Bad Boy Boxset

by JD Hawkins

  “Figured I would dress like the kind of person who goes to this kind of bar—even if I’m not,” I reply.

  We stop short a few feet from each other, Owen making no secret of how much he likes my dress, scanning me from head to toe again and shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Heels too. You look incredible, Margo,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  I shyly push hair behind my ear, adjust my glasses, and turn to the door.

  “Wait—where’s the ladies?”

  Owen nods at the single sign on the door showing both male and female symbols. “Unisex bathroom.”

  I sigh. “Perfect. As if bathroom etiquette wasn’t awkward enough.”

  He pushes the door open for me and I step inside. There’s a girl fixing her make-up in the mirror, and then a toilet flushes and a man steps out. Owen and I hover just inside the door.

  “So how’s your date going so far?” Owen asks.

  “Great, whenever he talks to me. It’s the way he talks to other people that’s the problem.” Owen frowns in confusion, and I wave away the idea of explaining more. “What about you?”

  Owen nods unconvincingly. “Good. She’s great.”

  Now I’m the one who acts confused.

  “Just ‘great’? She’s, like, the most beautiful girl in the bar,” I say, as the man from the cubicle finishes washing his hands and steps past me to the exit. “And she’s a genius, and her hobbies are the coolest! It looked to me like you two were getting pretty close.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Owen says, though again it sounds forced. “She’s nice, and she’s interesting, and she seems to be having fun. But the chemistry isn’t there.”

  “What? How could it not be?” I ask skeptically.

  Owen shrugs. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m just a little distracted tonight.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I lie, unable to ignore the soaring in my heart that he hasn’t fallen head over heels in love with this girl like I’d thought he would. I pat him on the arm in what I hope is a friendly way as I move past the woman at the mirror and toward an empty stall.

  I push open the door, step inside, and turn around to close it. But before I realize what’s happening, Owen moves in toward me, throws me up against the side of the tiled wall, slams the door shut behind him, and presses every part of his body against mine. Lips on my lips, chest on my chest. Hands on my hips, my ass, clawing with angry frustration as his tongue invades my mouth with swollen hunger.

  My reaction is automatic, and beyond my control. I throw my arms around his neck, put a heel on the cubicle wall to press my hips against him, suck on his tongue and tangle it with my own, pulse racing and lungs gasping for air.

  He moves those hot, demanding lips away from my mouth and I raise my neck to let him suck and bite at my softest parts, my hands gripping and scratching at his hair, elbows urging him to bury himself inside me.

  “There’s someone else in the bathroom,” I moan. Words of resistant rationality spoken in a euphoric whisper.

  “I don’t care,” Owen growls into my neck, making my body resonate to the deep tones of his voice. “I’ve been watching you all night and I wanna fuck you right here, right now. I’m gonna tear this dress right off you and feed you a hard dick until you scream loud enough for the whole bar to know.”

  I groan as my body flexes and spasms against his with vibrations of desire. Pulling and clawing at his hair just as he does to my sides, teeth on my neck, his stubble scratching my shoulder.

  “What about your date?” I gasp, like some dying breath, a last plea for life.

  “I wish she was you,” Owen rumbles along a wet tongue he runs across my collarbone. “I imagine she’s you. I pretend. And then I look over and realize she’s not you.”

  The words seem to bring on another rush of hard, tight lust, and Owen slams me up against the wall again, his hands now grabbing at my dress, fingers between my breasts and the cloth, pulling as he brings his lips to their soft flesh and bites with unrestricted violence.

  “Owen,” I call out from what feels like a great height. “Owen…stop. Stop.”

  Somehow the worst part of me pushes him away, manages to move my hands from his head to the front of his chest and push again until his face is level with mine, panting and focused with the intensity of a man who’s lost control.

  “You’re gonna ruin my clothes,” I say, looking down frantically and trying to straighten out my dress. “There are cameras out there. Shit, they probably caught us coming in here together.”

  Owen’s eyes are fixed on mine when I look back up, a little more decorum in his expression, though his eyes still burn like fire when they meet mine.

  “Make an excuse,” he says in a hard, commanding tone. “Leave the date early and meet me back at mine as soon as you can.”

  Stuck in his gaze like a rabbit in headlights, heat swelling in my body, already feeling like there’s a giant hole where he was just kissing and touching, I can’t say anything. All I can do is nod.

  I see the muscles in Owen’s jaw clench one more time as he seems to resists another urge to press himself against me. Then he straightens himself up, opens the cubicle door, and leaves me there, ravaged and confused by what just happened, but electrified and thrilled by what I’m about to do.

  13

  Owen

  By the time I get to my apartment I’m overcome with lust, tightened by it, at the mercy of it. A vision of how she looked on that bar stool is seared into my brain like a brand, her long legs crossing and uncrossing themselves over and over again in my thoughts, the line of her thigh disappearing up the tightness of her dress making my mouth water and my hands clench.

  I enter my apartment feeling like I’m burning up in the atmosphere. As I move into the front room I undo a few buttons on my shirt, kick my shoes off, pour myself a whiskey neat and then go sit in the comfy seat, eyes on the living room entrance like I’m waiting for prey.

  I take a long, slow sip of my drink and let my arms drape over the armrests. I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing, try to get some sense of time and place, but there’s no room for sense in me anymore, not when it comes to Margo. There’s no room for regret, or logic, or morality when a woman like that gets a hold of you. No room for anything but a deep, primal thirst to possess her completely. Trying to deny myself all this time has only made my need for her burn even hotter, and now it’s consumed me.

  I know my date was beautiful, but there’s a difference between knowing something and feeling it—and the only feeling I had all night was directed at the girl with the glasses sitting at the bar.

  There’s an anger inside me too, a sense of something out of place, jabbing at me. Unsettling and unresolved jealousy. I couldn’t stand to see another guy close to her like that, looking at her like that, making her blush and tuck her hair behind her ear. I know Margo’s dated before, and yeah I saw her with Brian at the golf course, but seeing her smile like that at another guy pierced me like an arrow, a sense of wrongness so physical I winced each time I saw it, jealousy making my blood run as hot and thick as lava.

  The whole date felt like torture. But making an excuse to leave felt right, letting down my date felt right, cornering Margo in the bathroom and telling her exactly what I wanted felt right. I sip my whiskey one more time and clench my other hand anxiously; waiting doesn’t feel right at all. Doubts rise up in my mind—the camera crew might have tried to follow her here, she might have changed her mind about leaving her date early, she might be having second thoughts about letting me fuck her senseless again.

  A knock at the door makes me open my eyes, pulls me from my imagination, where I’m turning Margo’s body over and over as if studying a sculpture.

  “It’s open,” I call out.

  Everything takes an eternity now, the words themselves, the empty pause before I hear the handle of the door. A slow clicking of heels against my floorboards. A tick-tock of keen anticipation.

&
nbsp; Margo steps into the room where I can see her, and it’s glorious. Perfect is an understatement. I’ve seen a lot of girls wear a lot of clothes, but Margo and that dress make every memory of them obsolete; mere practice runs for what I’m seeing now.

  She stands there, a little uncertain, her lips parted, and I look at her like I’m seeing heaven. The world around her slipping into irrelevance, out of focus. My gaze lingers over her for what feels like hours, as I allow the lines and curves of her body to hypnotize me into a natural high. She swipes her hair shyly behind her ear and even this is more than perfect.

  “Owen—”

  “Shh,” I reply, soft and firm. Slowly, I take another sip of whiskey and rub a palm over my mouth, the scratchiness of my stubble loud in the silent tension of the room. “Dim the lights.”

  Margo freezes for a second, licks her lips nervously, then looks for the dimmer and turns it.

  “That’s enough. Drop your bag.”

  Again Margo freezes, a moment of hesitation, of understanding that to do as I say is to give herself to me inch by inch. She pulls the strap over her neck and drops it to the side. Again I look, again I allow myself to bask in all that beauty, now silhouetted against the solitary yellow glow of the floor lamp in the corner.

  “Come closer.”

  When she steps toward me now there’s less hesitation in her movements. One foot in front of the other, heels clicking, legs extending with balletic grace, eyes on mine with unashamed intent.

  I dip a finger into my drink and set it aside, then stand up and move toward her with measured, purposeful steps.

  “Open your mouth,” I tell her.

  Margo obeys, her eyes on me the whole time. I run my finger over her lush lower lip, then watch her lick the taste of whiskey off it. When I slide my finger between her lips, she sucks it softly, whimpering with desire. I groan.

  “That’s real good, Margo.”

  She sucks harder. My cock is so hard now it’s almost painful. My free hand strokes up the back of her thigh, dipping between her legs to find her soaking wet and ready. Fuck. I’m done playing games. I unclasp my belt and pull it from my pants with a loud snap, then undo the button of my fly.

  “Kneel,” I command.

  Slowly, she lowers herself to the floor between my legs, eyes looking up at me with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

  I take her glasses off gently and set them against my whiskey glass, then push down my pants and pull out a cock that’s stiff with craving, stroking my other hand around the side of her face, into her hair, around the back of her head, pulling her forward.

  “Closer.”

  Those parted lips move toward my cock so slowly I’m aching when they touch me. They roll over the head, soft and moist, and I drop my head back with intensifying relief—the end of one yearning, but the beginning of another. I look down and see Margo’s eyes close as she works my shaft with reverence, pulling back to roll the head in her mouth, lipsticked lips smearing themselves over every inch of me.

  “That’s it…” I whisper in a low murmur. “Take it all.”

  My hand still on the back of her head, I pull her onto me, press my length deeper into her mouth, against her tongue. She bobs and winds her mouth around it, cock pushing inside her cheek, against the back of her throat, half-choking her as I start to thrust. I sweep her hair back into a ponytail, hold it in my fist, and now she’s manic, thirsty, hungry for it. Her eyes glance up at me as she gorges on cock, impales herself on it, sweeps her mouth over it and traps me between urge and release, rocking my body from my balls to the center of my being.

  “Stop,” I say, as her tongue whirls over my shaft, as she sucks the head of my cock hard against the roof of her mouth. “Enough.”

  I pull her away by her hair and she leans back, hands clasped in her lap like a well-behaved schoolgirl. I get up and walk slowly to the other side of the room as I undo my shirt, kick my pants off, and then pull a condom from my pocket. When I turn around she’s up on those high heels again, her face blushing, lips engorged, chest heaving with quick breaths.

  I roll on the condom. Margo pulls at the hem of her tight dress but I stop her.

  “Don’t undress,” I say as I step closer, rolling my shoulders like an animal stalking its prey. “I wanna fuck you in that outfit.”

  She smiles teasingly, moving back a little as she beckons me with her eyes. Then she’s back up against the window with nowhere left to retreat.

  I move close enough to see the red flushing of her skin, close enough to smell her perfume, close enough to feel the hotness of her breath. She tilts her head and I attack her neck, tongue-stroking the soft spot behind her ear. This is only the second time we’ve fucked but I already know exactly what Margo likes, I already see the map of her turn-ons like it’s second nature.

  “I could fuck you for days, Margo,” I mumble into her neck as I grab and pull her ass roughly. “I could fuck you forever and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

  She gasps and I move my hand around the smoothness of her trembling thighs again, fingers tracing up into the dark secrets of her dress, squeezing her pussy through the thin fabric of her panties.

  I pull back from her neck to look down at her, and Margo awakens for a moment from her gulps of helplessness to look back at me, dark desirous grins on both our faces.

  “You’re perfect,” I tell her, before we thrust our mouths together, my fingers tugging her underwear off and lifting her skirt up around those hips.

  Her arms around my neck, her thighs wrapped around my sides, I hold her up, pressing her back against the window as we devour each other’s mouths. I lower her onto me, my cock so stiff and upright, her pussy so wet and eager that they find each other without resistance, a connection meant to be. She groans at the sky as I thrust hard and deep, and I tighten as her pussy takes me inside.

  “God, you’re big,” Margo pants desperately, wincing and biting her lower lip with the loss of control.

  I respond by slamming her against the window, making her cry out, her legs tightening around me, her arms reaching to pull my head into her breasts. I pound into her pussy again and again, desperate to bury myself deeper into her, aching from having something so perfect so close to me, frenzied by an entire evening of waiting for this. Again and again I spear into her, the thud of the window accompanying her moans, violent and thrashing, until I feel like I’m possessed, until I feel like I’m searching for something deep inside of her, so close and yet so far, that only she can give me.

  Suddenly it feels like I’m swimming in her body, my face in her chest, her ass in my hands. Soft and firm, a million little perfect details that make up her magnificence. Her scent, her skin, her soulful moans, her sweet pussy enveloping me as I pound her against the window, channeling my aggression and hardness into the sensual softness of her body.

  I swing her around, our bodies still connected, bring her to the couch and kneel before it. Margo squeals as she wraps herself tightly around me. I push her back onto the cushions and lift her legs onto my shoulders, high heels pointed upwards, and then fuck her in swaying motions, cock searching for that perfect spot while I stare down at her gorgeous body, displayed in front of me like artwork. My hand on her breast, kneading and pinching at her nipple that’s so hard I can see the outline of it through the lace of the dress, the convulsions of her stomach like a dance just for me, her mouth open as she moans in a language older than words.

  “Owen...!” she howls in a long, high-pitched tone. Her convulsions quicker now, her pussy tightening around me. She wants to come, and though I could stay like this forever, though I want to keep her on this precipice and dance all night, I want to watch her. I want to see her face twist with ecstasy, I want to make her lose her mind.

  Her legs on my shoulders, I lean forward over her, fucking her in long, deep thrusts, hitting her spot over and over again and holding the head of my cock there until she claws at the couch, gasping with every breath in her body, her pussy
tightening on my cock and compelling me to join her as we explode together like fireworks, trailing shimmering sparks across the remains of our bodies.

  “Holy shit,” Margo whispers. Her eyes are closed, her hand over her flushed cheeks. I pull away and climb onto the couch next to her. Then I wrap an arm under her neck and she fits against me, head against my shoulder, her leg over mine in an entwined cuddle.

  We lay there a while, Margo’s fingers trailing up and down my chest, my hand on her hip, softly stroking each other’s cooling bodies. I reach over and grab a remote from the coffee table, press play on the stereo. The music plays a while, then Margo lets out a gentle sigh-laugh.

  “What’s funny?” I ask.

  Margo looks up at me and I see that she’s grinning.

  “Anna Calvi. I told you about her.”

  “Did you?” I say, pretending I don’t remember.

  “Yeah. Like… years ago, back at college, when you asked me what I was playing on my iPod speakers in the common room.”

  I pretend to think about it. “Oh yeah. That sounds familiar.”

  Margo breaks eye contact and settles her head back again on my chest.

  “It’s funny…” she says, after a while.

  “What is?”

  “I figured you were just saying that you’d check her out. You know…the way people do.”

  I think for a long time about what she said, a whole verse and chorus. A thought I can’t ignore pressing itself into me, an impulse I can’t ignore. Until I say, “I always trusted you.”

  She’s quiet for a moment and then sighs. “Shit…Owen…what the hell are we doing?”

  “We’re having fun.”

  “No…” Margo says, suddenly pulling away, sliding off the couch and straightening up her dress as she goes to her handbag.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, getting off the couch too.