Can a Secret Lead to Forever?

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Space Between, Smart Girl Mafia Series, Book #3

BRIT PALMER

“Brit, come sit on my face.”

Arousal floods my sex.

It’s Saturday morning. Hints of dawn peek from behind the white plantation shutters in Claire’s floral country living room. A bird chirps a constant melody.

Last night, Alex and his brother’s friends crashed the Smart Girl Mafia quarterly sleepover.

Even in our 30s, my friends and I still kick it like we did in college. But now, we do so with fine food and booze. And lately, fine men.

“What if someone walks in?” I ask, quietly.

“I doubt anyone is up this early,” he whispers.

I want to do it. Alex is skillful with his tongue. So skillful. It’s his thing.

For eight years, he’s asked: “Can I go down on you?”

Every time, I responded: “We’re not there yet.”

Last night we arrived. It was our first sexual experience. We haven’t even kissed.
I was a little drunk and high on the relief of finally being done with my dissertation. Finally being done with my doctorate degree. Finally being done with the last eight years.

He lies across from me. We were assigned to sleep on two sofas facing each other with a coffee table in between. The scent of homemade cinnamon apple potpourri wafts in the air.

“How do we do this?” I ask, tossing the thick white comforter off my body.

“Take off your panties and straddle my chest.”

He’s shirtless, on his back. The white comforter bunched at his feet reveals black boxer briefs. The life-like dragon tattooed across his muscular pec summons me forward.

Rising from the sofa, my peacock kaftan-style nightshirt falls mid-thigh. I slip off my black bikini panties and toss them on the pile of clothes I wore last night. I pause at the edge of his sofa.

“I’ve got a lot of thigh. How will you breathe?”

I’m 5’10. 162 pounds. While Alex is 6’1, fit, with a broad chest, he’s just a man. A man who needs air to live.

That would be a hell of a story to tell my friends on our truth hike: I accidently killed Alex, orgasming on his face.

“I’ll survive. Be a good girl. Come here,” Alex says, removing his silver titanium glasses.

I’m no pretty girl. I’m no distressed damsel waiting for a man to rescue me. But when this blue-green-eyed man says “good girl” my body flames with need.
Imagine the most attractive man… Alex Willingham is hotter than him.

At 31 years old, he appears older and wiser than his age. Light olive complexion. Conservatively cut deep brown hair. Chiseled jawline. Always clean-shaven.

“Stop worrying, Brittney. You’re not going to kill me.”

“How did you know that was what I was thinking, Dragon?”

“After eight years, I know how my do-gooder wife thinks.” 

ALEX WILLINGHAM

Sitting up, I reposition myself on the sofa so there is space between the top of my head and the armrest. I clasp her hand, drawing her close. Her long black nails graze my palm.

“Push up your nightgown. Climb on top.”

She lifts the shear fabric to her waist. Dark brown curls shield her sex. Her toned thighs straddle my torso in a kneeling position.

Releasing her hand, I draw her knees forward, so they rest on either side of my head.

I grasp the undersides of her thighs and lift my wife onto my face.

Her pussy smells like joy.

Brit rests her elbows on the arm of the sofa. The hem of her nightgown tents my head.

“Oh, Dragon. We’re really going to do this.”

Yes! We’re really going to do this.

Eight years. Eight years of a sexless marriage.

We didn’t marry for love or happily-ever-after. We married for money. And the agreed terms included a no-sex clause.

Because there is no room in my life for anything but my work and my wife, I’ve remained celibate.

Last night, my dick didn’t reach the promised land. But I got to do my favorite thing… eat pussy. And I need to do it again, before the glow of our first encounter wears off, and she returns to “we’re just friends.”

We are not just friends. However, our marriage shatters the paradigm of what it means to be in a committed, heteronormative relationship.

“Heteronormative” is her language. My mind doesn’t think in big words. I’m a money dude, “a capitalist pig” helping the ultra-wealthy stay ultra-wealthy.

If I weren’t married to this bionic-brained woman with beautiful light brown skin, long, curly dark hair, and piercings everywhere, I wouldn’t know what heteronormative means.

She expands me. Makes me better. But even in my enlightenment, I’m still a man who loves pussy.

With my wife’s lips spread wide above me, I run my tongue over her clit… just once. She tastes like happiness. A second time. Life doesn’t get any better than this. A third time. Let’s stay here.

I slowly lick her nub, letting her settle in, and find her rhythm.

Brit used to be a burlesque dancer. One night, eight years ago, before our marriage of convenience, she shimmied and jiggled all over my studio apartment.
Now, I want her to dance all over my mouth.

Moving my hands to the top of her thighs, I shimmy and jiggle my tongue all over her sex.

I’m giving my wife full consent to ride my fucking face.

BRIT PALMER

Whatever Alex is doing with his mouth feels good. No, better than good.

It feels like the beginning… the beginning of… a song.

Oh. Right there. I moan, circling my hips in time with the rhythm of his tongue. His mouth keeps a consistent pressure and pace. Spreading wider, I sway my kitty girl against his face.

This is like the song, “Just Friends,” from the album, Charlie Parker with Strings. It starts slow. Just the strings. Then Bird comes in on sax, flying around the melody, wild and fast, taking up all the air.

Alex’s tongue laps my clit again and again, increasing speed, and moving with the same intensity of a Charlie Parker solo. I twirl and shimmy my hips, matching his pace. My nub dances all over my husband’s handsome face.

Oh, this could be love. Love for the m

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Written by Amiee Smith
Cargado January 7, 2022
Notes Space Between.
Brit Palmer.
We’re just friends.
Alex is the guy women swoon over. Gorgeous. Privileged. Reformed bad boy. Hella alpha.
But he’s not my type. I’m a left-wing, feminist with a ridiculously high IQ. I’d rather be singing a jazz tune or shopping for a pair of designer shoes to go with a couture coat. I proudly check the box: weirdo.
Yes, over the last , I’ve developed an affection for him. Given the circumstances, it’s to be expected.
Read at: AmieeSmith.com
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