Page 36 of Moto
The past few weeks have been . . . Adventurous. I’ll admit Reese keeps me on my toes. Especially now that he’s stronger and moving around more freely. In an unforeseen twist, Dev has backed off. I don’t know whether I rejected him one too many times or what, but he hasn’t cornered me in weeks. Don’t get me wrong, he and Reese are still two of the biggest, fattest flirts around, but at least, they’re bearable. What’s unbearable these days are my dreams and the vivid sexual acts played out with not just one Dane, but two. You know that old saying, double the pleasure, double the fun?
Yeah. I’ve woken up drenched in sweat with soaked panties almost every night.
Explicit images that carry over into the daytime and hound me relentlessly. Dev’s lips on my skin… Reese’s hands around my waist. Sometimes, I can literally feel them sandwiching me between their bodies. The two of them simultaneously fingering, fondling, and fucking me. Pulling my hair and pushing my desires straight into the red.
But how insane? Two men? Brothers, no less, sharing one woman? That isn’t reality, that’s a porno. A wet dream, a filthy fantasy.
Myfilthy fantasy. One I plan to keep to myself. Buried deep in the recesses of my subconscious. Where it’s safe.
The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my daydream. I know exactly who it is. He stops by several times a week. I open the door to a grinning Gary.
“Morning, Kayla” The UPS man knows me by name.
“Morning.” I pull the box into the house.
I didn’t realize the level of celebrity Reese was until the outpouring of gifts started to arrive. Dev’s house is overflowing with food, fan mail, flowers, and . . .panties.Boxes and boxes of them from his fan club.
One night, while I was alone, bored, and curious, I Googled him and tumbled down a Reese Dane rabbit hole. He’s beloved. Hundreds of thousands of Twitter and Instagram followers, pages and pages of articles written about him and his career. A flashy website with bells and whistles, live interviews, and even international TV commercials. Hot ones of him advertising sports drinks and motorcycles in street clothes, leathers, and even a suit.
I’ll give it to him, Reese can clean up nicely.
Over time, I’ve come to realize the worldwide phenomenon that motorcycle racing is.
The culture, the fandom, the cult following.
Every race has more spectators than the Super Bowl. That’s insane. And at the center of that universe is Reese. I sort of understand the snobbish attitude now. Not that I condone it, but when you’ve traveled the world and experienced things most people only dream about, rural Maryland doesn’t hold much of an appeal.
“So what do you think it is?” I carry the good-sized brown box into the kitchen. Reese’s cast has been downsized to under his knee so he is moving around on crutches much more easily. So well actually, he barely ever sits down until I force him. Sometimes it feels like I’m babysitting a toddler with unlimited amounts of energy. If he’s this wired injured, I can’t even imagine what he’s like at one hundred percent. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” I toy with him. I love this game. Guess what the deliveryman dropped off today? Last week, a fan sent him chocolate from Belgium, and I think I ate half the box. Have you ever had chocolate from Belgium? Yeah, me neither, until that day. Reese did nothing but tease me as I moaned through the velvety goodness. I don’t know when, but one day, I’m traveling to Belgium and eating my way through every chocolatier in the country. I’ll backpack to keep the pounds off.
“How heavy is it?” Reese asks.
“Not very.” I shake it easily. We exchange a knowing look.
“Dear Lord, not another one.” I rip open the box, and low and behold, it’s filled with provocative panties. “Don’t these women have anything better to do than stuff boxes upon boxes with what I hope is brand new underwear?”
“Ah . . .” Reese picks up a purple lace pair and sling shots it at me. “There are all different ways to show love.”
“I can tell you, it doesn’t matter how much I love someone, I don’t think I’ll ever UPS him my panties.”
“To each their own.” He shrugs. “You have to at least let someone get at your panties before you take the overnight delivery step.”
I pause, placing my hands on my hips. “What is that supposed to mean? I let people get at my panties.”
“Who?” he ridicules doubtfully.
“People,” I reply defensively, closing the box.
“If that were true, you would have been riding me weeks ago.”
“I’m highly selective but have occasional lapses in judgment.” I don’t want him bringing up the hand job incident.
“Do I intimidate you?”
“Intimidate me?” I scoff. “Intimidate me how?”
“Think there’s too much power under this hood?” He thrusts his pelvis.
“Spare me. More like too many miles and not enough gas.”
