care about the rules.”
“You really want me to do this?”
“Yes, but not my back,” she said. “Do it where it counts. You showed me your scars and let me touch them. You should see mine.”
She raised her hand and unbuttoned her shirt...his shirt. She pulled it open and bared herself to him. Kingsley gazed down at her naked breasts with longing and desire coursing through his body. Lovely full breasts but not perfect. Both breasts were marred with old healed semicircle burn marks.
“I told you I had ugly secrets. These are souvenirs from that camp,” Sam said, blushing pink. “I don’t get naked very often with women. Do they look bad?”
He shook his head.
“Your breasts are beautiful,” he said. “Do my scars make me look bad?”
“Your scars are sexy.”
“So are yours.”
“Thank you. Even if you’re lying to me, thank you for being a good liar,” she said.
“Not lying,” he promised. He dropped his head and kissed one pale pink nipple. Then he moved his mouth and kissed the scar. He ached to touch her breasts, but he needed to touch himself more. Lowering himself, he positioned his knees on either side of Sam’s hips. She didn’t seem the least troubled by his nakedness, not even when he took himself in his hand.
Sam lifted her head and kissed the inside of his forearm before sliding her hand down her stomach and into her Fridays. She touched herself while he stroked himself. Sooner than he expected, she was moving beneath him, panting, her breaths hitching in her throat. Her pleasure stoked his, especially watching her nipples harden with her arousal and her skin flush. She took a sharp breath in and went silent. As she came he held back, although it pained him to do so. When her quiet shuddering was spent, she opened her hazel eyes and gazed up at him with undisguised desire. He stroked once more, twice more and then came onto her, covering her chest and breasts. He loved this, loved that she allowed him to do this to her, loved seeing his semen on her skin.
Sam closed her eyes and arched her back into his touch as he massaged his fluid into her breasts. Why was he doing this, marking her like this? He didn’t know why. Who cared? He loved touching her. He took his time as her breasts felt so right in his hand. He rolled her nipples between his forefinger and thumb, traced circles around her aureoles.
“Nobody’s touched my breasts in a long time,” she said. “Forgotten how good it felt.”
“Anytime you need it, my hands are here for you.”
“So...do I get to keep the shirt?” she asked.
“Sam, you can have all my shirts.”
With the greatest reluctance he pulled back and let her button his shirt up. He was gratified she didn’t immediately run off to the bathroom to wash him off her. Good sign.
She lay flat on her back and looked up and away and anywhere but at him.
“Sam?”
“Give me a second. I’ve never fooled around with a guy before. I’m processing.”
Kingsley sighed heavily and Sam grinned.
He sat up and leaned across her body.
“Kingsley, what are you doing?”
He pulled a small box from the drawer in the ebony table that sat at the side of his bed, took out rolling papers, a lighter and a small plastic baggie.
“Kingsley, is that—”
“It is,” he said, grinning as he licked the paper and rolled the ends tight. “Here.” Kingsley passed her the joint. “This will help you process.”
Kingsley flicked his light, and Sam took a hit, held it in and blew it out. She relaxed against his pillow with a smile. She curled up on his chest and handed it back to him.
“Kingsley?”
“Yes, Sam?” He wrapped an arm around her, held her close and exhaled an artful smoke ring.
“You are the world’s greatest boss.”
28
KINGSLEY WOKE UP alone in his bed. Sam had already gone. She’d left his shirt on the bed in her place along with a note. He unfolded the paper and read.
King-I didn’t love you and leave you. I had an idea when we were talking last night, and I want to go look into it. I might be on to something with Fuller.
Love,
Sam
P.S. You look like a little boy when you sleep. Almost innocent. I might have taken incriminating pictures.
P.P.S. Don’t forget you have a game at noon today.
P.P.P.S. Thanks for the weed.
He flipped the note over, making sure there were no further postscripts.
Game? Oh, yes, he did have a game today. Rematch with First Presbyterian. If he missed it, Søren would kill him and Kingsley was fairly certain the priest would do a more thorough job of that than the last men who’d tried to do him in.
When he rolled out of bed he was met with a full-body ache. A few days out of Mistress Felicia’s bed would do him good. He took a shower and dressed in his soccer clothes. He’d been scouted at age fifteen by Paris Saint-Germain Football Club, and here he was, suiting up to play church-league soccer. Still he laced on his cleats and pulled on his “Sacred Heart” T-shirt with his last name on the back and a number eight beneath it. The T in the Sacred Heart was even in the form of a cross. How quaint.
Kingsley arched his eyebrow at her.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I get to decide?”
“I’ve been submitting to Felicia for a month now. I’ve gotten good at it.” He tickled her rib cage with his fingertips. “You tell me.”
“I want to pay for my shirt,” she said. “That’s what I want to do.”
“You want me to come on you. You’re a lesbian. Isn’t this against the rules?”
“I don’t care about the rules.”
“You really want me to do this?”
“Yes, but not my back,” she said. “Do it where it counts. You showed me your scars and let me touch them. You should see mine.”
She raised her hand and unbuttoned her shirt...his shirt. She pulled it open and bared herself to him. Kingsley gazed down at her naked breasts with longing and desire coursing through his body. Lovely full breasts but not perfect. Both breasts were marred with old healed semicircle burn marks.
“I told you I had ugly secrets. These are souvenirs from that camp,” Sam said, blushing pink. “I don’t get naked very often with women. Do they look bad?”
He shook his head.
“Your breasts are beautiful,” he said. “Do my scars make me look bad?”
“Your scars are sexy.”
“So are yours.”
“Thank you. Even if you’re lying to me, thank you for being a good liar,” she said.
“Not lying,” he promised. He dropped his head and kissed one pale pink nipple. Then he moved his mouth and kissed the scar. He ached to touch her breasts, but he needed to touch himself more. Lowering himself, he positioned his knees on either side of Sam’s hips. She didn’t seem the least troubled by his nakedness, not even when he took himself in his hand.
Sam lifted her head and kissed the inside of his forearm before sliding her hand down her stomach and into her Fridays. She touched herself while he stroked himself. Sooner than he expected, she was moving beneath him, panting, her breaths hitching in her throat. Her pleasure stoked his, especially watching her nipples harden with her arousal and her skin flush. She took a sharp breath in and went silent. As she came he held back, although it pained him to do so. When her quiet shuddering was spent, she opened her hazel eyes and gazed up at him with undisguised desire. He stroked once more, twice more and then came onto her, covering her chest and breasts. He loved this, loved that she allowed him to do this to her, loved seeing his semen on her skin.
Sam closed her eyes and arched her back into his touch as he massaged his fluid into her breasts. Why was he doing this, marking her like this? He didn’t know why. Who cared? He loved touching her. He took his time as her breasts felt so right in his hand. He rolled her nipples between his forefinger and thumb, traced circles around her aureoles.
“Nobody’s touched my breasts in a long time,” she said. “Forgotten how good it felt.”
“Anytime you need it, my hands are here for you.”
“So...do I get to keep the shirt?” she asked.
“Sam, you can have all my shirts.”
With the greatest reluctance he pulled back and let her button his shirt up. He was gratified she didn’t immediately run off to the bathroom to wash him off her. Good sign.
She lay flat on her back and looked up and away and anywhere but at him.
“Sam?”
“Give me a second. I’ve never fooled around with a guy before. I’m processing.”
Kingsley sighed heavily and Sam grinned.
He sat up and leaned across her body.
“Kingsley, what are you doing?”
He pulled a small box from the drawer in the ebony table that sat at the side of his bed, took out rolling papers, a lighter and a small plastic baggie.
“Kingsley, is that—”
“It is,” he said, grinning as he licked the paper and rolled the ends tight. “Here.” Kingsley passed her the joint. “This will help you process.”
Kingsley flicked his light, and Sam took a hit, held it in and blew it out. She relaxed against his pillow with a smile. She curled up on his chest and handed it back to him.
“Kingsley?”
“Yes, Sam?” He wrapped an arm around her, held her close and exhaled an artful smoke ring.
“You are the world’s greatest boss.”
28
KINGSLEY WOKE UP alone in his bed. Sam had already gone. She’d left his shirt on the bed in her place along with a note. He unfolded the paper and read.
King-I didn’t love you and leave you. I had an idea when we were talking last night, and I want to go look into it. I might be on to something with Fuller.
Love,
Sam
P.S. You look like a little boy when you sleep. Almost innocent. I might have taken incriminating pictures.
P.P.S. Don’t forget you have a game at noon today.
P.P.P.S. Thanks for the weed.
He flipped the note over, making sure there were no further postscripts.
Game? Oh, yes, he did have a game today. Rematch with First Presbyterian. If he missed it, Søren would kill him and Kingsley was fairly certain the priest would do a more thorough job of that than the last men who’d tried to do him in.
When he rolled out of bed he was met with a full-body ache. A few days out of Mistress Felicia’s bed would do him good. He took a shower and dressed in his soccer clothes. He’d been scouted at age fifteen by Paris Saint-Germain Football Club, and here he was, suiting up to play church-league soccer. Still he laced on his cleats and pulled on his “Sacred Heart” T-shirt with his last name on the back and a number eight beneath it. The T in the Sacred Heart was even in the form of a cross. How quaint.
