***
The Moto GP circus would be shipping off tomorrow. And Team JSR would be heading back to Monterey, California, where I kept my favorite home overlooking Pebble Beach and the Pacific Ocean, before we packed it all up again for the Argentinian round. Normally I’d be excited at the prospect, but as I sat in my lonely hotel suit drinking scotch, I couldn’t seem to muster the enthusiasm.
Again, I saw Summer’s face, smelled that sweet scent of hers, imagined her lips moving over different parts of me. I wondered what she was doing. Was she finding this as difficult as I was?
Summer
What a stupid fucking ho. Such a temptress, so sultry. I mean, who can’t get some mindless hulk to cream in his pants? I thought I was being so sexy, leaving him forever with one untouchable memory, one last, unforgettable addition to his spank bank. So, when I was actually old and withered, in his mind, I’d be forever young, hot and grinding against his cock until he came. Great in theory, but sucked in practice.
I got home after the race and the restroom escapade feeling terrible, lovesick, and sexually frustrated. I ran a hot bath to rinse off the smoke and gasoline that seemed to have saturated every pore of my skin. And also, maybe, wash James out of my system. It didn’t work immediately. Every garment I removed made me wish he was undressing me.
I slipped out of my blouse, watching myself in the full-length mirror, and I ran my fingers softly along my waist, envisioning his fingers moving over my body. I unzipped my skirt and let it slide down off my hips, wishing it was him pushing it off me. I unhooked my bra, holding the cups against my breasts and picturing his lust filled eyes on me as I unveiled my pointed nipples. I pushed my hands under the flimsy material of my panties, caressing the baby-smooth skin, and imagined his fingers tracing the soft folds of my pussy, sending the most delicate of sparks through my pleasure centers as they brushed against my swollen, aching clit.
Like I said, I was frustrated. I whipped off my underwear and relaxed into the hot bath. I could feel the steaming, soapy water lifting the sweat and grim from my skin, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in my body. With a strong hand, I got myself off in seconds. But it wasn’t the same. When the fireworks faded, it had done nothing to fill the hole inside me.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I couldn’t seem to retrieve my old, professional, detached self. I decided I was crazy. James was not in possession of the world’s only cock. There was enough man-meat out there to take my mind off him. I just needed to stop acting like a heartsick schoolgirl. Sure, it felt bad right now, but it’d feel ten times worse if we tried to stay together and were ready to tear each other’s heads off in six months’ time. In two weeks, I was sure to be like ‘James who?’ Guaranteed.
My cellphone rang, waking me from my deep thoughts. I checked the caller ID, and it was Derek. Well, how about that. We had a short conversation. He was sorry about the other night, blah, blah, blah. He deserved the punch in the face, and could he come over? I decided he might be able to help me out of my current dilemma. I told him to come on over, and twenty minutes later there was a knock at my door.
I’d finished my bath, brushed my hair but left it wet, touched up my makeup, and simply left my white towel robe on when it came time to answer the door. He was standing there, hunched over, as I opened it, a look of painful remorse painted on his face, which slipped into slightly eager surprise when he saw me fresh from the tub and nearly naked.
I invited him in and fixed us a drink. He seemed a little lost for words as he sat nervously on my couch.
“What did you want to talk about?” I prompted him, handing him a glass of scotch.
He sipped his drink nervously. I sat on the couch next to him. There was space between us for a whole other person, yet he was fidgeting. His eyes wouldn’t settle. They flitted from the silent TV, to the window, and finally to where my robe opened to reveal the naked, smooth thighs of my crossed legs.
“I know you hate the word,” he began, “but I feel like we have too much invested in this relationship to just let it go.”
“So what do you suggest?” I asked. I had missed him. I’d missed his thick brown curls I used to love leaning my face against as we watched TV. I’d missed his peculiar apprehension every time we were together, even making love for the thousandth time, the way he let me lead and direct him, and the enthusiasm with which he would try to please me. Of course, at the end, that drove me mad, and I longed to be taken. Like James did when he pushed me over that wall…Ugh! Enough!
“Let’s go back, back to when we only saw each other a couple of times a week. Zero commitment. That was what you wanted,” he suggested.