Faygo Martini #1: Meet Cute

The hallway stank of stale beer and cheap vape. Rehearsal had been a nightmare. Friday morning class would come soon enough. Climbing the three stories to my apartment, every nerve ending screamed for the sweet silence of my mattress.

To my chagrin, the hallway was a war zone. The thudding pulse of laughter and remixed Dua Lipa roared from the apartment across from mine. What's worse were the shadows loitering in the doorway. The last thing I needed right now was to get stuck in a conversation with a drunk when the social butterfly in me was already snoozing.

Almost made it, too. My key was halfway to the lock when a voice, husky and warm, sliced through the noise, stopping me in my tracks.

"Hey baby, you tired?"

I turned, and my brain simply... stalled. Circuits fried.

Lounging in her open doorway, as if ripped from the wet dreams of a thousand sports fanatics, was Ashley Lotz. Six-foot-three inches of casually divine power, barefoot and utterly unbothered. Twenty-one years old and already a legend. An old Gus Macker t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off gave a sweaty tease of her sports bra and a jaw-dropping expanse of rock-hard abs rippling with strength. Her short, dark hair was a stylish, chaotic mess, and her eyes--a deep, intelligent brown--held an unnerving focus. Her smile was a slow, lazy curve of her lips, broadcasting atomic levels of cool.

I wasn't much of a sports guy. The only reason I knew who she was is that my family is filled with sports nuts, but her stardom was self-evident in the way she carried herself. Why her gaze was fixed on me and my sweaty ass was a mystery my brain couldn't handle at the moment.

"Yeah," I managed with a dry rasp. My hand ran through my sweat-matted hair, hoping to appear remotely human. "Rehearsal was hell tonight. My stage manager took a swan dive into the orchestra pit on shrooms. Broke his leg."

Ashley blinked, her eyes widening a fraction. "Oh damn! Is he okay?" The concern in her voice was a surprisingly soft edge to her powerhouse presence.

"Well, a broken leg," I shrugged. "But he'll survive. Hopefully the play will, too. More drama for the drama department, I guess."

A beat of silence hung between us, thick with the party's distant thrum.

"So you're not tired from running through my dreams all day?"

The line should have been cheesy. It was cheesy. But coming from her, from Ashley Lotz, it landed like a perfectly aimed shot, straight to the dick. A somewhat crazed laugh cracked out of me in response, fueled by the million tiny voices in my balls screaming What the fuck!? in unison.

"I'd have a much happier look on my face coming up those stairs if that were the case."

A faint blush bloomed under her skin, a rose staining the bronze of her cheeks. She stifled a honey-dripped laugh. "I really wanted that to be a whole lot smoother."

"I think you nailed it," I assured her, a reckless sincerity bubbling up.

Her eyes, dark and gleaming, never left mine. The ferocious Amazonian phenom was undeniably still there, but beneath, a shy excitement pulsed with nervous energy. All of which hinted at possibilities I try to avoid torturing myself by dreaming. A promise of a sea too far to reach. What business would this giantess have being nervous talking to the chubby little theater guy across the hall?

And yet, here we were. Goddamn, I wanted to climb her like a tree.

"Hey," she said, her voice turning to velvet, "Come here a sec."

Alarm bells rung by my neurotic side were quickly silenced by my raging boner, and I marched across the hall.

Ashley slung an arm around my shoulders, an easy, possessive gesture that made me feel like a special little boy. The air around her was a humid cloud of her own weather system--the salt of her sweat and the charged, electric smell of a storm about to break. It was intoxicating. I was instantly overwhelmed by her... the chiseled strength of her arm... the sheen of sweat on her collarbone, the way her cheek brushed mine as she leaned in... her breath a warm whisper against my ear.

"You were so fucking good in that play last summer," she murmured in a low rumble. "The one with all the dancing, and those shorts."

"Oh, FAME," I winced, the memory of an altogether disastrous show flooding back to me. The extremely short shorts the director insisted my character needed weren't the biggest problem we had, but they did add an extra level of humiliation. "You saw that?"

"Fuck yeah, I saw it. Hoping for a wardrobe malfunction the whole damn time."

My cheeks were on fire. I tried to laugh but it came out as a strangled cough. In the silence, a tiny crack in her iconic confidence revealed itself.

"You were great, though," she said, a little too fast. "Like, actually. Not just because you were... you know." She paused, and for a heartbeat, I thought she might pull away. "Cute."

My eyebrows shot up. "Cute, huh?"

Ashley blinked. The flicker of nervous excitement from before transformed into a nervous fidget. "I mean. Yeah. Cute." She huffed. "Look, don't make it a thing, okay? I'm drunk."

"No, that was the nicest review I got for that show," I said, giving her a teasing, sporty hip check. "Although it sounds like you weren't too focused on my performance."

The cocksure superstar returned with a conspiratorial grin.

"Come inside," she said, her fingers finding mine, her grip telling me that wasn't a request. "I'll show you my trophies."

"I would love to see your trophies," I said, trying to ignore the insistent ache in my shorts, "as long as you promise to catch me if I faint?"

"Promise," she grinned, tugging me into the cacophony of music and laughter.

It wasn't a rager, barely a dozen people mingling in various states of drunkenness around the apartment, but the noise swelled around me like a physical wave. The air was thick with youthful fuckery and hijinks. Strings of multi-colored Christmas lights were haphazardly pinned across the ceiling in a sloppy spiral, resulting in a warm, intimate glow that was cast over the room.

By the time Ashley and I reached the living room, the music was something glitchy and autotuned. I was doing my best to project an air of nonchalant worldliness, but the full-blown riot my hormones were staging over what lay in store likely meant I just looked like I'd had too much caffeine.

My stomach did a nervous flip-flop standing in front of all her friends. While stage fright does dissipate quite a bit with time and practice, all it takes is a "who the fuck is this guy" look from a stranger to make a comeback. A quick glance from Ashley reminded me there's only one person in the world whose opinion mattered right now.

"Hey guys," Ashley called out, her voice easily cutting through the din. "This is Ben from across the hall." She paused, her eyes twinkling. "I'm going to show him some stuff in my room."

A chorus of appreciative whoops, snorts, and cheers erupted. My face was now roughly the color of a Solo cup. Two of the women on the couch I recognized from around the building chimed in, their voices laced with an amusement that made my ears burn. One, a tall, strikingly elegant Black woman in an oversized Tom Waits tee, raised a beer in a mock toast. The other, a strawberry blonde cocooned in a brightly colored blanket like a slightly smug burrito, offered a sleepy wave.

"Hi Ben!" they chorused in a knowing sing-song. "We've heard SO much about you!"

"Ben, I'm sorry," she smirked, tossing her now-empty red Solo cup in their general direction. "My roommates are pricks."

With another playful squeeze, we kept on to party town. Laughter chased us as she led me down a short, dimly lit hallway. The party faded with each step, replaced by the increasingly frantic, almost deafening thump of my own heart.

And then, the world went quiet with the click of the bedroom door. Ashley leaned against it with a Mona Lisa smile, watching me fidget nervously. A lava lamp on her cluttered desk cast the room in a cool, shifting blue light. The posters, photos, and championship pennants on her walls were barely visible in the dimness. The intensity in her eyes cut through the gloom, making it clear who I was and what she wanted to do to me.

"Nice trophies," I nodded at the shelf full of them across the room.

"I was hoping you'd be so impressed your clothes would just fly off," she said in a low, raspy purr that sent shivers down my spine.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, having apparently turned into a goldfish gasping for air. My fingers, suddenly clumsy and disconnected from my brain, fumbled at the hem of my shirt. I yanked it upward, a jerky, uncoordinated movement, only for it to catch halfway, tangling around my elbows. My elbow thumped against the wall with a dull thud. I stumbled, a soft curse escaping my lips as I wrestled with the goddamn fabric, feeling like a complete and utter idiot.

"Oh my God," she laughed, the sound rich and throaty, not mocking but genuinely amused. She pushed herself off the door, her movements fluid, deliberate, like a panther stalking its prey. "It's a good thing you're pretty. Here."

Her scent--that heady mix of sweat, lightning, and something uniquely her--filled my senses. Instead of just yanking my shirt off, her fingers splayed underneath the hem, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of my belly in a slow, deliberate caress that made my breath hitch. Her hands slid upward, exploring, her palms pressing against my ribs, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle I barely knew I possessed. The fabric bunched, caught, but her touch was sure, confident. She peeled the shirt from my body and tossed it to the side. Ashley let out an enthusiastic wolf whistle while my nips hardened under her gaze.

"Nice tits," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. Her fingers danced across my skin. She found my left nipple and squeezed, gentle at first, then with a firmer, more insistent pressure and a sharp twist that drew a gasp from my lips.

"Bet yours are better." I made a futile fumble for the hem of her shirt, but all this earned me was a slap on the wrist and an insanely erotic tsk tsk finger wag that will stay with me until I die.

Her gaze raked over my exposed torso, a slow, possessive appraisal that made my skin prickle.

Then, with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like satisfaction, she reached for her own shirt. She pulled the faded Gus Macker tee over her head in one smooth, fluid motion, revealing a utilitarian black sports bra that strained to contain the magnificent swell of her breasts. My mouth went dry.

She unhooked the sports bra with an efficient, almost dismissive flick of her fingers, letting it fall to join my shirt on the floor. And then... then holy fuck were her breasts. Firm, high, tipped with dusky, copper-kissed nipples that were already pebble-hard, begging for attention.

"Hot damn," I growled, hands twitching with the need to touch.

Ashley grinned and did a fake curtsy before slapping my hands away again. Before I could react, she was moving again, her hands at the waistband of her own sweatpants. She shimmied them down her long, powerful legs, revealing a pair of simple, dark blue panties that did little to conceal the enticing curve of her mound. She kicked the sweats aside, then, with a deliberation that was pure, unadulterated torture, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slowly, agonizingly, slid them down, down, down, until they too joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the floor.

She stood before me then, gloriously naked, a towering monument of female power and raw sensuality in the cool blue light of the lava lamp. Every line of her body, every sculpted muscle, every perfect, enticing curve took my goddamn breath away.

"You," I managed, my voice a strangled whisper, my throat tight with awe and desire, "are so fucking impressive."

Her hands returned to me then, bolder now, more insistent. She unbuttoned my jeans with a surprising deftness, her knuckles brushing against my already aching, straining cock. I groaned, my hips twitching involuntarily. She laughed and slid my jeans, along with my boxers, down my legs, her fingers exquisitely tracing the line of my erection as she did so.

Now we were both naked, the air between us thick with lust. We just stood there for a long moment, our eyes locked, the unspoken promises, the desperate, hungry needs, hanging heavy in the dim, pulsating light. Her hands found my hips, pulling me closer, her body a searing brand against mine. My own hands, finally free to explore, slid around her waist, marveling at the feel of her skin, the strength in her frame.

Her gaze was intense, almost feral. She reached up, one hand tangling in my hair, the other cupping the back of my head, her grip surprisingly firm. And then she pulled me to her.

The kiss was an explosion. Her mouth crashed against mine, her tongue plunging, exploring, staking a claim. It wasn't gentle or tender. It was a raw, primal declaration of intent. My arms, acting on pure instinct, wrapped around her strong shoulders, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a universe that was rapidly spinning out of control. She tasted of stale beer, honest sweat, and something sharp and electric underneath that was purely her--like the charged ozone after a lightning strike. I wanted to drown in it.

An eternity passed before she broke the kiss, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with a wild, triumphant light. And then, with a low, animalistic growl, she cupped her hands under my ass, her fingers digging into my flesh, and lifted me. Lifted me, all five-foot-eight, chubby little fat ass me, off the goddamn floor as if it was nothing. Flesh to flesh, her heartbeat strong and steady, thumping against mine. She held me suspended in the air, looking at me with a cocky grin.

Then, with a playful grunt, she tossed me gently onto the bed. I let out a super-masculine yelp as the mattress gave me a soft landing. The string lights looped haphazardly overhead swayed, casting dancing shadows across the room. One of those shadows turned into Ashley. Her mouth found my collarbone, planting a soft, wet kiss.

Then a lick, the rough-smooth drag of her tongue tasting my skin. She worked her way down my chest. She paused to suck one of my nipples, then the other, her tongue swirling, teasing until my toes curled and a helpless groan rumbled in my chest. Those incredible, strong hands of hers explored the contours of my body, learning my shape, claiming me. She licked the soft undercurve of my belly, along the top of my pubes.

By the time her mouth, warm and wet and achingly anticipated, brushed against the head of my cock, I was panting. My hips were already twitching, desperate for more.

"I've been dying to taste you," she whispered, her breath hot against my hypersensitive skin. And then, she did.

It was heaven. It was hell. It was everything. Hot, wet, the slow, deliberate swirl of her tongue over the engorged tip before her lips, full and soft, slid down the aching length of my shaft. Her hand, strong and sure, curled around the base, stroking in a perfect, maddening rhythm as she sucked, her mouth a divine torment. I groaned, a raw, guttural sound ripped from the depths of me, my hips bucking involuntarily against her touch. Her other hand explored, cupping my balls, teasing the sensitive skin of my perineum, driving me wild.

She was meticulous. Devoted. Utterly focused. Her dark hair fell over one eye, a silken curtain, but she never broke eye contact, her gaze burning into mine, watching my reactions, fueling her own pleasure with my unraveling. I watched, stunned and utterly captivated, as her lips stretched around me, her cheeks hollowing with every deep, rhythmic pull, the slick sounds of her ministrations echoing in the quiet room, a symphony of pure, unadulterated lust.

I didn't want it to end like this, not yet. Not with me so passive. A desperate need to reciprocate, to worship her body as she was worshipping mine, surged through me.

"Get up," I rasped, the words torn from my throat, barely recognizable as my own voice.

She blinked up at me, her lips still glistening, her eyes wide and questioning.

"Bed. Lie back," I commanded, or tried to. "My turn."

A slow, sly smile spread across her face, transforming her features from merely beautiful to utterly, devastatingly seductive. She obeyed without a word, crawling backward with a feline grace until she was sprawled across the mattress, legs parted invitingly, her magnificent chest rising and falling with quick, anticipatory breaths. She was an offering, a feast laid out just for me.

I kissed her knees, the skin surprisingly soft. Her thighs, strong and powerful, yet trembling slightly under my touch. Her hip bones, sharp and prominent, begging to be explored. Every inch of her became a treasure map, a sacred geography I was determined to chart with my lips and tongue, terrified it might all vanish if I wasn't careful, if I wasn't thorough enough. I kissed her belly, tracing the faint lines of her abs, my tongue dipping into the shallow hollow of her navel. I kissed her ribs, whispering absurd, heartfelt compliments between each caress.

"God, you smell like Christmas morning," I murmured against her heated skin.

"What the fuck, dude," she laughed, the sound breathless, shaky.

"Please put 'Death by Thighs' on my tombstone, because it would be a goddamn honor to be crushed by these beauties."

"Jesus Christ, Ben," she gasped, but her hands were already tangling in my hair, urging me on.

She was soaked before my mouth ever truly reached its destination. Soaked and open and waiting. My fingers, trembling slightly, parted her gently, reverently. Her scent hit me then, a potent, intoxicating wave -- salt and citrus and the musky, undeniable heat of pure, undiluted female arousal. I licked, a slow, flat drag of my tongue from the delicate base to the already swollen, pearlescent clit. She gasped, a sharp, indrawn breath, her whole body arching subtly against the mattress.

I didn't stop. I circled her, teased her, sucked gently at that exquisitely sensitive nub. I slid two fingers inside her, feeling the slick, velvety heat of her channel, the way her inner muscles clenched around me. I curled them just right, hitting that spot I knew from whispered confessions and hopeful experimentation would drive her wild. Her moans deepened, transforming from soft whimpers to low, guttural growls. Her thighs shook, her hips beginning to lift off the bed, seeking more pressure, more pleasure.

When she came, it was sudden and seismic, a tidal wave of sensation that crashed through her. Her back arched sharply, a raw, keening cry spilling from her lips as she pulsed around my fingers, against my tongue, her body convulsing in a series of powerful, all-consuming spasms. I held her through it, my lips still pressed to her, tasting her release, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her magnificent frame.

Then she moved. Fast. Wild. A blur of glorious, dominant energy.

She shoved me flat onto my back, the air knocked from my lungs. Before I could even register the shift, she climbed over me, straddling my hips, and sank down onto my still-throbbing cock in one smooth, impossibly perfect motion.

Hhhhnnngggh.

The sound was torn from both of us at once, a ragged unison of impact and intense, overwhelming pleasure.

She rode me like she needed it, like she was staking a claim. Her hands braced on my chest, her powerful thighs gripping my sides, her eyes locked on mine, fierce and triumphant. Sweat, hers and mine, slicked our skin, making every movement, every slide, every clench an exercise in exquisite friction. Her inner muscles clenched around me, milking every inch, drawing me deeper, threatening to pull me apart at the seams. When I felt myself getting close, too close, too soon, she smiled, a knowing, secret little smile, and with a strength that belied her grace, slid off me, leaving me gasping and wanting.

Her mouth found me again. Hot, hungry, demanding. She took me to the root this time, swallowing every pulse, every throb.

"Fuuuuck," the word was ripped from my throat as I came with a strangled, helpless groan, my release spilling hot and thick into her waiting throat.

She crawled up beside me, grinning, her mouth shiny with me, her eyes alight with a satisfied, predatory gleam. She curled into my side, her head resting on my chest, her body a warm, comforting weight against mine.

I exhaled slowly, my body humming, my mind blissfully blank.

"Well... hot damn," I managed, the words feeling ridiculously inadequate. "That was... nice."

She stayed curled into me, her cheek pressed against my chest, her fingertips sketching lazy, abstract shapes across my stomach. The air in the room was thick with the scent of our mingled sweat, the metallic tang of sex, and the lingering buzz of what we'd just shared. We lay there in the comfortable quiet, our breaths evening out, our hearts gradually trying to find a shared, calmer rhythm.

"You okay?" I murmured, my voice still husky.

She didn't answer at first, and a flicker of unease went through me.

Then, her voice small, almost lost against my chest: "I'm scared I'm gonna fuck this up."

I looked down. Her eyes were open, wide and serious, staring up at the ceiling. The fierce Amazonian was gone, replaced by someone softer, more vulnerable.

"You won't," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "You're not exactly easy to walk away from, Ashley."

She smiled, a faint, watery curve of her lips that didn't quite stick.

"I've been told I'm... a lot," she said, her voice quiet. "Too strong. Too loud. My ex in high school nearly had a meltdown when I beat him at rock climbing. My mom actually told me I should 'let him win sometimes.' Like I should apologize for existing, for being good at something."

"Gross," I said, feeling a surge of protective anger. "That's his insecurity, not your problem."

"Yeah, but she's apparently not totally wrong because I can't tell you the number of dudes who have expressed interest in me, only to completely lose that interest once I make the mistake of being too good at something, or too... me."

"You're in luck with me, babe," I smirked, tilting her chin up so she had to meet my eyes. "Because watching a girl utterly demolish me at something? That gives me a massive boner."

Ashley pressed her face into my chest, her shoulders shaking with laughter, the sound muffled but joyous. "I knew you were fucking made for me, Ben. The absolute minute I saw you on that stage, looking all intense and adorable in those ridiculous shorts, my mind just... filled with all the things I wanted to do to you. With you."

"Those shorts really worked their magic on you, huh?" I teased, stroking her hair.

"You have no fucking idea, dude," she mumbled into my skin. "I really hope you still have them. For... reasons."

"I don't know," I said, drawing out the words, enjoying the low growl that rumbled in her chest. "We'll have to see if they survived my post-show urge to burn them in a ritual sacrifice." I was, of course, immensely glad I hadn't.

Ashley growled again, a playful, predatory sound, and pretended to bite my chest before it morphed into a soft, lingering kiss. "... and then you moved in right across the hall. It seemed like fate, like the universe was just serving you up to me on a silver platter."

"Man, I wish I'd been a whole lot more neighborly from the start," I joked, though there was a painful truth to it. It was still insane to me that the viral basketball superstar living across the hall -- the one my entire family had obsessed over the previous Christmas -- could have possibly been pining after me. I'd completely misread her nervous aloofness, taking it as a clear sign to keep my distance, to not bother the celebrity with my mundane existence.

"What about that little redhead you had following you around like a lost puppy for a while?" Ashley asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Oh yeah, the redhead. "Rhonda," I shuddered, the memory still vaguely unpleasant. "If I'd known this was an option, I'd have dropped her so fast her head would have spun."

"She sounds like a slut," Ashley commented, a possessive edge to her voice that I found surprisingly thrilling.

I laughed. "Nah, being a slut would have only improved her personality. She was... complicated."

Ashley grinned, then looked up at me, her expression turning more serious. "Did you love her?"

I paused, considering. "I think I wanted to," I admitted. "She looked like an off-brand Jessica Rabbit, all curves and pouting lips, and she was one of the first people to seem genuinely supportive of my writing. We met during orientation, immediately clicked over both being theater people. But... she was never really into me, not the real me. I wasn't manly enough, not traditionally handsome enough for her grand vision. She was casting the other half in some kind of power couple fantasy she'd cooked up, and I was just the best available understudy for a while. Which, to be brutally honest," I added, a wry twist to my lips, "was exactly why I followed her around for so long. Mutual delusion."

Ashley lifted her head, her chin resting on my chest, her amber eyes wide open, incredibly earnest, and shining with an emotion that made my heart ache in the best possible way.

"I am very, very into you, Ben," she said, her voice soft but certain.

"Goddamn, the feeling is so mutual it's actually a little terrifying," I confessed, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin was so soft. "And for the record? I think it's incredibly, unbelievably hot that you could kick my ass in literally everything."

She raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in her eyes. "Everything?"

"Except Super Smash Bros.," I declared with mock solemnity. "That crown stays mine. Untouchable."

Ashley snorted, a delightful, unladylike sound. "You wish, nerd."

"I don't wish. I know. I will absolutely destroy you with Kirby. Pink puffball of doom."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue, and her smile turned softer, more tender. "I really like you, Ben."

I kissed her forehead, a lingering press of my lips against her warm skin. "Right back at you, Ash."

Her hand, which had been resting on my stomach, began to wander again, lazy and curious, her fingers tracing light patterns that sent shivers down my already sensitized skin. I felt myself stir beneath her touch, a slow, inevitable hardening.

"Already?" she said, her voice a low, amused murmur against my chest. Her eyes, when I glanced down, were sparkling with delight.

"It's entirely your fault," I grumbled good-naturedly. "You keep talking to me like I'm an actual person and touching me like I'm some kind of delicious prize you've just won." My voice dropped. "I want seconds."

Ashley's smile turned feral. She placed a firm, unyielding hand on my chest, stopping my half-hearted attempt to roll over. "No," she stated, her voice a silken command that brooked no argument. "I want seconds."

She pinned me with an ease that was both infuriating and incredibly arousing, her glorious, powerful body stretched out over mine, caging me. This wasn't a game. It was a statement.

"Say uncle," she whispered, her breath hot against my ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there.

"Make me," I challenged, my voice a breathless rasp.

And she did.

FAYGO MARTINI WILL RETURN