More Than Kisses
More Than Kisses
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Renee Ericson
Copyright © 2015 by Amber Maxwell
Cover Art by Amber Maxwell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://reneeericson.wordpress.com/
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Twitter: @EricsonRenee
~Dedication~ | To everyone that wanted a little more.
To everyone that wanted a little more.
ONE
E
velyn
The air is witch-tit cold. That’s colder than shit, but still slightly warmer than the Antarctic tundra. Yesterday, Foster was watching a mindless National Geographic Channel documentary on TV about the North and South Poles, and I lamely sat down next to him while hanging out in our apartment to absorb the superior temperature information. So while I’m not a meteorologist, I now know the fact that my hands haven’t frozen off within seconds of exposure to the elements means we are still in the same Midwest city where he and I attended college for our undergraduate degrees, and not the land of arctic penguins and Santa Claus.
“Hustle up,” I stutter through chattering teeth to my fiancé, Foster, as I quicken my steps along the sidewalk on this late December evening. “It’s freezing.”
“It’s not that cold,” he states, wrapping an arm over my shoulder and adjusting his glasses with his free hand.
“Says the man not wearing a dress.”
“No, unfortunately mine are all at the cleaners. Besides, I wouldn’t want to compete with your legs.”
“Or have to shave yours?”
He hisses. “Yeah, I think I prefer to keep my leg hair.”
“Ooh, but think about how sexy a pair of freshly shaven man legs would be,” I tease. “Smooth skin is in.”
“Please don’t tell me you are asking me to man-scape my legs. I’m still not totally recovered from the last grooming down under you gave me, and subsequent chaffing.”
“Aw, it wasn’t so bad, was it? I thought it was sexy.”
“It made my dick look bigger.” He shrugs. “So there’s that.”
“Would you believe me if I told you it made it feel bigger?”
Foster gives me an I-call-bullshit-on-your-bullshit look. “Did you forget who you’re marrying? There’s no way that the reduction of hair has any impact on actual length and size.”
“How about it made it aerodynamic? I could have sworn I took a ride to space and saw stars on more than one occasion.”
“Just don’t ever wave me in for a landing.”
“Why not?” I eye him mischievously. “I want you sitting firmly in the cockpit.”
“Now you’re making absolutely no sense. Am I supposed to be the spacecraft or the pilot in this scenario?” He sighs, showing signs of surrender to the conversation. “Only one more block to go. Do you think you can make it? Even in the dress subject to breezy legs?”
“Yes.” I kiss his adorable cheek and he squeezes my shoulder.
Tonight, we’re participating in a holiday progressive dinner party with our friends before all of us part ways to spend time with our families for the rest of the season. It was Wolfgang’s idea. For some reason he has become more domestic in the recent months. It makes me wonder if he’s working on some secret crazy art commission that’s a nod to women in the fifties. Just last week he tweeted a cake recipe and called me with a question about a dinner roast. When I teased him about it, he nonchalantly responded that it was a new hobby and interest.
Weird
. More believable hobbies for a man like Wolfgang are beetle fighting and collecting porcelain eyeballs, not baking.
Wolfgang lives in a small two-bedroom house with a driveway large enough for only one car that’s unfortunately in a commercial area, making it impossible to find parking nearby, so we’re forced to walk about three blocks from a public lot. His place is the first stop on our little get-together and he’s been appointed the drinks and appetizers course. Foster and I are a little early due to the fact that there was less traffic than anticipated. Wolfgang will likely put us to work with some last-minute details when we arrive.
“Finally,” I huff, when the small walkway to his two-story, blue, craftsman style cottage comes into view.
Swinging open the front gate, Foster and I tread up the walkway and onto a quaint front porch lit by an Art Deco torch mounted near the door. I give a knock on the wooden surface and we wait for him to answer.
We wait.
We wait some more.
“Maybe ring the doorbell?” Foster says, pressing the small button.
“He said it wasn’t working,” I tell him when no sound rings out. “Shorted during the last big rain storm, I guess. Hence, the knocking.”
I rise on tiptoes and peek through the glass on the upper portion of the door. “The lights are on and the table is set. I wonder why he’s not answering?”
“We are early.”
“True.” I turn the brass knob. “He’s likely just out back getting firewood or something.”
“So, we’re just letting ourselves in?” Foster asks as I open the door, allowing the warmth from the house to billow over us.
“You can stay out here if you like, but I’m freezing. Besides, Wolfie won’t mind.”
Together we enter the cozy house, take off our jackets and meander back to the kitchen where the counters are lined with a slew of amazing looking appetizers. Wolfgang really went all out for his course. I peek out the back door toward the woodpile, but there’s no Wolfgang in sight.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” Foster states.
“Okay. I’m going to check upstairs. He’s not out back.”
“Sounds good.”
Foster leaves the kitchen area for the bathroom and I head toward the front of the house to the staircase. I call, “Wolfie,” at a normal volume from the bottom step and when I hear nothing in return, begin to make my way up to the second floor.
When I reach the top of the steps, I peek into the dark bathroom and then Wolfie’s bedroom before heading down the small hallway toward the second bedroom that he uses for a studio. It has the best natural light.
Comforted that there’s a soft glow streaming out from the slightly ajar door, I proceed to open it further where I find...
HOLY FUCK!
My eyes!
Ass. Bare ass.
Fast pumping hand on dick. Lightening quick.
Thwap!
Thwap!
Thwap!
White skin.
Naked. Completely nude. Hairless.
The sounds. Oh, the flesh-smacking sounds.
Thwap!
Thwap!
Thwap!
A movement on the other side of the room alerts me.
Oh god! Is that Professor Turner?
What is he doing? Brushing his hair?
Wolfgang grunts and my eyes flick back to his masturbating naked body. He clenches his ass cheeks.
“Keep brushing,” Wolfgang breathes, labored.
“Take it slow,” Professor Turner commands.
My blood turns to ice. I can’t breathe.
What the fuck?
I blink.
I avert my eyes, branded with live pornographic horror.
Slowly, unable to fully comprehend what I just walked in on, I back away from the door.
––––––––
F
oster
Evelyn joins me in the kitchen and reaches for a bottle of clear liquor on the counter.
“Did you find him?” I ask.
She doesn’t respond, silently unscrewing the lid. Lifting the entire bottle to her lips, she audibly swallows a mouthful of liquor.
“So, it’s going to be that kind of night? Looks like I’ll be driving.”
Resting the bottle back on the granite ledge, she drags the back of her hand over her perfect mouth and then grabs a glass from the collection, neatly set out on the counter. Evelyn steps to the fridge and helps herself to some ice and cranberry juice before topping off her drink with vodka.
She practically chugs more than half of it at once.
“Is everything okay?”
She lowers the high ball from her lips. “Masturbating.” She nods to herself. She drinks again. “Professor Turner.” She exhales. “Penis.” And, she drinks again.
Evelyn has been known to say some crazy shit, but this is different. Even for her.
“Okay...” I drawl. “What are you trying to say? Is Wolfie alright?”
“He’s something,” she says and then raises the glass to her lips once again.
Something’s not right.
I think she’s in shock.
I approach her carefully as her beautiful clear-as-the-ocean eyes obsessively ponder the ground. Taking the glass from her hand, I set it down and gently run my hands up and down her arms.
“Evelyn,” I say, demanding she look at me. “What’s going on? Did you find Wolfie?”
“Yes.” She blinks.
“And?”
“Oh god.” Her palms cover her face. “He was beating off while Professor Turner brushed his hair.”
Okay, even more confusing.
What?
“I thought Wolfie shaved his head?” I say, trying to make sense of her words.
“No. I mean, yeah he does. Oh god. He shaves his whole fucking body and I just got a good look at every bit of it. All of his hairless skin.”
“So, then how was Professor Turner brushing his hair?” I pause. “Wait. Your old professor was with him?”
“Yes.” She shakes her head, her long, blonde hair falling out in front of her face. “The whole thing is seared into my brain like a fucking nightmare.”
Wolfgang.
Her old professor.
Hair.
Masturbating.
I think I need to focus on the variables I can comprehend. Like her friend—we are in his house after all.
“But Wolfgang’s okay?” I ask, trying to understand.
“Sure,” she quips. “He’s just jacking off to the good ol’ Professor, brushing his head of lemon hair, but other than that, he’s dandy.”
“And what about you?”
“Not-so-dandy. Actually, I may be borderline traumatized. The verdict is still out on that one. Hell, I like when you do it, but seeing that...yeah, I may have reached my visual limit.”
I chuckle.
“It’s not funny,” she snaps at me. “I’m seriously distraught here.”
I should be pissed about what she’s telling me, describing another man doing the self-pleasure thing, but I’m not. I don’t know a man alive that hasn’t been caught with his dick in his hand at some point in time or another. Besides, he was doing it in the privacy of his own home, albeit a little close to when he’s expecting company, but to each their own.
“I hate to say it,” I tell her, “but it kind of serves you right for breaking into someone’s house and snooping around.”
She glares at me. “This is not just punishment. I’m going to be scarred for life from this. I may never want to look at or see a penis ever again.”
“Sounds like I might have my work cut out for me.”
Just then, there’s a loud and booming knock at the front door.
“Should we answer that?” I ask.
“Might as well,” she responds. “I think Wolfie is otherwise occupied.”
The knock sounds again and I step down the hall with Evelyn on my heels.
“Coming!” Wolfgang calls from the second floor and Evelyn and I stop in our tracks.
There’s a rustle of footsteps above, followed by the sound of clomping feet barreling down the steps. Wolfgang, in all his bald glory and fully dressed, opens the front door revealing Chandra, Evelyn’s closest friend and old roommate, and her boyfriend, Jeremy. They greet each other quickly as they enter the house, exchanging hugs. The new guests quickly spot Evelyn and me.
“Hey, EJ!” Chandra says to Evelyn, calling her by the name she often goes by. I’m the only one who calls her by her full name. She’s
my
Evelyn. “Merry Christmas.”
Evelyn clears her throat. “Hi, Chandra. Hi, Jeremy. Merry Christmas.”
“EJ,” Wolfgang says, brows raised. “I didn’t know you guys were here.”
“We just got here,” I say for my fiancée, rescuing her from any awkwardness. “There was no answer, so we let ourselves in. I hope that’s alright.”
“Not a problem at all,” he says, unfazed.
Evelyn is stiff at my side, truly a little ruffled from the events she previously witnessed, as we all continue to say hello and wish each other happy holidays. Only moments pass before the next guests arrive, my close friends, Graham and his very pregnant wife, Lilliana.
As we’re about to make our way back into the kitchen, Wolfgang excuses himself and heads to the second floor. He quickly comes back down with another person following close behind him. When they reach the bottom of the staircase, we all go quiet.