It Started With Roses

"Just a minute!"

The doorbell rang for the third time and I was completely frustrated. The bell
and my yipping dogs created a delicate pounding in my head ...a pounding that I
could only describe as the fierce little sound pattern of THX at your local
Cinemark. The one that inevitably blares right in you ear from the speaker
directly over head. Struggling to suppress it, to beat it back, I turned my
energy to the canine security patrol. I fought them, the two of them, until I
had their small nylon collars clutched in my hands. It was easy enough to drag
them, back peddling and twisting, away from the scene. Slamming the door behind
me I had them sequestered in my bedroom as the bell rang a fourth time. "I
SAID, just a minute!"

I stomped across the living room more pissed than I had a right to be. I mean, I
had a bell for just such and occasion, right? I threw caution to the wind and
bypassed the usual glimpse into the too high peep hole. Slapping my hand on my
hip and tossing my long black hair, I jerked the door open and lost all the
witty, biting sarcasm that had been poised on my lips.

"Yes?" I heard myself saying in that syrupy sweet voice reserved for high
school algebra teachers that were about to flunk you. And the state trooper
that has pulled you over again, the second time in a week, doing fifteen over
the limit on the same stretch of road. I was disgusted with myself to say the
least. But what could I do? There he was, tall, dripping wet from the sudden
summer shower, his rain darkened hair, blonde curls, plastered against his
head.

"Delivery, ma'am," he responded with a distinct smirk on his lips. Damn him! He
knew exactly how delicious he looked, how utterly irresistible. With a wink I
was sure was meant to get him a bigger tip, he extended a large arrangement of
roses. My birthday! Double damn! I had forgotten until just that moment the
typical yellow rose arrangement that I had come to anticipate year after year
courtesy of my mother. And did he actually call me ma'am? I stopped in
mid-reach for the bundle, horrified now. Did I really look like a ma'am? Or did
he just spew that kind of insult at every woman he delivered flowers to? I
soothed myself by deciding on the latter.

"Thanks," I muttered getting my fingers around the plastic wrapped stems. "Let
me..." I glanced down then and realized I still wore my mud-stained overly
baggy sweat pants. God damn it! It was the dogs' fault. That was highly
irrational but it was better than nothing. I looked like shit! And no tip close
at hand! "Come in and I'll..." I motioned towards the kitchen table where mybag sat, letting the words hang between us.

"Sure." He bobbed his head and stepped inside giving his wet spikes a quick
toss to rid them of the excess water. That was it for me. I nearly melted
right there. Yeah, like the witch in Wizard of Oz. Stumbling clumsily towards
the table I lay the flowers there and began fumbling around inside the leather
bag. Withdrawing a generous bill, but not overly so, I turned and pushed it
towards him. When had he gotten so close? He was practically breathing down my
neck. And for a heart stopping moment I thought he was going to kiss me ... the
way he leaned in screamed of a kiss.

"Hey, thanks." He pulled away and shuffled towards the door. Turning one last
time before he stepped through the door, he met my mesmerized gaze, his tanned
hand smoothing across the wet T-shirt that molded itself to his wide chest.
"Sorry about the floor..." He shrugged.

I won't lie, I was disappointed. A kiss would have been great, amazing, in
fact. But if I thought that was the end of it, I was an idiot. The roses were
just the beginning. From that day on, once a week, I received a bundle of this
or that kind of flower. It kept on with the hint of something deeper ... the kiss,
or maybe more, but it never quite broke the surface. Not until the last day of
summer, not until labor day.

I lay by the pool, baby blues shaded, lounging with my bikini top flipped down
across my torso. With the sun warming my dusky areolas, I lightly plucked at my
tightened nipples, my thoughts squarely on Mr. Delivery. Fantasy scenario after
scenario popped into my head, each one more raunchy than the next. The tingle
from the tugging at my nipples combined with such erotic fantasies sent a
delicious thrill to the wet slit between my thighs. My fingers were in a fast
progression from my side across my flat stomach to the band of my bottoms.

"Hey," hit my ears like a mid-night car crash, the voice so familiar by now. "I
rang the bell but..."

Both hands slapped over my tits hiding them from view. Why I did that at that
point I couldn't even guess. Just instinct maybe. "I...I...I.." Came stammering
out sounding the intellectual equivalent of a landed trout. The knowing little
smile I received in response had me blushing to the tips of my toes. God! He
knew what I was doing! Shit, what I was about to do!


"Don't get all embarrassed on me, Lindsey." Dropping down to one knee beside me
he lay the sun burst batch of sunflowers he had come to deliver carefully
aside.
There was something different in his voice, something low and resounding,
something that soothed my jangled nerves instantly. "I didn't mean for you to
catch me out here like this," I tried to explain, not wanting him to think it
was some contrived plot to seduce him.

"I know..." His tongue darted from his mouth and ran across the firm line of
his lips. "I rang the bell about a dozen time and then just said, 'to hell with
it', and came round here. Don't hate me..."

Again I sensed a change in him, something charged and expectant. Then I knew
what it was and I was all too happy to oblige.

"I stood over there by the fence watching for awhile." His head dipped toward
me, lips parted, his breath coming in a rushed wave.

His confession only served to strengthen my resolve, strengthen the tight knot
of lust that had formed in my lower abdomen. "I don't hate you. I'm glad..." I
heard myself saying right before his lips touched down. It was the kind of
kiss that stole your breath, that made you feel hot and cold at the same time.
But just when I thought he would end it, that he was pulling away, I felt the tip of
his tongue sneaking into my mouth. He drew my tongue out to play, to twist and turn
around his.

Below, I felt him brush my hands away, freeing my breasts for his touch. He gently
grasped one and then the other, fingers twisting and tugging at the swollen
nipples. I was moaning against his mouth then, arching my back to meet his
exploring hands.

My hands seemed to have a mind of their own, curious and eager for one thing.
So, before I realized it, I was rubbing the heel of my palm over the straining
erection he sported below his jeans clutching the thick shaft where I could.

"Move to the grass," he moaned, a sound that started in his chest and rumbled
up through him.

All I could do was nod my head in agreement, still stroking through the denim.
I hated it, that brief moment we separated to crawl toward the patch of green
between the pool and fence, but it couldn't be done any other way. We paused
every couple of inches or so to kiss and fondle each other, to lick and suck.

But once my back touched the damp coolness I reached for the waist band of his
jeans popping the snap easily enough. Then it was time for the slow pull of
the zipper. I was inside tugging his hard prick free, emancipating him to enjoy
the languid stroke of my hand.
He, in turn, had insinuated his hand into my bottoms playing in the downy patch
of hair over my nether lips, teasing the lubricating honey from me. His finger
slid quickly inside, first one and then another, pumping in and out. I twisted
and bucked below him, wanting more than his fingers. "Fuck me..."

I had never said those words before in my life, never feeling the need too. Sex
with all the other men in my life had been uneventful to say the least, and at
the most, down right boring. But it looked like things were turning around in
that department.

He didn't have to be asked twice and before I could take my next breath he had
the blot of material that had been covering me jerked away. I lifted my thighs
and opened them in invitation showing him the pink wet skin between the lips.
He settled there and in one rolling move sank his leaking shaft inside me.
Sinking in and withdrawing, in and out, pumping evenly into me, we met like
that over and over. His hand slid between us to rub small circles over the
stiff peak of my clit until I arched against him gasping as the tremors of my
orgasm rolled through my sheath-like pocket, inner muscles tightening wildly
around him.

With a heavy, uneven groan he gave in and came inside me splattering my insides
with his creamy white goo. Poised like that, we paused until breathing could be
done without passing out. He rolled off me and onto his back, pulling me to his
side.

"Next time I deliver think I'll just skip the bell," he teased, a jerking laugh
exiting his throat. He turned his head and met my eyes, seriousness hanging
between us for a moment.

"That's a good idea," I finally threw back at him. And then it struck me ... I
only knew this guy as Mr. Delivery. I blushed as the question formed on my
lips. "You've never mentioned your name."

"Does it matter? I'll always be your delivery guy."