Riding the Wave

This is the second and final part to Davida's and Dillon's story. Thanks for all the comments, follows and favorites. This story is a byproduct of everyone's support. Hope you enjoy!

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DAVIDA

"Open wide," I hear in the distance. Something hard and smooth presses against my lips. I jolt awake to find Maurice's fat dick in my face.

"What the hell?" I yell, sitting up in bed. I was having the most delicious dream about Dillon licking whipped cream off my tits.

"I just wanted to surprise you, baby," Maurice says, trying to lower the strap of my silk nightie as he strokes his long, semi-hard cock. I slap his hand away.

"You know I don't like surprises." I rise from bed, not at all in the mood for what he's trying to cook up. I slip on my matching pink silk robe, suddenly feeling the need to cover myself up. He's my husband and I've happily given him head on numerous occasions, but something about this feels off.

He frowns. "You're the one who wanted to spice things up. I'm just doing my part."

I was annoyed before. Now, I'm pissed. "If that means forcing your cock down my throat while I'm sleeping, we're like a hundred fucking pages apart."

Maurice is taken aback. I rarely curse. "Haven't had any complaints before," he mumbles, slipping on his pajama bottoms.

Even after this debacle, the sight of Maurice's exquisite form still turns me on. His abs, though softer in his 40s, are a work of art, sculpted in a way that makes his wide shoulders seem broader. The bulge of his hard-on draws my eyes.

I believe Maurice when he says he's never had complaints. His dick could win awards. Fully erect, bulging veins accentuate his cocoa brown cock, which I love to run my tongue along while I'm giving him head. I may even have let him fuck my mouth just now if I wasn't his wife. But he knows better than to try that shit with me.

I have a feeling his actions have something to do with my confession about Dillon. When I divulged my escapades in New Mexico, he asked if I had feelings for the surfer and I hesitated slightly before answering "No." The truth is that my feelings for Dillon are...complicated.

I dream about him most nights and wake up dripping wet between my thighs. But that's lust, not love. How could I be in love with someone thirteen years younger than me?

"I feel like I'm the only one putting in real effort here," Maurice says.

He'd agreed to give up outside relationships and to focus on our own marriage after I returned from California. We've had sex once since then, but there was a spark missing, one I'm not sure we can ever get back.

"I'm sorry, but I'm slammed at work." That's only half the truth. The last time we had sex, he insisted on not wearing a condom and because of my guilt over Dillon, I let him come inside of me. I'm on birth control, but as a doctor I'm more than aware that it's not foolproof. I'd rather avoid sex than admit I may not ever want children with him. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

I dart for the master bathroom, my mind occupied with thoughts of Dillon's arrival and deciding whether or not to see him again. He's got my business card, but it doesn't list my home address and I doubt he'd have the nerve to show up at my workplace. If I don't pick him up at the airport tomorrow, he'll probably just hop on a return flight home.

I strip down and step under the warm spray of the shower head. I do my best thinking in the shower; the water clears my mind. I squirt body wash into my loofa from the dispenser mounted on the tiled wall and soap up my body, the suds creamy and fragrant. Maurice and I have built a life together. We're going through a rough patch, but I can still see a future with him. Dillon is just a fantasy, a hot fling I had during a business trip. Soon our time together can fade into a distant memory.

I shut off the water, my decision made. Hopefully, he won't curse me when he's on his way back to Santa Barbara.

********

DILLON

I stand on the curb of the pick-up area like an idiot, shivering in shorts and sandals. It's got to be at least twenty degrees cooler in Santa Fe than my hometown. That alone is enough to dampen my mood, let alone the fact that I've been waiting for a woman who obviously isn't going to show. This is a new low for me.

Serves me right for flying almost a thousand miles to find a married woman who wants nothing to do with me. I've never been stood up. And the fact that it's by someone I may actually love, sharpens the sting of rejection.

A silver sports car pulls up to me and the passenger window slowly lowers. I'm on the verge of moving away from the vehicle when a voice drifts from the open window. "Dude, it's me." I lean down to see my best friend, Johnny, craning his neck toward the passenger side of the car.

"About time," I grumble. The trunk pops open and I toss in my luggage, slamming the lid shut with more force than necessary.

"Easy!" I hear Johnny yell from inside the car.

I grab the handle of the passenger door and am thrown off balance when it opens up instead of out. "Butterfly doors? That's a bit much," I say, sliding into the passenger seat.

"You're in a pissy mood. Must be a while since you got laid."

A car horn honks from behind us. "Try focusing on driving instead of my sex life."

Johnny shakes his head, his shoulder-length blonde hair brushing his shoulders. "I warned you about chasing wedlock pussy. Before you know it, you're sprung and they're going back to their husbands." Aviator sunglasses obscure his eyes, but I catch the amusement in his tone.

"Not in the mood for your shit, dude." Four and a half hours on a stuffy plane has stretched me to my limits. Seeing Davida's smile, holding her in my arms again after seven days of separation, would have made the trip worth it. Now I'm not so sure.

Johnny speeds away from the curb and onto the road to exit the airport. "Just don't bring your bad vibes to my show tomorrow. Some of us don't have the luxury of living on sponsorships and need to actually work for a living."

There is zero malice behind his words. And judging from the new sports car, Johnny is making more than just a living. In only a couple of years, he's gone from selling secondhand snowboards out of the back of his VW van to designing custom ones that sell for thousands of dollars. Moving from Santa Barbara, CA to Taos, NM, a small town 70 miles northwest of Santa Fe, propelled his career as an artist and entrepreneur to new heights.

"At least your livelihood doesn't depend on winning competitions. If I don't place at least second in the West Coast Championships, I can kiss my sponsorships goodbye."

"Yet, another reason why you shouldn't be here."

At times being best friends with someone who knows you better than you know yourself can be indispensable; this isn't one of those times. I know the risk I'm taking by forgoing practice for a few days. But if I don't act, this woman will slip through my fingers like seaweed.

"In three days I'll be back in Santa Barbara, with or without her."

Johnny lowers his designer sunglasses. "Right." He smirks, his blue eyes skeptical.

This is all new to me. I'm a fish out of water, hopelessly trying to breathe. I've never been in love. Surfing has been the primary focus in my life since I was a kid and relationships have naturally come second. Being the best of the best has always been my goal and my performance this past year has put me well within reach of achieving that goal. And yet, here I am, hundreds of miles from home, willing to risk it all to convince a married woman to love me. "I just need to see her. Being separated is causing all the problems."

Three days. If I can't track her down and convince her that we're meant to be together by then, I'll return home and never attempt to contact her again. But I've never been one to settle for failure and don't plan to start with Davida. I need her in my arms - and bed - again, not as some ghost haunting my every waking thought.

"I've never seen you like this over anyone." Johnny has more women in and out of his bed in a month than I do in a year.

"I'm in love with her." It's my first time expressing the sentiment aloud, which surprises even me.

"She won't leave her husband for you. Married cougars like her prey on younger men for a reason. It gives them all the power in the relationship. " The hint of wistfulness in his voice reminds me of his breakdown freshman year of college. I've always suspected he had an affair with our very beautiful - but very married - English literature professor. He'd dropped her class mid-semester rather abruptly, with no explanation. And he's only dated younger women since then.

"She's not a cougar." It sounds more defensive than I meant it to. I take a breath to calm the confusing emotions boiling up to the surface. "Two weeks ago I was happy; getting paid good money to do the thing I love most in the world. Riding the perfect wave is seriously like nirvana and I make money doing it. And then this ridiculously beautiful woman saves my life and makes me realize I never experienced true happiness - until I met her. Davida and I have a connection that goes beyond physical attraction. I know the curves of her body as well as I do the planes of her soul."

"Never took you for a poet." He takes a beat. "You got a plan, Wordsworth?"

"She loves me and I'm going to prove it. That's all the plan I need."

He gives me a sideways glance. "Knowing you, all you've got packed are designer t-shirts and shorts. If you're going to win her over, you'll have to do a lot better than that."

I smile for the first time in a while. Having my best friend in my corner leads me to believe this may not be a completely hopeless pursuit after all.

********

DAVIDA

"I said I would be there, so I'll be there." I don't bother hiding my annoyance.

"Just don't be late," Maurice says through the line.

"I won't." I really hate when he speaks to me like a child. I was in school eight years longer than him. I reach my car, which is one of only three cars in the darkened parking lot. I squeeze into the tight space between the wall and the car. This is my least favorite parking spot, but it was the only one left when I arrived later than usual this morning. "Look, we can talk about the details when I get home."

"What's for dinner?"

"You tell me. You're the one calling me from the house."

"How about Indian?"

My stomach grumbles. I haven't eaten anything for at least five hours. "Perfect. I'll get the samosas and vegetable Korma, extra spicy. And naan, with plenty of garlic."

"You've got quite the appetite."

"And?"

"I'm not complaining. I wouldn't mind seeing you put on a few extra pounds. You carry your weight in all the right places."

"Ok?" Odd, he's never expressed that sentiment before. Maurice has only ever given me the impression that he likes his women athletic, bordering on slender. Yet another reason he lost interest in fucking me.

"See you when you get home. I love you."

"Love you," I say more out of obligation than truth. I end the call, feeling slightly guilty. I love Maurice; he's the man I chose to marry, the one I've built a life with. He's been there for me through some really tough times in my life and I've supported him in his career. We're a great team. We just need to figure out how to bring that into the bedroom.

"Is that true?" a deep voice says from right behind me.

I jump, dropping my car keys. I spin around to find Dillon staring back at me. "Dillon! You scared the hell out of me." My heart races, adrenalin rushing through my veins and my stomach doing somersaults at the sight of him.

"Do you really love him?" He stalks toward me, looking oh so good. This is my first time seeing him fully dressed. In a denim jacket and jeans, he takes Southwest chic to a whole other level. The slim fit jeans hug his muscular thighs. He glides, more than walks, on those long legs. I can't help but notice the jeans are a little too tight, especially around the crotch area. Skinny jeans aren't made for well-endowed men like him.

I ignore his question. "What...what're you still doing here?" I press my back into the car as he closes in on me, his tall frame towering over me. My heart is beating like I've just run an eight-minute mile. His tanned skin calls out to me and my fingers long to caress his clean-shaven face.

"You didn't think I'd make it that easy for you, did you?" He leans down, his soft black hair brushing against my cheek. He smells fresh, like an enchanting blend of cucumbers and nutmeg. His chestnut eyes burn a hole through my defenses.

"You're making this harder than it has to be. Go home." My words lack conviction. I need him to leave, but I can't say that I really want him to.

His face is close, his breath like sweet milk. "You'll have to do better than that if you want to get rid of me. You forget that I've been inside of you. That's not something I take lightly."

My guard melts away, my pussy clenching at the memory of him inside of me. I shut my eyes, surrendering to truth. "Please don't do this to me. This was only supposed to be a short-term thing. A fling. I thought you understood that."

"If that's what you really wanted, you wouldn't have answered the phone when I called. And fingered yourself to the sound of my voice." He leans into my neck. "If you didn't want me, you wouldn't have exploded all over your couch at just the thought of me. Your body is calling to me." He breathes me in before touching his lips to my neck and sucking - hard.

I groan, my pussy going from an intermittent drip to a full-on deluge. "Dillon. We can't."

He presses his full body against me, the bulge is his pants pressing against my abdomen. He palms my breast through my silk blouse. The area we're in is dark and the wall should obscure our bodies from any onlookers, but I'm screwed if someone recognizes my car and the sounds coming from behind it. He rolls my nipple through the thin fabric and I whimper softly this time.

Dillon kisses me, claiming me with his tongue, which is forceful and lacking chivalry. He stands between my legs, spreading me wider. He grabs the hem of my skirt, jerking it up and above my waist in one swift movement. He wastes no time dipping his hand into my soaking wet panties. He targets my clit, rubbing the stiff bud into complete submission. And then his long fingers dip into my channel and I ride him as though my pussy's on auto-pilot, as he slides his digits in and out of me. I'll come all over his hand if he keeps this up.

"Fuck me, Dillon," I whisper, giving up all pretense. In this moment, we're just a man and a woman who want each other. I let thoughts of anything else drift away with my oncoming orgasm.

He releases my mouth to unzip his jeans, giving me a chance to remove my panties, which nearly get caught on my three inch heels. He pulls down his pants only enough to free his dick. My mouth waters, wanting to taste him again. But my pussy refuses to wait even a second longer to be filled.

He grabs my ass in his huge hands and lifts me up against the car. He hooks his elbows underneath my knees and spreads me wide, my trimmed pussy on full display. He presses forward, the tip of his straining cock pausing at my entrance. "You want me inside of you?"

I nod, my breath coming in quick pants.

"Tell me you want me." He presses forward, unforgivingly slow. I look down between us to see just the head of his hard dick entering my pussy. He halts his movement.

"I want you," I obey without a modicum of self-respect.

"Tell me you love me." He presses in a little further, stretching me so wide the pleasure and pain are neck-and-neck.

"You feel so good." I try to move my hips to take in more of him, but his hold remains firm, keeping me trapped against the car.

"Not what I want to hear." He begins to move away from me, taking that deliciously golden brown cock with him.

"I love you," I say in a rush. He's skillfully evoked the words I've been holding back from even myself.

He plunges forward without another word and we both cry out. He fucks me against the car, his hips thrusting with lightning speed. I kiss him again, wanting to consume all of him, his lips, his tongue, his breath.

He moans into my mouth when I contract my muscles around his dick. The car begins to rock slightly from the slamming of his hips. I meet his thrusts as best as I can in this position. He palms my ass and lifts me even higher, until only a couple of inches of him are still inside of me, before slamming me down hard on his erection. I gasp and mewl without giving a shit if someone hears me. He works me up and down his cock as he thrusts into me, his display of upper body strength making my clit throb.

I alternate between moaning and shrieking with his every thrust. The idea of someone discovering us, me with my legs spread wide in the air and him buried balls deep in my snatch, is enough to send me over the edge.

"Dillon, oh fuck yes," I exhale as my orgasm descends in waves.

He's close behind me, grunting as he explodes inside of me, his hot cum filling me to the brim. He thrusts into me one last time, before crushing me against the car with his weight. He lowers my legs to the ground, but remains semi-hard inside of me. I'm afraid if he pulls out, a stream of cum will gush out of me and onto the ground.

"You're going to break my heart, aren't you?" he asks suddenly, jerking me out of my post-coital haze.

I just hold onto him, not wanting to deny or acknowledge his words. I don't want to hurt him, but there seems to be no way around it. I can't leave my husband of eight years for a much younger man. I doubt he has any idea of the sacrifice he's asking me to make.

I run my hands through his thick, black hair, massaging his scalp with my fingertips. "I'm here with you right now. That's all we need to focus on."

It's all I can even allow myself to think about at this point. We will say goodbye eventually, it's inevitable, but for now I want to enjoy this man who makes me feel like life is so much more than mindless routine and empty interactions.

********

DILLON

I shouldn't have fucked her. How will I ever get this woman to take me seriously if I rip off her panties every time we meet?

I strut around the art gallery, doing my best to look casual, but my eyes keep darting to the front door. I invited Davida to Johnny's show tonight, but her response was non-committal at best. She barely looked me in the eyes when we parted ways in the parking lot last night.

Johnny comes over, handing me a fresh cocktail. It's a chimayo, a unique blend of tequila and apple cider. This will be my third one tonight. Johnny blends in with the crowd. He wears a white linen shirt over a t-shirt decorated with southwestern patterns and black jeans paired with cowboy boots. His blonde hair is pulled up in a messy man bun.

"Dude, chill. You're like a Labrador puppy looking for its owner. You haven't even noticed the hotties checking you out." He sips from his mojito, nodding in the direction of two women in their 20s. Both are tan, brunette and dressed in cocktail dresses that leave little to the imagination. They smile at us with clear interest. My eyes return to the front door. Where is she?

"I give up," Johnny says with exasperation, heading toward the two women.

I'm on the verge of pulling out my cell phone and texting Davida for the fifth time, when the jingle of wind chimes catches my attention. She walks through the door with the air of a goddess. The blood-orange of her maxi dress brings out the red undertones of her cherry oak skin. She's both sophisticated and sexy, with a slit that shows a glimpse of smooth thigh as she walks. Her hair is styled differently tonight, tight spirals in place of her bountiful afro.