Making the Hook-Up by Cole Riley

for her, cantaloupes for himself…tangelos for her, Fuji apples for himself. He didn’t just listen…he heard.
    By the time he pulled up into her driveway, he was excited as a child on the first day of first grade. Finally, he’d have a face to go with that voice. When he pulled up in front of her house, he thought about how much it looked like she described: a periwinkle and white two-story Victorian, surrounded by a tall
used brick fence. The melodic sound of her wind chimes and the compelling abstract design on her garage door screamed artist-in-residence.
    The first thing he unloaded was the large paprika red, pit-fired pot of angel’s trumpet. He lugged it up the steps to her porch with Mack, his new “mutt plus,” half-Jack terrier, half-?, noisily darting in and out of his legs. While Mack ricocheted from one end of the unfamiliar yard to the other, he discovered a well-fed but bitchy calico, Diva, resting in a damp bed of cool moss, and made the unwise choice to sniff her. She gave him a stiff warning across the tender salmon-colored nose. He yelped and raced back to Aden, busy positioning the cumbersome flower pot beside the tall white porch column. With Mack close underfoot, he unloaded his luggage and grocery bags from the trunk of his car. He headed back toward the front door and from the corner of his eye, he noticed the curtains in the French doors sway. She had been peeking. Partly to calm himself and partly as a joke, he called her on the phone. Businesswoman that she was, he knew she’d answer.
    â€œHey.” Her response was short but sweet and rich as fresh cream, and saturated with the smoky mezzo tone that had instantly captured his attention.
    â€œCome down and let me take a good look at you, Ms. Peeker.”
    She opened the white wooden screen and leaned against the frame of her door. She was wearing a long white chenille robe. As plush as it was, it was plain for him to see that she was thick and shaped like a beautiful milk chocolate coke bottle. Her belt was cinched tightly around her waist, and from her waist, her robe fell like a waterfall from her wide hips and plump ass. Underneath, she was naked, except for ultrasheer hot pink tangas.

    He raced up her steps, out of the thick cool mist that was threatening again to become rain, and set down the bags of food and groceries on the kitchen floor.
    â€œI brought Mack,” he apologized. “He found me a few weeks ago. He was too young to leave wandering, so I took him home until I find someone who’ll care for him.”
    Yanni wasn’t a dog person, but Mack was the kind of warm, fat-bellied wiggler and licker that defied anything that resembled dislike. She picked him up and blotted the blood droplet off from his harsh encounter with Diva.
    â€œLooks like rain. I’m not much for animals in the house, but Mack can stay on my service porch, if he promises not to cut into my bench time. By the way, where’s my bench?” She pouted playfully.
    â€œI’ll get it on my next trip to the car.”
    He had rehearsed a truckload of clever ways to break the ice, but when Yanni bent over to pick up a handful of junk mail, and her robe swung wide open at the top and the bottom, nothing clever came to mind. He stood transfixed, with his thick dick pulsing against his fly…begging for a long grinding hug.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” she teased, half-closing the top of her robe, to the protest of her soft round breasts.
    â€œMay I hold you?”
    Yanni didn’t say yes or no but didn’t budge as he moved in closer. They were contrasting shades of brown. Neither of them was thin, but they were both fit, which seemed strange, being that they enjoyed such different food. He had worried that he wouldn’t be tall enough for her, but she was only about five five, in her bejeweled flip-flops. He was five eight and a half…five nine (or ten), on a good day. She had very thick