Come in, Come in, My Roving Friend

Her left arm is under me and her lips occasionally kiss my shoulder or forehead, but she mostly concentrates on keeping up the patterned stimulation required by my needy pussy.

In turn, my hands rest unmoving on her cute asscheeks. I always want to touch her, but I don't want any groping to distract her from the good work her right hand is doing.

With her undivided attention on expertly fingering my heated snatch, she had me nearing my boiling point. Already, in fact, I was boiling over and leaking well-passed her intrepid fingers and onto sheets I'd definitely need to wash later.

Unwilling to let myself dwell on anything as mundane as laundry while my Ivy pleasures me, I study her face instead. She's more focused than usual, her high forehead crinkled by drawn blonde brows and her nostrils a bit flared on her long straight nose. Her lush lips and her pretty grey eyes are smiling though and she seems happy in making me happy.

Ivy catches me checking her out and winks in approval, but carries on in her pursuit of my happiness unabated.

My eyes close, my body too close to maintain an awareness of anything but the thundering in my pussy and the tightening in my belly. Her hand keeps on keeping on, fingering and strumming me with the precision of a metronome and the genius of a Mozart.

My breath comes in labored gasps between loud moans.

As my orgasm hits me, my moan turns into me yelling, "Ivyyyy!" as my body jerks hard and then flops in a most unladylike fashion.

"Yes, Miss Phượng?" she inquires sarcastically as she simultaneously removes her hand and begins nibbling along my jawline.

"Pffffft!" I retort, my tone haughty, but my brain not yet able to form words again.

Her lips near my ear, so close that I feel her warm breath on my sensitive earlobe, "I love overwhelming you with pleasure to the point that you can no longer speak. It makes you so adorably defenseless."

I like to think of myself as hard and tough, but I don't mind being "adorably defenseless" to Ivy. That's a complex thought to express and I'm still working at the "fire bad/tree pretty" level at the moment, so I rub my cheek to hers and let myself drift.

She kisses my ears and cheeks tenderly until I fade out completely and I wake up in her long arms. Happily, I pat her hands as they rest on my abs and scootch back into her.

Ivy holds me like that for I don't know how long, but eventually starts to shift involuntarily and restlessly. I take the hint - otherwise she'd gamely try to cuddle me until pulled away by other duties - and roll to my side of the bed.

"It's lovely being in bed with you, Phượng." She stretches and frowns, setting the alarm on her phone for the morning. Or later in the morning rather. "I would like to get a proper shower in though, before we go to sleep altogether. It was a horrible long trip," she reiterates.

I know from tasting all the many parts of her that she must have gotten in a french bath somewhere before she came in my apartment and I attacked her. Yet, I understand the feeling of needing to wash off a long day, so I nod as she heads to my bathroom.

Her phone sits temptingly unlocked on my nightstand. I hear my bathroom door shut and the shower come on a few seconds later. (My taps are slow to come to temp.) I know I'll have time to snoop.

I keep telling you, I'm not the virtuous one.

For the first time since I'd entered my number in her phone, I look at her contact list, mollified that I was still listed as Phượng HotSeattleChef. There aren't any other suggestive names, but plenty of female contacts.

It's not really fair that I want her to be with no women but me, especially since I've had two short flings and four one-night stands in the last six months alone, but it's how I feel.

Switching to her text history, I find mostly flight alerts, delivery updates, restaurant receipts, and similar personal business. (She only uses her company phone for billable actions.) A text of "Love you too, Shelly" makes me growl before I read the "I love you Aunty Ivy" in the conversation above it.

A little twinge of tenderness pulls at my heartstrings when one more text up I see a picture of a long-limbed blonde tween sitting on a new pink Schwinn captioned, "Thank you for my new bike!" A similar conversation was recorded the same day with a slightly younger long-limbed blonde girl, Sissy, pictured on a purple Schwinn.

Yet another variant could be found a few days before with a lanky blond man named Mike putting the two bikes together. He must be the brother in Dallas she occasionally mentioned.

I asked her once why she didn't live near them. She said that she probably saw them more frequently the way things were, since layovers in Dallas were common and both siblings made a concerted effort to visit during the finite windows of opportunity.

Ivy admitted that she still didn't see them as much as she might like and alluded to the fact that she spoiled her nieces materially to make up for her long absences and short visits. I teased her about being a softie.

"Maybe," she conceded and her sea-gray eyes misted perceptibly before she laughed it off, "but my stubborn big brother smokes and gorges, so those two little girls will probably be picking my retirement home someday. When they do, I want them to remember that Aunty Ivy bought them the good karaoke machine and didn't cheap out on the song selection."

"'Aunty Ivy,' huh?" I asked as I trailed kisses down her stomach. I found her familial side as alluring as the rest of her.

"Ye-ah," she agreed, but caveated, "You can't call me that if you ever want us to have sex again."

"Noted." I instantaneously and permanently dropped the title.

The sound of her stepping into the shower draws me back from reminesing to snooping. A few platonic texts - like thanks for dinners and admonishments to visit again - round out the rest of her conversations with unknowns. All her texts to and from me are still in her history as well, so I've no reason to believe that she deleted messages from other honies. I have no reason to believe that she's been with anyone but me in the last two years.

Not yet content, I browse her pictures, mostly of her nieces, brother, and a woman that I'm guessing is his wife. Others are her in front of landmarks or at dinners with various people. A few are of her in front of landmarks alone.

I preemptively growl again when I find a folder with "Her" as the only title. Tears form in the corners of my eyes instead at the contents.

It's full of pictures taken in my little apartment. Two years of us. Me shooting her a dirty look as I step in the door and she takes a candid of me in my stained chef's coat. Her trying to fit into my old clawfoot bathtub and her arms and legs all hanging out over the edges. Me blowing her a kiss. Her trying on my sunglasses. Me showing off a new tattoo. Her sexy panties in the trash because I'd ripped them beyond repair. Me in the buff with my hands on my hips. Her naked and reaching down a bottle from my top shelf. Me in bed after our first night together.

Us in bed. Quite a few of us in bed. Quite a few close ups of my face while I'm sleeping.

Looking at Ivy's photo history of us, I break my promise to myself and cry like a little bitch while she's still here in my home with me. I can't let her see me in tears. She'll ask what's making me cry and I'll have to lie to her.

I hate to lie to her, but it'd be my only option. Ivy's such a good person that if I told her the truth, she might feel too guilty to keep visiting me.

Quickly, I rudely turn off the lamp, roll onto my stomach facing away from both the bedroom door and her side of the bed, and use the open end of my pillowcase to dry my eyes as best I can. By the time she steps back into my bedroom, I've managed to get my breathing under control, but I know there must be tear stains and puffiness to give me away if she sees my face.

Still and all, I needn't worry that she'll see me, because she's far too courteous to turn the light back on. Instead she slides into bed beside me with an arm over my upper back and under the covers. I fall asleep fretfully, exhausted physically from my long day, but even more so emotionally drained.

I wake to emptiness in the bed beside me some hours later, which is entirely unacceptable while Ivy's in town. And disconcerting. She always kisses me goodbye before she leaves for work.

Turning to check the time, 9:52, I see her in my walk-in closet. She's wearing only a button up white shirt over her conservative flesh tone lingerie.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Ivy bids me as she steams her suit on my ironing board. "I thought you'd never get out of bed."

"I still haven't." I don't have to be at work until 4, so I pull back the covers on her side. "Join me?"

"Sorry, no." She gestures to her face. "I've already got my hair and makeup done and my appearance matters today."

Rubbing my bleary eyes, I take a better look. Her blonde hair resides in its normal tight gibson tuck and her gold jewelry consists of the same stud earrings, delicate black watch, ball/wire bracelet and ring, and olive leaf band ring she usually wears.

The slacks and blazer she's preparing are black, which is odd for her as she usually wears dark grays or blues. Her pumps laid out in front of the ironing board are red leather, which is unheard of for her. They have a thick 2" heel and a gold double 'G' on the vamp.

"What's with the hot red Walmart heels?" Were it not for them, I might think she was headed to a funeral.

"They're Gucci, Phượng," she laughs, a welcome tinkling sound.

"Is the suit Gucci, too?" I ask just for the sake of asking as I continue to fight my morning stupor. Designer anything doesn't matter to me. Well, except for important stuff, like Wüsthof knives or Mauviel pans.

She shakes her head fondly, "Yves Saint Laurent. Do you know any clothing designers?"

"We wear Shannon Reed chef jackets at the restaurant," I offer vaguely, "Why are you so shmancy today? And how come you're still here this late in the morning?" I stretch my arms and legs, mildly curious to hear her answers. Mostly though, if it doesn't seem as important as she's letting on, I'll make another play for morning sex and cuddles.

"Would you like me to leave?" Her sea-grey eyes flash sadness and doubt.

"No!" I disabuse her of her misguided notion. "I want you to blow off work entirely and spend the day in bed with me." Again, I sweep my arm over her side of the bed invitingly and smilingly. I think it's a charming offer.

She frowns. Setting the iron down carefully, she steps over to me on the bed. I push off the covers and sit up, worried at the worry on her face.

Leaning down, she kisses me fiercely and then tenderly. Her hand cups my cheek.

"We need to talk, but let's get some coffee in you first." She releases me.

"We do? About what?" I share her disquiet fully.

Her hand caresses my face. "Coffee first."

"Ivy, you have my full and wakeful attention with a phrase like 'we need to talk.' Not to mention that kiss. Please, tell me," I implore, my anxiety building.

"The last two times I came here, it wasn't for work," she confesses as though she were telling me that she stole cash from my wallet, "I took vacation days to visit you."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me? And where'd you go all day?" I'm way madder than I would have been if she'd stolen money. We could have spent at least some of that valuable time together. And why shouldn't we have, if she came specifically to see me?

"Museums, the aquarium, the zoo, the marina. It's a cool town." Her eyebrows rise and furrow at once. "And, I'm sorry, but I worried that I might crowd you too much."

"What? By voluntarily visiting?" That's madness. As though I ever acted any way but thrilled at her visits?

She shrugs apologetically, "It's not an unfounded concern. We met on what we thought would be one night stand. We go straight to bed whenever I arrive. Most damningly, you're an extremely attractive and gainfully employed woman residing in a liberal urban center who's never in a relationship when I text."

"Are you calling me a slut?" I venture in angry confusion. Ivy has never insulted me for being easy or judged me for being more active than her.

"No, I'm not. That's not at all what I mean." Ivy disavows the suggestion strongly and caresses my cheek lovingly. "Besides, it's not my business how many other partners you have or how often. And I would never ask."

Now I feel even more guilty about going through her phone, but I'm not dumb or honorable enough to confess mid-argument. Still, as my high ground is ripped from beneath my feet, I relinquish the righteous anger that bolstered me. Less accusatory, I ask, "Why would you think you needed to hide wanting to make time for me?"

"Because, using purely reductionistic logic, we're a 'booty call,' Phượng," she responded, pronouncing the phrase 'booty call' like the term was borrowed from a foreign language. "I've never met any of your friends or colleagues. Or gone to a restaurant, or a movie, or even on a simple walk with you. I'm reasonably certain that we're not having an affair, but I thought you might too independent for a steady girlfriend or that you might be ashamed of your 'corporate layover.'"

"Never," I disavow in turn, no less strongly and far more remorsefully. I'm not in the least bit ashamed of her. "I just didn't want to waste our precious time together with anyone else or at any place where we couldn't be intimate. I didn't mean to make you feel like I only wanted you for sex."

"I don't. Not really. It's just...being here is the subha and the sukha, but lacks the dhuva to be Nirvana. Do you know what I mean?"

"No," I answer in honest confusion, slightly irritated that she keeps beating around the bush when she claims to have something important to tell me, "Do you know what you mean?"

"Yes," she doesn't smile at my impatience, "It's...That is...Being with you is like being in this perfect moment contained within a snow globe. It's amazing, but I don't know if us, meaning you and I, shouldn't be allowed to exist and flourish outside the snow globe too, in each other's real worlds, but joined?"

Snow globe? What?

"Are you saying our moment is over?" She was breaking up with me? "Are you...? Are you-" my voice hitches.

One hand on my shoulder, her other hand lightly scratching the back of my close shaved neck with deep affection, she allays my fears. "No no no, darling, no. Just the opposite," she moves to her point, her sea-grey eyes dropping the carpet, "I have an appointment this afternoon to negotiate terms and formally accept a job based here in Seattle."

I hold my breath, not trusting my comprehension. Could she really be saying...?

"I'd be taking it solely to be with you. If that's too much or if it's even simply more than you want, I won't accept the job. I want to share my life with you, but," she speaks softly, but meets my eyes desperately as she proves her chivalry once more, "I'd rather continue on the way we are than risk not having you at all."

"Ivy!" I shout her name in sheer glee. Hopping up, I hug her around the neck and practically hang from her, asking the only question I have, "How soon can you move in?"

Ivy's arms encircle me tightly and she sighs deeply in relief. With her smile back in her voice, she answers, "My duffle's already here, Phượng."