Dave looked at the empty parking space on the left side of the truck. A week, a whole fucking week, he thought to himself. He pulled the Mercedes into the garage on the right side of the truck and closed the garage door behind him.
The house smelled of Pine Sol and Windex; Lucinda and Tracy had been there. From the look of trimmed grass and pruned trees, so had Miguel and his crew. He walked through the kitchen and down the hall into the bedroom closet, hung up his jacket and slacks, and tossed everything else- shirt, socks, and boxers- into the hamper. He would take a quick skinny dip in the pool then ride down to Mike's Place for a beer and sandwich.
By himself, and he hated that.
Stephanie would be at her brother's place until Sunday. She sent a text late in the morning saying something had come up with Karen's dad. Ken couldn't afford any time off so Steph would drive up to San Luis Obispo and take care of the kids while he was at work. He wondered how she'd manage to stay in that trailer trash dump for a week but it was beyond him; anything for family, I guess. Maybe she'd stay at a hotel, but whatever.
"Hey Dave," Mike asked, "where's Steph?"
The two shook hands after Dave unclipped himself from the bike. "So she's up in SLO with her brother because his wife's dad got sick or something and he just started a new job, well newer, no newest job of the week so Steph is taking care of his rug rats so he can cook hamburgers or something like that at a greasy spoon downtown."
Mike shook his head and handed Dave a Shock Top complete with orange slice. "Still the same old flake, eh? What'd you want from the grill, bro?"
He ordered a patty melt with fruit instead of fries and the two talked hockey and baseball and family for two more beers, then it was time to clip back into his pedals and head back up the hill. By himself.
It was dusk by the time he pulled into the driveway. He hung the bike, stripped off his jersey and kit, and walked into the kitchen in his socks and underwear. The smells from this morning's housework had disappeared; only the smell of fresh lavender remained.
He would really miss her. Yeah, it was love and he was in love and all that good stuff but their sex life had simply exploded the last couple of months. Almost from the minute he got home, it was like, "to hell with dinner, let's fuck." Sometimes it was slow, it was love making, but most of the time it was raw and savage and it would last for hours. He would last for hours. Then there were sometimes when, after they'd ravaged each other and exhaustion began to overwhelm him, he could feel her sensuously sliding around on the bed or rolling over onto her stomach and moaning as if she were going to have still another orgasm. He would miss all of it.
He hadn't noticed the humidity on his ride home. In fact, it hadn't been. It was just the house that was stuffy so he opened all the windows to allow whatever cool night air there might be to circulate. Even with that it felt humid when he pulled back the covers and crawled between the sheets.
He didn't know how long he had been asleep. Truth was he didn't know if he had even been asleep. He could hear the white noise din of cicada outside in the black gum groves with kudzu vines dripping from every limb and smell the new sap oozing from freshly trimmed loblolly pines. He could feel the presence of a woman in his bed, her full breasts pressed up against his shoulders, the front of her thighs pressed up against the back of his, her long auburn tresses draping sensuously over his neck.
"Rafe is gone baby," she whispered in his ear, "it's jes' us two now. Make love to me slow, real slow."
"Where is he?"
"Does it matter, baby? He won't be back for a week." Her hand came over his hip and stroked his cock until it was hard, real hard. He rolled over onto his back. They began to kiss. She continued to stroke.
No, it didn't really matter. This was his wife and making love to her couldn't concern anyone else in the world. Why should he care where Rafe was? He didn't. But why would she let him know he wasn't around? What did it mean?
She kissed and nibbled her way down his body, from his nipples to his navel. The sweet slit between her legs found its way to his mouth. He touched it with his tongue. His lips teased her lips and they swelled to a luscious full crimson red. The clit nub at the top of her swollen flesh emerged from its sheath. He sucked it gently. She gasped; he felt her shudder.
Her soft mouth enveloped his erection like it had a hundred times before. She tilted her head to take him down her throat like she had a hundred times before. Their rhythm was like a slow dance, her mouth sliding effortlessly up and down his erect cock, his tongue and lips caressing and gently probing her soft moist flesh like it had a hundred times before. Yet it was new, always new, always exciting. Her hips, languid and unhurried at first, hastened their tempo moment by moment, to hurried, to frantic, to spasmodic excitement. She stiffened, her arms abruptly lifting her head away from his erection as she pushed her pubic mound hard onto his mouth.
"Oh my god," she moaned, "you do that so good, baby, so good..." She turned to face him, her body on top and her thighs spread wide over his throbbing manhood. Her fingers guided the stiff shaft between her moist swollen petals and she slowly impaled herself on him. He palmed her firm white breasts and pinched the nipples until she cried out in lust. She leaned over and they began to kiss, his tongue guiding their duel, their passionate thrusts, their ardent parries. The rhythmic movement of her body around his hard cock was effortless, without friction; he was deep, deep inside, his pubic bone pressing against her swollen cunt lips and clitoris. He could do this all night, he thought to himself, but he knew he would fill her naked womb with his thick sperm in a matter of moments. So while his mind was saying hours, the electricity flowing in his loins said otherwise. In one quick movement he flipped her onto her back and positioned her knees over her shoulders. Now he could go even deeper.
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She'd left the car under the roof at the entrance to the Embassy Suites, checked in, wheeled her luggage through the atrium and up to her third floor room. She scowled; it smelled of paint. In fact the whole hallway smelled of paints and thinners. She retraced her route back to the car thinking she would ask for a different room when she returned later that evening. Two other cars had pulled in behind her but she didn't care.
