Van gives a sexy new meaning to the word handyman in this piece of erotica.
Rosalind was reluctant about calling him, but it seemed like her—used to be their—apartment was falling apart. To be honest, he was on his back as often as she was, fixing the sink and various parts of the apartment before he moved out.
It always turned her on to watch him work. He was good at it, and it was never a problem for him to go and fix a problem.
At least that kind of problem, their problems had been much harder to resolve. But the kitchen sink was easy for him.
Not for her.
Watching her ex on his back, his thin cotton t-shirt riding up, showing off his midriff and the bunching of his boxer shorts was more than she could stand. She had not broken up with Van because she wasn't attracted to him anymore. She had always been attracted to him, she broke up with him in spite of that.
Right after they split, they ended up in bed. Her on her back much like he was now under the sink, and he filled her even though she knew once he was out of her body he was going to leave because she needed him to go. She’d clung to him for a bit before he got out of the bed—and then she let him slip away.
Stepping over his legs, Rosalind opened the bottle of wine that she had lured him over with as a favor for fixing the sink. She knew that he would have come over anyway, but she thought it was nice to get a bottle of wine she knew he would like.
The cork of the wine was redolent with the flavor of the wine—cherries came to her and a hint of chocolate and vanilla at the same time. The sound of the wine as it poured soothed her, it had been a ritual with him when he came home with a bottle of wine for them to share. He had worked as a waiter in an upscale restaurant and it always stayed with him, even after he found the job of his dreams in an unrelated field.
Van got up from under the sink, and she handed him a glass. Rosalind loved how nimble he was with the glass, even after he had been working with his hands. She saw his eyes close, and his cheeks blow out as he sipped the wine.
“This is the only reason why I came today. Because you promised me a glass of this wine,” he said when he opened his eyes.
She smiled and took a sip from her own glass. She smelled the cherries as the wine filled her mouth.
“I know how to seduce you…”
She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left her lips. His eyes widened and he handed her his glass, then went back under the sink.
She carried her wine into the living room. Being away from him was probably better than being where he was.
She was aroused from being so close to him, and he knew her tells. She thought she had better stay away from him because otherwise, she was going to have a problem really quickly.
Standing by the window with the fan blowing on her, the cotton of her camisole softened against her nipples, and she aimlessly caressed her areola through it.
The sun was bright but dimming, and it seemed that it was going to rain like it often did in the middle of a hot summer day. Rosalind felt the tiny constellation of bumps on her areola that rose from her arousal—her stiff nipple in the center the largest star there.
When she touched her nipples, she felt it straight between her legs. She literally could feel the dampness there. Her mouth filled with the taste of ripe fruit and her ripe desire as well.
“You do know how to seduce me Ros.”
She did not look around, because she was afraid to.
She did not want to rehash again what had been between them. She broke up with him because she could not bear their dynamic anymore, but every time he was close to her her resolve weakened. If she turned around and looked at him…
He placed his hand over hers, and she gasped. Her fingers touched the bumps of her areola again, but he dictated the movement so that her body was like an ouija board.
What was he spelling out?
He kissed her neck, and she had no more resistance. He knew that she quivered from being kissed there, and he blew on the curve of her neck as he moved her hand and fully caressed her nipple.
Van pulled up her camisole, as she reached behind him to touch him—she felt how hard he was when he pressed up against her and she wanted to feel that hardness in her hand.
“No,” he said and she moved her hand away. “I am the handyman today, and I am going to give you a handy…”
Her nipple strained for his touch when he stopped circling it with his fingers, but her clitoris rose to attention when he placed his hand on her ribcage—the thinnest part of her where her skin crackled with sensitivity. Slowly his hand navigated to her pelvic bone.
And stayed there.