Fake Out

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked, with the innocent façade turning into something more hungry and unsubtle. She stepped forward and stared me down.

“No, it…”

“If he can’t do it, you can.” She stepped forward again, this time lunging in so her tight and pert body pressed against mine, her folds and curves curling against my rigid form. With a tap onto my chest, she pushed me stumbling back to the bed. I fell and could only look up to see her crawling towards me.

There was lust in her eyes as she grabbed the towel and whipped it off. “It’s bigger than I remember,” she grinned wickedly. I tried to protest, but couldn’t find the words to do it as her body slinked further onto me, her crawling on all fours over the bed.

And there she was, on top, like she always was. We met eyes; we met lips. And then I woke the fuck up with a hard-on and a ringing phone. I was still in bed; I hadn’t even gotten up to face the day yet. But the dream was so good I only wished I could fall into a coma.

“Hello,” I bitterly murmured as I grabbed the phone.

“Buddy,” shouted Matt. “The big fucking day.”

“Morning Matt,” I said. I felt like an asshole for dreaming about his girl like that; but then again, it was just dreaming, so I decided to forget it. “What’s up?”

“Well, you know it’s bad luck to see the bride on the day of the wedding…”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to sit up in bed with a grunt.

“So anyways, I ordered some flowers, as you know, a morning gift for Michelle. But the damn delivery service only sent it to the front desk. You know I’d go pick them up and take them to her on your floor, but you know, bad luck… And she’s superstitious. She’d be pissed.”

“You want me to deliver the god-damn flowers?”

“Yeah. But make sure to tell her they’re from me,” Matt said.

I sighed, got changed, and headed down to the front desk.

Ten minutes later I had a bouquet of roses and was walking down the hall to Michelle’s room. The dream was still vivid in my mind; usually dreams like that would fade quickly but the images of her body against mine still pounded vividly in my brain. Her wonderful, bouncing, breasts contained in that sweater… Her swaying, twisting, shifting, come-hither hips… That firm, tight ass, the heart of all temptation, displayed so perfectly in those khakis…

And the kiss. God, that fucking kiss. I didn’t remember her kissing that way when we dated. It was one of those kisses that was better than the sex itself—tongues locked in a tango, lips meshed and mashing, oxygen irrelevant.

I came to the door and knocked. Moments later, she opened. I fought back a gasp, but the more difficult battle would be fighting back the instant erection in my jeans. She stood in a towel, wrapped around from her breasts down to her thighs… I lost my breathe and lost the power of speech as I stared her over.

“There’s nothing in here you haven’t seen before,” she sighed as she opened up the door further to let me in. I stumbled over, past the doorway. “Are these for me?” she asked, grabbing the flowers.

“Yes,” I said.

“Ah. That’s sweet of you,” she grinned. She thought they were from me. I didn’t find myself correcting her.

There was another silence. “So…?” she asked, standing idly in that towel. “Is there anything else?”