Aston Park on Fairlawn Street

Megan could feel the sting in her eye as the bead of sweat trickled into it. She brushed it away under her glasses, careful not to smudge the lens. Looking back down at her book, she pretended to be engrossed with the words. The fact was that she had read it five times. Hemingway’s “A Movable Feast” had been among her favorites through high school and now college.

She wasn’t nearly as interested in the book as she was the glistening Nubian god whose muscles shone through his sweat soaked t-shirt.

They’d met a few times before, and she was taken with his charisma, strength and intelligence. They shared a common love of literature, though she was a biology major and he was studying finance. He loved F. Scott Fitzgerald and she Hemingway; unusual for a couple of contemporary students to love the “Lost Generation” of writers.

“Megan,” he shouted, “Watch this!” And he threw a football across the field to a friend who dropped it. “Don’t blame me,” he laughed.

“It’s fine Greg,” she shouted back. “You almost ready? It’s scorching out here.”

“Sure,” he replied. He ran across the field, shook hands and teased with his friends and started jogging back.

To hell with the book, she thought. She watched every step he made toward her. His short cropped hair, squared face with powerful jaw, his ebony muscles flexing as he ran. He was over six feet tall, and absolutely gorgeous. Megan was a curly haired brunette with cute features, fair complexion, average body proportions and she was nearly a half a foot shorter than him.

“You look really good today,” she said.

“My throws were off,” he replied.

“No, silly, I mean you look handsome.” She stood up and picked up her bag.

“Well, good looks won’t keep me at starting quarterback,” he said with a smile.

“It’ll keep you as my starting boyfriend,” she said.

“Let’s go get some lunch and head back to my place,” he said.

“Aren’t you direct?” She asked, then she smiled awaiting his answer.

“Real men speak plainly,” he replied.

They both laughed. When they first started dating, they would debate who was better, Hemingway or Fitzgerald. She said Hemingway was more of a man because he spoke his mind, plainly. Greg had since been in the habit of direct talk and action, Hemingway style, which she adored.

They’d met in this park, Aston Park on Fairlawn Street. Greg told her he thought she was cute and invited her to a party that night. He behaved like a perfect gentleman, and over time they’d grown into something more.

For lunch, they went to the Sandwich and More shop. He had tuna salad, she opted for a fresh fruit salad. As she savored the sweet melon, she noticed he was staring at her.

“What?” She asked, giggling.

He laughed. “Uh, how did that sound?”

She thought for a moment and blushed. “Ok, wiseass.”

“Give me a melon slice,” he said. She picked it up to hand it to him, giggling. “Not like that,” he finished.

She put it between her teeth and he leaned forward, put his lips up against hers and bit it in half with a playful kiss. She blushed again, but she loved the style. He never hid his affection for her.

After lunch, they went back to his place. He had a small apartment on the edge of campus. It wasn’t much, but he was studying hard and a star quarterback to boot. Soon enough, he’d be on top of the world. Maybe they’d both get there when she got into a good med school. She shook her head. Live in the moment she thought.

She sat on the couch and he announced he needed a shower. He went to the bedroom and came out wearing only a towel.

“I’m awfully hot,” she said.

“Maybe you need a shower,” he said with a wink.

She saw his expression as she stood up and removed her shirt. She’d never been this forward. He’d always been in command and she liked the change of pace. Then she pulled off her pants, stopping to look up at him and smile. He smiled back. As quickly as she could, she pulled off her bra and panties and walked into the bathroom.

“You are the sexiest woman alive,” he said.

“And I feel lucky,” she replied.

They stepped into the shower, warm water passing over them. He took her breast in his hand and kissed her nipple, stopping to swirl his tongue around it. She let him carry on until she was so hot she couldn’t stand it anymore. She knelt on the shower floor in front of him and took his hard cock in her mouth.

She could hear him moan as she sucked his cock and massaged his balls. And she took it deep in her throat a few times to hear him moan louder. Then he turned off the water and stopped her. After drying, they went back to the bedroom.

“It’s your day today,” he said.

She lay on her back, legs apart. He made long strokes with his tongue along her pussy, probing it along the way. And he made sure he watched her clench the sheets in orgasm several times.

Then he moved up onto her, sliding his cock into her with ease and patience. She gasped as he made steady strokes in her, stopping occasionally to lick her nipples. She could barely breathe from the ecstasy.

Before she could regain it, he rolled over and let her slide on top of him, and he held her tight as he let himself work slowly in and out of her pussy. She didn’t fight him, even though she wanted to scream “harder.” In a few minutes she came again, and she clenched him, almost melding with him.

And he sped up. He was going harder, she was breathing harder, and she came again. The orgasm was so powerful that she cried out “oh god” as he sped up more. He was moaning and she was just short of screaming. They came together on the last one. And he held her close as he released himself into her.

They lay together for what seemed an eternity, breathing heavily and holding each other close. Yes, one day they might be at the top of the world together. But in this moment, she thought only of the journey, not the destination.

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