Shape

Delivery Man

His smile was amazing, his eyes a deep grey, his thick dark lashes off-set by a strong jaw, and a thin tint of five o’clock shadow. His black hair was long in the back. I couldn’t help but stare. 

The furniture store on La Brea had said the designer himself would deliver the chair I’d ordered; I’m not sure what I expected, but not a man this attractive, ruggedly masculine, eyes shining as if I was some kind of prize he’d just won.

I’d bought the chair – a mysteriously wonderful creation of Lucite and leather that no one in their right mind would ever sit in – because I was the set designer for an indie film set twenty years in the future. But the film was on hold, a funding glitch the producer said, and for now – or maybe forever, I knew how Hollywood rolled – the chair was mine.

And now this more beautiful man was delivering it to me. 

“Home delivery for Shasta,” he said.

I nodded, running a hand through my hair, which I’d carelessly tossed into a pony tail that morning. Maybe I should’ve dressed in something other than a tank top and worn out jeans. 

Of course, maybe I should’ve stuck with my previous, steady, slightly boring job in banking. Maybe I shouldn’t have fallen in love with an actor, watched him withdraw, leave me, and move to Ohio, with me staying behind in the crumbled wake of our affair, determined that one of us would make it in Hollywood.

I’d lost the greater part of my twenties to that relationship. I didn’t think I wanted to be with a man again. At least I wanted a good, long time to lick my wounds.

But the man delivering this chair – oh, his smile. Something flashed between us, like a spark of electricity jumping between our hands. Touching now, as I signed for the delivery.

I could feel my heart throbbing in my chest.

I felt that strange spark again as we broke contact, making me want to look at him – to keep looking – making me want – wow, things I had almost forgotten I did. But I did.

“Why’d you buy my chair?” he asked me.

I hardly knew how to answer that. I wasn’t thinking about the chair at all. In fact, I forgot it existed.

“I just – like it,” I stammered. 

He raised his eyebrows, surprised.

“I’m doing set design on a sci film and -”

“Okay. That explains it,” he said. “I made this as a bit of a joke. When I was still in college. A friend of mine owns that furniture shop, I was frankly going to leave it at the Salvation Army, and he said no, let me try and sell it – and to my surprise, someone – you – bought it. I had to see who would want this thing. I was kind of picturing Dr. Who as the purchaser. Not – you.”

His eyes grazed my body appreciatively, and I could feel myself flush.

“Shall I bring it inside, or do you want me to leave it out here on your porch?”

“Inside, please,” I said.

“Are you shooting here?”

His shoulder brushed mine as he carried the chair into my hallway. 

“No. But I’m storing the piece for now. I mean the project’s on hold and – I have a lot of space, I just moved in.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Bedroom,” I said without thinking. It was where I’d already stashed a lamp that looked like a spaceship. The only other thing in the room was my bed. Boxes of my clothes – rescued from my actor’s downtown loft – were still simply stacked in my closet.

“I’m Frank, by the way,” he said, as I trailed him down the hall.

He set the chair directly opposite my bed, next to the lamp.

“They look good together,” he said, with a smile. 

Oh, that smile. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to kiss the lips that made that smile.

“Well. I guess I’m done here,” he turned to leave, but I was right there in the doorway, and before I could move out of the way, we’d brushed more than shoulders this time.

“Sorry,” I said, trying to inch to the right.

Just as he inched to the right. 

And then left. Just as I moved to the left.

And that was it, that contact, that was what did it.

“You’re unexpectedly beautiful,” he said.

I lifted my face to his and I kissed him.

And he kissed me back. And that kiss lasted so long and made me so breathless that we just had to kiss again, and then he was kissing my neck, kissing my bare shoulders, my arms right down to my fingers, until at last we were ravenously mouth to mouth again.

I rubbed my hands across his chest.

“I want you,” he said.

“I want you, too,” I replied, as if that wasn’t already obvious.

That spark thing kept going on, maybe it was the Santa Ana’s, I don’t know, the electricity between us was so intense.

Frank edged me back toward my bed, and was gently lowering me down on my lavender and grey comforter.

He took off his own black tee shirt and then he lifted my shirt over my head, and tugged my pony-tail free, running his fingers through my auburn hair.

It was too long and too curly, but today I liked that. His fingers tangling and untangling my curls, his breathing coming fast now.

Still, he didn’t spend very long on my hair; he was slipping off my black bra, kissing my shoulders again, lowering the straps, moving his tongue lightly across my neck, my chest, inching closer and closer to my breasts, barely contained inside the bra. 

Another kiss to my lips. Another graze with his tongue down to the very edge of my drooping bra, my breasts about to spill free.

The anticipation made me wild, I tugged him down next to me, fumbling with his belt.

“Maybe we should have dinner first,” he said, that smile of his spreading again. “I don’t wanna rush you -”

“Trust me. You’re not.” 

I could feel his body throbbing and hardening as his hands slipped around my back and unhooked my bra. He tossed it across the room, where it landed on his futuristic joke chair.

He had my bare breasts in his hands, and I was moaning, unzipping his jeans. I held him in my hands now. I stroked him until he was stone hard.

He unsnapped my jeans, and then he used his teeth to pull the band of my black underwear down.

I was ready for his fingers, then his lips. He stroked me with his fingers until I was dripping wet, and I could hear the sound of myself like a lapping tide against his hand. My back rose and fell against the bed, and he teased my nipples with his tongue, making them hard, so hard. I came and came again, and cried out, and pressed against him – I wanted him inside me, now. I reached for him, stroked him – he took a rubber from his pocket, and I helped him slip it on, my hands trembling. Together we pushed off his jeans, and dropped down on the bed again. Feeling the dampness of the sheets made me even more excited, I wanted them soaked from us.

He pressed himself against me, and down on the bed, but just as he was about to push inside me, I rolled away from him, and slipped down in the tangle of those damp sheets, and took him in my mouth. I licked him, sucked him, could feel him quivering.

I let him go with one last lick, and climbed on top of him, my hips locked to his, our dampness touching – I felt his cock, huge and erect and slippery. I rubbed against him; we were both moaning. And both of us, I think, couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed into me, I wriggled down on him, all that delicious wetness. 

He stroked my buttocks with his fingers. I leaned back, and oh yes, I came again. I could feel him waiting, holding back so I could have one more time, the shudders rippling through me, that blasting off feeling, into the stratosphere. 

And then he came, oh yes, I could feel the thrust, the explosion inside me. 

He pulled out and we just lay there, too breathless to speak. Moments passed and then, idly, he began to run his hand across my belly. And lower. And lower still. I gasped.

That electric thing, it sure wasn’t the Santa Ana’s. The heat, the spark, I almost thought my bed was going to burst into flames.

He kissed me, ran the tip of his tongue lightly against my lips. “I knew I just had to see who bought that chair.”

As he touched me, I managed to whisper “Oh God, I’m glad I did – you did – you –

came…”

And then I did, one more time.

“Home delivery accomplished,” he said.