Fantasy #3

Home Made

She was driving him crazy, pure and simple. And the hell of it was that she had no idea, NONE that it was happening in the day-to-day reality of their association. Normally he prided himself in being unflappable, a cool head in any situation since Criminology tended to throw just about everything at you but the LAST thing Warrick Brown ever expected to broadside him was—

--A homemaker.

Oh yeah, that’s what she really was, in all honesty. In a town with a reputation for the exotic, the wild and crazy side of human nature it was amazing to find a Betty Crocker moving through the crowds of gamblers, hookers, grifters and other hard-boiled types. Like finding a big plump raisin in a mouthful of oatmeal, that little sweetness making up for a lot of unpalatable taste.

Warrick laughed softly to himself, wondering where this poetic streak had come from. Certainly it wasn’t the sort of thing he normally came up with, but in this case it seemed to fit. He licked the inside of his mouth, still tasting the faint hint of meatloaf in it. Homemaker, yeah. She cooked and cooked WELL if the general consensus was anything to go by. Not that she needed that to make her attractive, but it helped.

Warrick knew he had a pretty basic Maslow hierarchy going, and almost all his needs were met on the lower rungs, right up to love and companionship. That level was pretty dry, truth to tell. He had hookups, ladies for a night here and there no problem, but it was always on a strictly physical basis. None of them were more than a good scratch to the itch and that was fine with him.

Fine.

Really.

Okay maybe not sometimes—getting laid was always good for the body, but rolling away and leaving afterwards, driving around Vegas just to decompress wasn’t what he considered fulfilling. The trouble was that the women he COULD talk to he didn’t dare sleep with, and the women he slept with didn’t want to talk—a delicious irony that wasn’t lost on him.

He wanted a relationship and didn’t have a damned idea how to get one going.

Sighing, he stretched out on his sofa, one arm behind his head, the other across his stomach. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts wander, and like clockwork they drifted to Lydia---

Slipping into a townhouse, not wanting to wake her, pleased to have remembered the code this time for the security gate. Patting the dog, checking the phone messages, roaming through the semidarkness of a home and knowing the way by memory.

His home.

Their home.

Moving stealthily upstairs, pulling off his shoes and socks, passing by the bookcases and pictures and blended eclectica of their lives, savoring the secret pleasure of belonging to Lydia as much as she belongs to him. Finding satisfaction in knowing she’s in their bed, waiting for him.

A soft glow of light from the master bathroom lights his way and he steps in, stripping down quickly. He dumps the laundry in the hamper then steps into the bedroom, gaze locked on the bed. She’s there, yes, right there—

Sprawled sweetly on her stomach, long honey blonde hair fanned out across her back, the edges of her pink lace nightie barely reaching her curvy ass—

Warrick always stares, cannot HELP but stare at the sight of her sleeping. So sweetly vulnerable like this, nowhere near the calm competent technician he works beside. THIS Lydia is only for him, the bouncy rounded girl woman who makes his pulse jump and his cock throb. He braces a hand on the doorway and drinks in the vision of her, letting it warm him right to his toes.

He’s not a sentimental type, but some things cannot help but be cherished if only for their intimacy. Warrick pushes off the doorframe and in a few strides, gently drops on his side of the bed, laughing inside. His world is pampered now with things like fabric-softened sheets, clean towels, vacuumed carpets.

From somewhere deep in his past he remembers the definition of a sacrament: an outward visible sign of an inward invisible grace. As he slides towards Lydia, he can’t help but feel it fits very well for this love.

She rolls sleepily to him, seeking his coolness, warming him with the press of her curves. Warrick lets her snuggle against his chest, burying his nose in the rich scent of her clean hair. It’s not the color that captivates him, but the texture, the heavy weight of its glossy strands. Lydia’s hair is sleek and sensual; when she wears it loose it’s all he can do not to stare at her.

Lydia’s slightly restless, not awake but not completely asleep either, and her hands skim along his torso as if to reassure herself he’s really there. Warrick gives in to the teasing sensation of her touch, trapping one of her thighs between his. He strokes his hands down her back, skimming over the lace to cup her bare ass. She’s always complaining that it’s too big, but Warrick thinks it’s perfect. A nice double handful of muscle with the perfect bounce to it, and when he squeezes, she gives a tiny gasp.

“Booty inspector—“ he whispers into her ear, making her snort against his neck.

“I see you found it around back—“ comes her sleepy reply. Warrick chuckles and squeezes again.

“What’s a nice white girl like you doing with a fine ass like this?”

“I’m living with him—“

“Oh that’s COLD, baby—“ he laughs, letting her kiss his throat. He shifts, pulling her onto him, letting the weight of her settle against his body. She wriggles and makes him groan.

“Ooooh, someone’s glad to see me,” Lydia sighs between kisses across his face. Warrick busies himself with getting the lace nightie off of her. Once her chest is uncovered through, Warrick’s too distracted by the big warm tits in his hands to manage any conversation. Lydia groans, sitting up, cupping her little fingers over his much bigger ones.

“Not my booty—“ she teases. He grunts a little, feeling his cock pressed between their bodies, swelling eagerly in the maddening shift of skin to warm skin. Warrick pulls her forward, sucking in first one hard nipple then shifting to the other as primitive urges surge within him.

“Almost better than—“ he tells her gruffly, scraping her sensitive skin with his stubble. Lydia shudders. Her hair falls around her shoulders, making a curtain around her in the dim light. Warrick lets his kisses wander to all the places he knows and loves: her collarbones, her shoulders, her throat. By the time he reaches her mouth Lydia is sleek and hot, tasting of peaches and cinnamon. He shifts her hips with his big hands, lifting her a little, settling her down again slowly onto his thick shaft.

And she moans, that low throaty sound that drives him wild. It’s a ‘fuck me’ noise plain and simple and Warrick strains hard not to just grab her plush hips and plunge upward hard and fast. She’d let him, but he prefers to take his time here in the sweet darkness of their little world. He throbs deep within her, engulfed in slick, slick heat, blind with a passion that tightens his heart and balls at the same time. Lydia rocks against him, hands on his damp chest, hair swaying around them both. She’s muttering softly in Polish, words he knows come only from her lust for him: Ukochany, kocham ciebie Warrick, ohhhhhh—

He pulls her close as their hips reach a powerful synchronicity, mutual lust rising hard and fast now. With tender precision, Warrick lightly rubs the ball of his thumb over the tiny pulsing nub deep at the top of the curly blonde cleft between her thighs. Lydia stiffens, her back arching as her orgasm pulses around his cock, milking it and Warrick gives himself over to the hot wild pleasure as he comes himself, deep and high----

Warrick wakes up alone, throbbing. A sense of embarrassed despair washes over him as he stares down at his crotch, noting the seepage, wondering why he preferred his dreams to the easy reality of cruising the Strip. And as he slowly gets up from the sofa, wincing at the wetness, peeling off his jeans, he bites back a bittersweet chuckle at the answer that comes to him:

Because he loves her. Even if he’ll never take that gamble to push things further.

As he carries the jeans to the washer he pauses—

--And adds fabric softener.

END

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