The announcer called his name, and my twenty-one-year-old miracle child walked across the stage, paused to yell, “love you, Mom,” and then accepted his bachelor’s degree in architecture.
Meanwhile, I tried to ignore the curious looks cast in my direction. I understood. I’d be more than a little curious about an eighty-year-old woman with a natural son just graduating from college, too. Do the math. I was fifty-nine years old when I gave birth to Kip. The university asked if they could give me some kind of honorary degree for being the oldest mother ever, period, as far as they knew.
I think they were hoping the novelty of my age would stir up some publicity and maybe garner some donations. Since publicity was the last thing we wanted, I hinted at suing, and they dropped the whole thing. In return, I’d written the college of engineering a generous check. No hard feelings.
As amazing as the birth of my son had been, it wasn’t as amazing as my entire, totally unlikely marriage to a god.
No, when I say “god,” I’m not talking about some good-looking, well-hung stud—although he’s that, too. I’m talking about a real god, worshipped in Egypt for thousands of years. He’s my husband, Kip’s father, and the god of sex and fertility. The real miracle is my life with Him.
Architecture Magazine had named Tower A the sexiest building in the world. With its curved tower of glass and steel, buttressed by two pyramids, the whole structure appeared to float in midair.
I’d been downtown shopping when I walked past Tower A’s pre-sales center. The drawings plastered across the windows dragged me in from the street as if the
designer of this edifice had created these apartments just for me. Without a second thought, I’d signed over a sizeable chunk of my retirement savings as a down payment on one of the private, exclusive residences that occupied the ten floors above the five-star hotel.
After spending twenty-five years of my life designing airplanes, I’d run dry. So I retired. Fifty-eight isn’t so old. Wasn’t fifty the new forty, which meant I was the new forty-eight? What a load of crap. One thing I did know is that it’s hard to get older with nothing to look forward to but getting older. At least I could give myself a life in the closest thing to a palace I could find or afford.
A month later, I had moved in. Fewer than half my boxes were unpacked. I had started working on them early that morning. Needing a break, I collapsed onto a chair next to my sky blue marble breakfast bar and sipped coffee from the only mug I could find. Black and emblazoned with a tombstone and “Over the Hill” printed in silver lettering, it had been a parting gift from one of the young engineers I used to manage. Not funny.
The doorbell chimed the opening chords of “Some Enchanted Evening.” I added getting rid of that doorbell to my mental to-do list. Hearing the melody made me feel like some old fogey.
God, I hoped it wasn’t one of my friends dropping in for an impromptu visit and tour of the new place. The houseman had strict orders to call and check with me before letting anyone come up. I’d have a little chat with him later.
Looking through the peephole, I could see nothing but a blurry mass. The contractor had obviously forgotten to remove the protective plastic film from the glass. So I just opened the door.
Black hair, glistening with beads of water, and wide, bare, shimmering shoulders . . . . Tiny rivulets slid down the golden-brown skin of his bare chest and dripped from his arms. I couldn’t stop myself from following with my eyes the path of one small drop as it slid downward through dark chest hair and over a mostly flat stomach before disappearing behind the towel cinched around his waist.
I looked up, quickly meeting his eyes, and finally remembered to breathe. The expression on his face told me he knew his almost-naked body fascinated me, and that he wanted me to feel that way.
“May I use your telephone?” he asked. “I’ve locked myself out of my apartment.”
My heart flew into my throat, making speech impossible. I nodded and pointed at the telephone sitting atop a box.
He smiled. “Thank you.”
As he walked by me, I stared at his strong legs and the firm mound of his ass sliding beneath that towel. A hot flash exploded, bathing me in sweat. One salty droplet caught in my eyelash before dripping into my eye. Damn it!
Unable to move from my spot by the door, I watched as his long fingers pushed the telephone buttons and his beautiful mouth formed words.
He hung up and looked at me. Then his eyes began a slow, burning sweep of my body, pausing for a long moment at my lips, then my breasts, and then my hips, and all the way down my legs, before returning to meet my gaze.
Sweat poured down my cleavage. I glanced around for something to fan myself with. It was then I noticed the sizeable hard-on lifting the front of his towel.
“Charles is sending someone right up to let me in,” he said.
The combination of his voice and the twitching beneath that towel triggered a wet stream between my legs. I casually crossed one leg over the other, trying to ease the throbbing. Where the hell had that come from? Not only had my hormones stopped raging years ago, I was certain they’d packed up and moved out, leaving no forwarding address.
His black eyes continued to stare at my face. One thick, but definitely not bushy, eyebrow lifted as he smiled again.
“I’m Amon.” He stuck out his hand.
I hesitated for a moment and then took it. The electricity that shot up my arm started my nipples tingling. He held onto my hand, a look of amusement in his black eyes. I looked down in time to see the front of that towel push out even farther.
My god, how big is he?
In my single college days, I loved being with a man with a big cock. Of course, I’d married my ex-husband, Jack, for other reasons. Sometimes, even now, I still wasn’t sure what they were.
“I’m—I’m Nola.” Staring at him in his near-naked glory, I’d almost forgotten my own name.
He still hadn’t released my hand. Instead, his fingers stroked my palm. More heat, but this time it wasn’t a hot flash—it was just hot. It took everything I had to just stand there and not reach down to rip away that towel and let the chips fall.
What the hell was going on? I hadn’t had sex with Jack the last eight years we were married, and, before that, it hadn’t really been an act of passion. More like we both thought we should do it. Now, I wanted this man to push aside these boxes, find some floor space, and fuck my brains out on the expensive lamb’s wool carpeting.
The elevator bell dinged in the hall.
“That must be them,” he said, finally dropping my hand.
I felt as if the separation would tear out my heart. He headed for the door, deliberately brushing his shoulder against my breast as he passed. I shivered. Had he noticed my nipples perking up, even through the thick sweatshirt? That would teach me to answer the door without a bra on to some almost naked man.
“Uh, would you like some coffee?” I managed to say. How lame was that? The man was standing in my living room, wrapped in a towel and dripping wet—probably in more sense than one. Sure, he’d want to pull up a chair at my breakfast bar and have coffee. Maybe I could find the box I’d packed the waffle iron in and whip him up a couple of those, too.
“I mean . . . .” I stopped talking.
He laughed at my embarrassment.
“No,” he said. “But I would like to take you to breakfast, to thank you.” He paused. For an instant, those hypnotic, black eyes seemed to be laughing. Tiny lines radiated from the corners. This was no kid. “First, I’ll need to take care of something . . ..”
My eyes followed his glance down to the front of his towel, where the Ringling Brothers had obviously rushed in and pitched the Big Top when nobody was looking. I gasped, my hand flying involuntarily to my throat, like some heroine in a bodice ripper.
It wriggled at me.
Oh, no, he didn’t! Could he have done that on purpose? Were cock tricks even possible? I mean, outside of that very weird show, “Penis-Something-or-Other,” where they’d dressed them up, tied them in knots, and painted little faces on them? My artist friend Serena had insisted I watch that show.
“And get dressed.” Amon’s voice dropped an octave. “That is, if you have the time to wait.”
I couldn’t help it. I quivered. Enough of this! I was a mature woman, not some twenty-something, easily dazzled by a terrific body, great voice, scrumptious lips, mesmerizing eyes, and a really big penis.
“Being retired, I’ve got nothing but time.” I hoped the not-so-subtle hint at my age would send him scurrying back to his apartment. Wide streaks of gray highlighted his black hair at the temples, and his golden-brown face had deep laugh lines, like he’d spent a lot of time in the sun. He could have been anywhere between his late fifties and infinity. When you are that hot, age is just a number. Everything about him said beautiful, sexy as hell, and trouble.
“Good, we’ll need all of it,” he said.
The houseman stopped outside my open door. “Anything else, Mr. Amon?”
“No. Thank you.” He sauntered down the hall toward his apartment, allowing me a long, incredible look at his fabulous ass. Before going in, he turned around. A wicked smile curved those full lips.
“You don’t have to hurry,” he said. “I’ll be about an hour. I like to take my time.”
“Oh, okay—an hour.” I whispered, barely able to push the words past the desire clawing its way up from my gut.
He was going back into his apartment to masturbate, and he wanted me to know that’s what he would be doing—for an hour. My breath caught. I heard him chuckling quietly as he closed his door.
Minutes passed before I could unbraid my legs and move back into my own apartment. God, I needed to get rid of the ache in my clit.
I flew into the bedroom, ripping off my tacky pedal pushers, faded Husky sweatshirt, and soaked underwear as I went.
I hadn’t masturbated in years, but, if I didn’t do something and do it quick, I’d explode. Yanking the covers back, I jumped into bed.
My hand went immediately to my throbbing clit. I took hold of it between my thumb and index finger, squeezing gently. My body rewarded me with another flood of heat and wetness. Then I slipped a finger inside.
What was he doing now? Stroking the magnificent erection I’d almost glimpsed. I closed my eyes and thought about his face. I imagined him grasping it in one hand, pulling up its length. A tiny bead of moisture oozed out of the tip. He captured it with his next stroke.
He was big, bigger than any man I’d ever had, and, like the rest of him, his cock was golden-brown, except for the slightly purple tinge from the blood that engorged it and the thick, blue vein twisting around its length. This vision came almost too easily. I could see his tongue sliding out, licking those full lips. Him, easing his hips down onto soft, black leather couch cushions. Him, pulling that fabulous cock again.
My middle finger joined the index, sliding in and out of my pussy. I sighed, a little dismayed by what I felt. The pussy of my memory was tight and slick. In real life, not so tight, and I should’ve kept some lubricant on hand.
I practiced yoga three times a week and walked regularly. But somehow, I’d forgotten about this part of my body, letting it go completely downhill. I was going back to daily Kegel exercises—immediately.
Need drove my fingers deeper. Oh, my god, this felt good. Why in the world had I stopped doing it? My other hand massaged my clit, paying particular attention to the sensitive ridge, and loving the delicious pain as it swelled with more fluid. I moved one hand to my breasts, cupping the fullness before squeezing the nipples and pinching them. The little pain made the juices flow even more.
I closed my eyes again and thought of him. Inside my head, he groaned, a rough, masculine sound of pleasure, and his head fell back into the soft cushions. He used both hands now. He wrung that glorious cock through those long, strong fingers I’d watched dial my telephone. I fantasized him speeding up, pulling the thick, purple head past his navel as he stroked himself toward climax. And I kept pace, increasing the speed of my fingers sliding in and out.
My imagination raced, obviously running in overdrive. Because the smell of his musk filled my bedroom with a mixture of tangy sweat and sweet incense and man. I’d even conjured up the sound of his balls, slapping against his muscular thighs.
I wanted to come at the same time as he did. No problem, since everything he was doing was happening in my head.
My breathing grew quicker and more labored. I slid my fingers faster in and out of my pussy.
Now! I screamed silently, expecting the man in my head to come on command. But he didn’t, and, to my utter surprise, he wouldn’t let me come, either. He took control of the vision, of my fantasy. His face filled the space behind my eyelids. He pumped, and my fingers seemed to grow inside of me, like a man’s cock, large, warm, and pulsing. I opened my eyes, trying to break the spell, but those dark eyes didn’t disappear from my head. Instead, they held me in a whirlpool of overwhelming need.
My body screamed for release. I had to come. Finally, I closed my eyes again, thought of him, and, in my mind, said Please!
The man in my imagination—or was he really just in my imagination—turned his head until he was looking directly into my eyes. His exquisite lips pulled back from white teeth in a grimace of pure pleasure. Pre-cum oozed from his cock’s eye, and he drew in a sharp breath.
Yes, Nola! His voice sounded inside my brain, as his cum shot milky white into the air, like a mini-geyser.
My gut tightened, and my thigh muscles cramped from being held taut for so long. Wet pussy clenched around my fingers, and I shook as my orgasm ripped through my body. Turning my head into the pillow, I screamed his name as wave after wave of orgasmic wildfire rolled over me. As the last throes finally faded, tears rolled down my cheeks, and I sobbed into the pillow. Never in all my life—and before Jack, there’d been a lot of life—had I ever experienced a soul-shaking orgasm like that one.
Geez, I thought. If just thinking about the man could make me come that hard, he must be some kind of god.