After our beach walk, Ilmari treats us all to lunch at this lovely little oceanfront restaurant. We chat over bloody marys and vegetarian tacos. I learn Cheryl and Nancy are retired architects who live on the beach. They have a little bungalow and some dune property that they’ve turned into a green energy oasis. With nothing better to do, they seem ready to make Out of the Net their new obsession.
I name Cheryl our new Chief Financial Officer, while Nancy is officially our Project Manager. Joey gladly accepts the title of Volunteer Coordinator. And Mars is, well, Mars. He’s present in all our conversations, quietly listening. But he doesn’t engage much. I can see the wheels of his mind turning, but he offers virtually nothing to us except his polite presence.
After lunch, Mars takes me to a car dealership so I can pick up a rental. Next to the car dealer is a cellphone shop. I duck inside and pick up a prepaid phone. As much as I don’t regret my impulsive decision to chuck my phone out the window, I feel naked without a means of communication.
Standing out in the parking lot, I make Ilmari plug his number into my new phone. As soon as he hands it back to me, I dial his number, holding the phone up to my ear.
“There,” I laugh. “You’re officially my first call. New phone, new Tess.”
Smirking at me, he sends the call straight to voicemail.
“Hey, what are you tryna say?”
Slipping his phone back in his pocket he holds my gaze. “Nothing.”
I laugh.
Slowly, he cracks a smile too. “It feels good to say nothing sometimes, doesn’t it?”
I nod. “So fucking good.”
By the time I get back to the bungalow, I’m exhausted. It’s only 9:00 p.m., but I feel ready to crash asleep. The house is quiet, all the lights off except the light to Ryan’s room. Not knowing if he’s asleep in there or not, I tiptoe around, slipping my laptop out of my leather backpack and carrying it to my room.
Staying as quiet as possible, I do a quick rinse-off in the shower, scrubbing away the sweat of the day. My lower legs are going to be killing me tomorrow thanks to that beach march. As I stand under the hot water, steam filling the shower, I drag the loofah slowly up and down my arms and across my chest. I like the smell of this body wash. I’m just using whatever was in here in the girliest bottle. I’m assuming it belonged to Rachel. It’s something soft and floral, with a hint of jasmine.
I glance down to see the way my nipples are peaked, droplets of water streaming over them. The heat feels so damn good. And I’m wound so tight from the stress of the day. A little release would feel good too. I drag the loofah down over my stomach and drop it between my legs, turning my back to the shower’s spray.
Dropping the loofah at my feet, I let my hands roam down my body, over my breasts, skating along my hips, before I dip one hand down, slipping my fingers between my pussy lips. My clit is begging for some attention. I can’t even remember the last time I got myself off. I stand under the spray, letting the steam fill my lungs as I work myself slow with the fingers of my right hand, my left tweaking my nipple.
I need more—more friction, more attention. It’s one of the reasons I like sex so much; I usually need a helping hand. Some women might be able to O on command, but that’s never been me. I have to work for it, especially when I’m alone. I prefer the rush of being with another person, riding the high of their energy as we crash and burn together.
Turning off the water, I snatch up my towel and wrap it around myself, stepping out of the shower. I move into the dark bedroom and head straight for the large suitcase I’ve yet to unpack. The lid is flipped open, and it already looks like a bomb went off inside. The only light comes from above the vanity mirror in the bathroom, but it’s enough to see by.
I dig down on the left side of the suitcase and tug out a lumpy pink packing cube. Tossing it on the bed, I work the zipper one-handed, dropping my towel to the floor. Inside the packing cube is my treasure trove—vibes and dildos, a few butt plugs, my trusty strap-on.
I snatch up my favorite green bullet and climb onto the bed on my hands and knees, facing the end. I always get a better O on my knees when I’m getting myself there. Bracing my weight with one hand, I turn on the bullet with the other and tuck it between my legs, humming low in my throat as I feel that first vibration tease my clit.
“Fuck,” I whimper, hardly making a sound.
I shift my knees a little farther apart and glide the bullet back and forth over my clit, teasing the entrance of my pussy to get it wet. I groan as I feel the toy get slick around my fingers. Getting wet has never been my problem. I can do panty-dripping arousal all day long. It’s getting off that takes work.
“Come on,” I moan, pressing in a little harder with the bullet, circling my clit clockwise, then counterclockwise. The vibration feels amazing, setting off a fire that warms as it spreads, racing down my legs, leaving my toes tingling. My breath catches, and I know I’m close. The heat blooms across my chest, curling and fluttering.
“Yes—fuck—please, God,” I whine. My breasts sway as I work the toy, biting my bottom lip. “Yes—fuck me,” comes my all-but-soundless plea to the heavens.
For the love of God, will someone please just fuck me?
Lost to my own pleasure, I don’t hear the knock at the door. I definitely don’t hear it open. But I do hear a man’s voice.
“Tess?”
