As predicted, Vern was napping in the car, sleeping like a kitten behind the tinted windows. It took a moment of us rapping on the windows to wake him up.
Dalton and I climbed into the back seat, and I snuggled next to him for the ride home.
It had been just over twenty-four hours since I’d seen those photos and awful comments, yet it felt like a distant memory. Being with Dalton made me feel like fame was our problem, shared, and not mine or his to worry about alone.
“Do you like champagne?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Isn’t it just sparkling wine?”
“Hah!” He popped open the bottle of champagne, the cork banging into the rounded ceiling and ricocheting into my forehead.
“I’ve been shot!” I joked, then I acted out a dramatic death.
“Oh no,” he said. “My girlfriend’s dead, and what’s worse, we don’t have any glasses to drink from.”
I sat up and swiped the champagne from his hand, raising it to drink from the bottle.
“You are one classy dame,” he said as I was drinking. This made me nearly spew champagne all over him, but luckily I fought the bubbly drink down.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “I’ve never been a dame before, much less a classy one. I like it.”
“Cheers.” He tipped up the bottle and drank noisily.
“Who needs glasses, anyway,” I said.
He turned and gave me a sly look. The world beyond the car’s windows was black and cozy, and inside we were lit by pale blue interior lights, from an LED panel running along the ceiling. Dalton’s skin looked cool and blue, his eyes shining.
“You’ve got the perfect champagne glass,” he said, eyeballing my cle**age.
“Naughty boy.”
Another sexy look, his eyes shining.
“I want a taste of your sweet, sweet champagne,” he said, still eyeballing my cle**age like mad.
“Are you waiting for an engraved invitation? Come get some.”
He slid closer, then tipped up the bottle and poured champagne between my br**sts, where it pooled in the small triangle next to my chest.
I squealed as the cold champagne trickled down between my br**sts, to my stomach and the hem of my jean shorts. My champagne glass wasn’t water-tight, but did hold, somewhat.
“Better drink fast,” I said.
He grabbed my funbags with both hands and started lapping at my bubbling boob-crack.
I shook with giggles. “You sound exactly like Howie, this old wooly sheepdog we used to have.”
“Ruff, ruff.” More slurping.
The cold champagne and his hot mouth and tongue were not an unpleasant combination. The front of my tank top was now completely drenched in sweet booze, and the damp layers of fabric weighed down at the front, skimming below the edge of my bra.
He pulled back. “Your turn.”
I shook my head. “Oh, baby, you don’t even have one squishy bit, let alone two to squeeze together.” I pulled up his shirt and probed his shallow navel playfully with my finger. “This little valley wouldn’t hold much more than a teaspoon full, but I suppose we could try.”
We pulled his shirt up, and he lay back on the bench seat. I got on my knees on the dark carpet interior of the car, feeling wet and sticky from the waist up, and even more wet and slippery from the waist down. My P-town was ready for visitors.
Vern the driver continued to smoothly steer the car toward my house on Lurch Street, taking corners ever-so-slowly. I was pretty sure he knew we were up to hanky panky in the back seat, but I didn’t care. In fact, the whole having-a-driver situation was starting to feel almost normal to me. Good things are surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to.
Dalton’s smooth, muscular abdomen was certainly a good thing. I poured champagne into the valley of his navel, and then got to work slurping it out. Now it was my turn to sound like a wooly old sheepdog, between giggles.
After my third or fourth refill of the valley and subsequent lapping, I said, “Despite the inadequate size of this champagne glass, I think I may be drunk. Or drunk-ish.”
“I’m confiscating this,” he said, swiping the bottle from me and polishing off the remainder himself.
Our timing was perfect, because we’d just pulled up in front of my house, and after all that sexy licking, I needed a good rogering.
In my most dramatic, breathy voice, I said, “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”
“I have to be back on-set in nine hours, which means I can only come in and f**k you for eight and a half straight hours.”
“Then I guess we’ll skip the nightcap and get right to the f**king.”
He growled as he pushed open the door. Cool, moist air filled my lungs. I stepped out to find it wasn’t raining, exactly, but the air was dense with that misty Pacific Northwest humidity that hangs in the air, like rain in slow motion.
Dalton took a moment to give instructions to Vern about picking him up in the morning, and then we ran together into the house.
Shayla wasn’t home, because she was working a split shift and closing the restaurant. I knew she’d be a while, since the staff usually partied together on Monday nights after closing. (And Tuesday nights, most Wednesdays, every other Thursday, alternating Fridays, plus Saturdays if someone’s birthday fell within the previous or following week.)
“Here we are again,” he said as we entered my bedroom.
This time, I was mindful to close the door in case my roommate came home. There’s absolutely nothing shameful about riding your studpony and calling him Lionheart, unless of course, someone finds out.
The overhead light was too bright, so I clicked on the adjustable lamp I used for reading in bed. That was a little too bright for nude viewing of someone who eats carbohydrates, so I peeled off a damp layer, the green lace tank top, and draped it over the lamp.
“Mood lighting,” I said as the room took on a cool, green cast.
Dalton pulled out the drawer next to my bed. “Good. We’ll need all of these.”
I clapped my hands. “Balloon animals?”
He stripped down without delay. Grinning, he said, “I’ll show you balloon animals. Get those sexy little f**k-me-in-the-ass denim shorts off and bend over that bed.”
I gulped, and then I did exactly as ordered. Naked from the waist down, I gathered my pillows for support and bent over.
He came closer, and I freaked.
“Music,” I said, standing upright again and running to the dresser. I pushed the books off my stereo, and set it to the playlist I usually used for… let’s just call it relaxing.