by Carmen Kildare
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making money.
Author's Notes: This is, in fact, a sequel of sorts to
Speranza's "Scrabble" -- I sent it as a thank-you after a late-night
read and revel, and she encouraged me to post it.
Story Notes: Nope. Read "Scrabble" first.
Ray lays down four tiles, his gleaming eyes half-lidded, teasing, watching me as he does so. "S. U. C. K. Over the triple word score. That'll be thirty points. See what happens when you play with a plan?" and the man is smiling at me, lop-sided and lazy and his body smells warm and spicy from the shower we had earlier and he is most definitely playing with a plan, but not the one he explained to me two nights ago.
The board is littered with four-letter words, and no, I am not commenting on the extent of Ray's vocabulary, because a few of the four-letter words are polysyllabic and highly specialized. They're also terribly raw. Incredibly vulgar. Delightfully lewd. Anywhere innuendo can be worked in, he's managed it. The board is an invitation to debauchery. And it's working exactly as he intended.
I'm aroused to the point my focus is scattershot instead of lasersight and tonight I am not even trying for my usual level of lexical competency. I think I managed to lay down "pea" on my last turn, and not even on a double letter score. All I can think about are his hands, now playing with the tiles, running lightly over the loose ones in the box, and how they ran lightly over the angles of my hips a few short hours ago.
But I am a quick study, and I have been saving three tiles since his strategy first became obvious to me. I lay them down after his last work, transforming it. Suck becomes sucking and his eyes darken and he licks his lips and that's it. I call the game on account of Ray. The board is knocked aside, tiles go flying and I am on him, one hand in his hair, one hand pushing his robe aside, his boxer-briefs down, pushing my own away. He's already hard and he gasps when our bodies touch. I take his open mouth as an invitation, and good God, he's more dangerous than licking any electrical outlet. His tongue touches mine, his erection slides, slips, catches and slides against mine and we are once again a circuit, cycling endlessly.
He's noisy, sighing and groaning and "Benbenben-ing" me and his long fingers grab for purchase on my buttocks, grab hard, slide in between, slide into me and this will not last long at all, this cannot last, this hard frantic coupling that is simply more and better than anything I have known before. I pull my head back, look down into his eyes, and he is looking back at me, seeing me as no one has ever seen me before. Underneath the fire and the hunger there is something sweet there, too, tender and compassionate and loving, and all those mixed together in his gaze are enough to spur me forward into release, an arrow of bright, sharp longing and satisfaction loosed between us.
He surges up, takes my mouth again, drives his body against my slickness, his breathing frantic, his fingers twisting smoothly in me so that I cannot fall into sated stillness. A few moments later he goes taught, muscles locked, breath caught, and then he, too, empties himself between us. We lay on the hard floor, bodies twined together, and do nothing but breathe for the longest time.
Then he sighs, grunts, shifts. "Oh, lord. I got a tile stuck up my ass, I think." I roll to my side, pull him with me, let my hands wander, and sure enough there is one pressed firmly into the sweaty flesh of his left buttock. I hold it up, show it to him.
"The Q," I say. "Ten points. Does that improve my score?" and Ray Kowalski laughs and licks along the edge of my jaw, which he somehow managed to get semen all over.
"Heh. Double Spunk score, plus 10. Why the hell not?" He laughs again, licks me again, and I am ...