We're still naked, lying in bed. My back is pressed to his chest and his acoustic guitar is against my breasts. He moves his hand up the neck of the guitar as I strum it with my fingertips. The fact that he's a brilliant doctor and a talented musician is all the more sexy. I can't play a single instrument, something he found irritating until he heard me sing. I don't do it often, but I can put him at ease or put him to sleep with a song.
We aren't playing a song, just a few chords, filling the silence with the twang of the strings. We're both in a calm state of being, tired and satisfied after our incredible sex session. I'm contented, completely and utterly. Moments like this, I'm glad I got arrested.
We met when I was doing my community service, bringing food around to the rooms. I'd gotten pulled over for speeding and instead the cop smelled the roach in my ashtray. I got off easy with 20 hours of community service and a year's probation.
He found me in an empty hospital room with my boots resting on a bed, eating Jell-O. I think what got him was when I asked him what the fuck he was looking at. We skipped out on the rest of our respective shifts and went for coffee; far away from the coffee shop I work in. He popped a Vicodin, I poured Bailey's into my coffee; it was noon.
He puts the guitar aside and gets up to shower. I wrap myself up in the sheets and breathe in his scent. I'm looking forward to this day. I don't want to do anything except keep him happy all day. I get up and follow him into the shower. His hands roam around my body as I wash his back, his thighs, his arms and shoulders. I massage his back, working on the many knots he has. He carries his stress with him everywhere.
When we get out, we dress and go for a ride on the motorcycle. I cling onto him, my breasts pressing into his back and my head resting between his shoulders. He takes the turns quickly, trying to scare me. We end up in a tavern just outside of town and order beers and burgers. He threatens to beat the bartender with his cane if there are pickles anywhere near our burgers.
He's angry that the music on the jukebox isn't anything he likes. I go up and put in a dollar, picking songs I know he'll be less apt to complain about. I'm not in the best mood, cramps notifying me that my period should finally be arriving; it means no more worrying, but a week of being bloated. I get back to the table and he tells me Wilson is coming over for dinner. I sigh and press my forehead to the table. I hate his last-minute bullshit. I wasn't going to wear any underwear and let him lick dessert off my inner thigh; now I'll have to think of something else to serveā¦
xXxXx
We're still naked, lying in bed. Her back is pressed to my chest and my guitar is hiding those delicious, perfect breasts. I move my hand up the neck of the guitar, pressing down onto the frets as she strums with her fingertips. She can't play a single instrument, something I find quite peculiar about a girl like her. Her singing voice, however, is incredible. It's low and rough and smoky and sexy. She won't sing very often, something that irritates me to no end.
This is one of the very few moments in my life where I'm relaxed. We play a few chords, our hands lazy. Our sex never ceases to amaze me. I've never been so satisfied with any other woman. Moments like this, I'm glad I needed peace and quiet away from Cuddy.
We met one particularly stressful day, when Cuddy wouldn't get off my back about telling a patient's mother to get out of my way and play in traffic or I wouldn't give her son antibiotics to kill the infection in his lungs. I went for one of the empty rooms to just deflate and instead I found her.
She was one of the more beautiful women I'd seen, sitting in a chair with her big black combat boots resting on a bed. Her denim skirt was frayed and her pink tank top had a black skull on her right breast; her cleavage was incredible. She had on the blue coat that volunteers wore, but had failed to button it. She was eating green Jell-O and when she finally realized I was in the room, she looked up with big blue eyes and asked me what the fuck I was looking at.
I tried to make her uncomfortable so she would leave and asked her if she was here for a breast exam. She smiled that beautiful smile and said she was just waiting for the end of her community service hours so she could go smoke the joint in her pocket. We went to coffee, me popping a Vicodin and she adding Bailey's to her coffee. I knew from there that I wanted to know more about her.
I put the guitar to the side and decide to shower. I haven't washed my hair in a couple days and figure now is a good time. I'm rinsing the shampoo from my hair when she slips into the shower behind me. I run my hands all over her smooth skin as she pampers me, washing me and massaging me. She's unafraid of really digging at the knots in my back and shoulders. She knows exactly what I need, when I need it.
When we get out, we dress and go for a ride on my motorcycle. She's holding tightly to me, her head resting between my shoulders. It gives me a rush to have her clinging to me like this. I take the turns quicker when she's on the bike, I feel younger and more invincible. I also like to scare her a little bit and make her tighten her grip. We go to a tavern just outside of town and order beers and burgers. She's not shy about drinking early in the day. I tell the bartender I'll beat him with my cane if there is even a hint that a pickle has been near our burgers. Her hatred of pickles is also something that attracts me to her.
The jukebox is playing some bullshit I wouldn't even want to know the name of. The only problem with places like this is the shitty music. She gets up and I watch her ass as she walks to the jukebox, puts her dollar in and presumably chooses songs I'll be able to tolerate. Her hips sway back and forth on her way back and it makes me want her again. Wilson is coming to dinner, though, so we'll have to do it immediately when we get home to give her time to cook. She's angry that I've waited last-minute to tell her about our extra guest. I'm not concerned; she's an intelligent girl and will figure something out. She likes Wilson, I think, so she doesn't mind.
All I can think about now is what I'm going to do to her when we get home.
