by JD Hawkins
Then we part once more and settle back, our eyes still locked to each other. The kiss as natural as taking a sip from our drinks. Her glass is empty and I take it from her hand to set it aside, then take her hand and press it against the bulge in my pants. I let out a sigh as she starts to caress my cock through my jeans. Long fingers rubbing the length, tracing it against the cloth, until I can’t help but clench my teeth with hardened yearning.
She hisses a breath through her teeth. I take a sip of the whisky I’m holding in one hand, then reach my other back into her hair, stroking and pulling gently at her long curls.
“Who’s in control now?” she says, her breath a little short as she presses her hand down to my balls and squeezes, sending fire up through my torso.
I set my whisky down and quickly unbutton my fly, then shove my briefs down to unveil my cock—already full and hard for her. A longing that’s been stoked since the moment I saw her step out of her car, long legs in worn jeans and a shirt that couldn’t hide those magnificent tits. A compulsion that was stirred by every word spoken through those plush lips, by the hungry kiss in the lot, the sway of her hips before me, the gaze of those dark eyes. A lust that’s so intense it’s almost painful—it would be a punishment if she wasn’t here with me now, her hand still on my balls. I’m aching with how beautiful she is, almost angry with what a hold she’s got on me.
“Tonight…” I murmur. “I’m thinking it’s me.”
My grip on the back of her neck firms a little and I pull her face to my cock, positioning those lips against the head. She moves with my hand easily, instinctively, as if something inside her senses the fire inside me and feels compelled to put it out—or at least to burn with me.
The moment her lips kiss the head I feel another rush of swelling heat, muscles tensing like I’m lifting three hundred pounds, my head swinging back over the top of the couch. She brings both knees to the couch, kneeling over me. One hand still on my balls, the other on my shaft, she kisses my cock like it’s a reunion. Lips pressing, pulling, squeezing it—just the right side of gentle to make me grunt at the ceiling, almost beg for more.
I look at her again, my hand still on the back of her head, and the sight of her splayed hair alone is enough to send another spasm of electrified pleasure through me. I sweep it up into my fist and hold tight as her lips work a little further down my cock, her tongue stroking the underside, her mouth wet and hot and sucking. Soft, then harder, quickening the pace. Soon I’m thrusting into the back of her throat, growling like some caged animal.
“That’s it, Mia… Let me fuck that hot mouth…”
I slide my free hand down her back, around and under to squeeze her breast. It makes her jolt, her mouth pinching over my cock. I move down, grab the firm curves of her ass, unable to resist smacking it as I use my grip on her hair to guide her mouth farther down until I feel her wet tongue pressing against my hole. My fingers search out her pussy while her tongue swirls back up my shaft, rough and wet. She cups my balls while I roll my fingers over her pussy, bobbing her head back and forth over my cock. I pull her mouth back down hard, forcing myself into her throat again. Her hand gripping the shaft as tight as I’m gripping her hair. It takes everything in me to hold back.
“Fuck…Mia…” I snarl the words like an incantation, and she pulls back, smacking her lips to look up at me with those incredible eyes. A look that sets a whole new level of animal hunger in me. I keep a grip on her hair as she sidles off the couch and kneels in front of me, tugging off my pants, all the while keeping that cock-pulling stare on me. She looks as ravenous as I feel.
This time I get a full view of her lovely face as she takes my balls in those lips and drives the blood-pumping, chest-flexing, jaw-clenching arousal into overdrive. She gives me a perfect show as she draws her tongue back up along the shaft, slow enough to fix me in place, every sense focused on my cock, her beauty as provocative as the sensation of her hot, wet mouth.
“Fuck yeah, that’s good, Mia…” I grunt.
My grip on her hair tightens and I pull her face down again, incapable of self-control. If I had an ounce of willpower I’d hold on, stay like this all night, staring back into her eyes, flexing at every stroke of those lips. But I’m all animal now. I’m nothing but sex and fire and appetite and tension. My cock wants nothing but to bury itself in her mouth, my body stiff with the need to explode into her.
I thrust and groan, fucking her face with yearning rage, pressing the softness of her lips and tongue against my stiffness. I fuck her until her face is red and she’s gagging on me, until I feel my balls tightening in anticipation, until even when I ease my grip and make to pull out, she continues to take me inside her mouth as if to swallow me whole.
Each bone-shuddering high threatens to be the last, to be the one that breaks and releases. I throw my head back on the couch, eyes closed, breathing hard, chest thumping, and though it takes effort to peel my eyes from the perfection of her appearance, it’s burned in my memory, and I think of her and only her when my body erupts.
“I’m coming,” I warn, nothing if not a gentleman.
Snapping my head back just in time, I see her gazing up again, eyes pleading, lips parted as I spurt hot come all over them. She moans, eyes drowsy and smoldering as she licks it from her lips, from the head of my cock. Hard tension and heat drains from my body, leaving nothing but a satisfying emptiness, a mixture of relief and exhaustion. My body feels like it’s sinking into the couch. A release that feels years—not hours—in the making. And at the end of it, her perfect lips sucking every last drop from my cock.
She stands up. Steady composure returning to her previously dreamy eyes. She takes a step toward the hallway but stops and looks back at me with a strange smile.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says thoughtfully.
“About what?” I say, voice still groggy with exhaustion.
“Maybe I should let go a little.”
She heads down the hall as I watch every inch of her walking away. One desire satisfied, but a whole new one burning even deeper.
14
Mia
Maeve calls it “the cold water moment.” That specific instant when you realize it isn’t going to work out with a guy.
It can be a phrase, or an incident, or even something as small as a look. One minute you’re having fun, a typical date, everything cool, and then…cringe. A sudden sense of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, so that even though he’s only on the other side of the table, you feel an immense distance between you—and it’s still not quite far enough.
I know the cold water moment well, and Maeve’s name for it stuck with me because it always manifested for me as a kick in the gut, a shivering down my spine, a sudden desire to get back home, somewhere comfy and alone. The last time it happened was when I’d gone back to a guy’s apartment, already having decided to sleep with him. Third date. He was a lawyer with a passion for art. Not exciting enough to make my heart flutter, but not boring enough to turn me off. Everything was going fine, until he nonchalantly began explaining that he couldn’t get off unless I called him “daddy.” I’m not the type to judge anyone else’s kinks, but I knew it wasn’t for me. I responded by calling it a night.
Then there was the date with the property developer who, when I spilled my coffee over a dress I liked more than him, laughed hysterically instead of helping me. Or the good-looking engineer who checked his phone while I was telling an emotionally difficult story about losing a patient. And then there was the guy from Oregon, who at some point after dessert stopped talking for several minutes and started giving off the weirdest vibes, looking at me like a psycho killer imagining how he’d dispose of my body.
Yeah, I know the cold water moment well. Which is why the most shocking thing about being with Colin is its complete absence.
Every second with him just seems to flow naturally. Even though I’ve never really done the whole one-night stand thing, and despite having a hundred reasons f
or why us doing this is a bad, terrible, life-destroying idea, it still seems so...effortless. Even the moments of silence between us, the underlying tensions, all feel kind of easy in their way.
I went down on him like a porn star, like a woman who does that sort of thing all the time, like I imagine Maeve would. He pulled my hair until it hurt and face-fucked me until I almost choked on his cock. Five minutes after showing me his fancy rainfall shower, he joined me in there, stepping under the water with me so we could soap each other down. And at no point did I even think twice about what I was doing. At no point did I take a step back, see myself, and suddenly get that cold spine and the urge to get away as quickly as possible.
What’s different this time? Is it him? Or me?
I’m pondering all of this with my head on his chest, listening to his slow, deep, sleeping breaths, and instead of thinking how weird it is that I’m staying the night, I’m feeling more peaceful than I’ve felt in years.
He’s naked. His cock half-hard under the thin bedsheet. I draw my fingers down his chest and abs once again, touching his warm skin, enjoying the way the lines of his relaxed-but-powerful muscles feel. I try to do it gently enough not to wake him, but when I get down to his inguinal crease he shuffles and grunts a bit in his sleep. His bicep flexes beneath me, hand adjusting itself on my ass, his head turning into me, pressing his mouth against the hair at my temple before settling again. I smile at the moonlight spilling through the gap in his curtains.
I could lose my job for this. Seven years building up a reputation as the most competent doctor in one of L.A.’s toughest hospitals. Seven years of keeping my personal and professional lives separate, so that everyone there thinks of me as infallible. Best-case scenario, I get to keep my position—but everyone will forever think of me as someone who couldn’t resist the new guy. If they found out about us… I squeeze Colin’s chest a little and rub my thigh over his, relishing the dark juxtaposition between what I am and what I did.
Do I have actual feelings for him? Is that what this is? Why this all seems a little too easy? Oh shit. Maybe I am. Then what does he feel for me?
He’s obviously a player—no guy as good-looking as him wouldn’t be. And nothing he’s done or said should make me feel otherwise. I mean, he promised the first time this happened that it was a one-off thing, then avoided me at work, then invited me out to tell me some story about how he’d been burned before, and then we… Then we did what we did all over again. What am I supposed to take away from all that?
It’s not quite a cold water moment, but it’s enough to make me feel like I should leave, rather than try to navigate whatever morning conversation would result from me staying. I look up carefully, his hard jaw and messy hair outlined in the pale moonlight. His broad chest rising and falling slowly. I slide my thigh off of his, and slowly try to slip away from him, but he grumbles a little in his sleep again, his arm instinctively flexing to hold me tight, to pull me back, and I let myself melt into him all over again.
Our bodies fit so well together. Move so well in tandem. I rest my head on his chest again, my hand on his abs, my thigh rising to rest over his cock. Our bodies fit, and I can’t help letting the calmness of his breath lull me into the best sleep I’ve had in months.
I’m awoken by strangeness. The noises weirdly distant, the sensation of the bed slightly harder, the pillows a little softer. It takes a few stretches and a few groggy twists until I realize the bed I’m in isn’t my own.
I press my face into the pillow and immediately memories flood my mind, waking me up, instigated by the delicious, lingering ache between my legs, the smell of Colin’s cologne and the earthy aroma of his tea tree shampoo embedded in the sheets. A wave of regret over my lack of self-control passes through me—but it’s only brief, and not strong enough to push away the lingering bliss in my body. I melt into the bed the way I melted into him, feeling the phantom sensations of his muscles pressing into me, his teeth on my lips, as if they were marks he’d left. Then I stretch and realize he’s no longer there beside me.
Opening my eyes to the rosy light coming through the sheer curtains, I look around and sit up slowly. Faintly, I hear the sound of the TV in the other room, and then something sizzles, hitting a hot pan. I’m naked except for my panties, but a quick glance around the room—leaning over both sides of the bed to check the floor—doesn’t reveal the rest of my clothes.
A moment of hesitation freezes me in place. This is a “morning after”—I’m not used to those. Was I supposed to leave quietly last night? I guess that’s the way one-night stands are supposed to go. But then it was Colin who pulled me into bed to snuggle asleep. And Colin who woke me up at least twice for more sex in the middle of the night…
Should I just walk into the living room then and act perfectly natural? Like what happened last night wasn’t completely inappropriate and probably something we’ll both regret? Just waltz right up to him all smiling and happy?
No. He’ll think I think we’re now an item.
Are we an item?
Don’t even think that, Mia. Just go out there and ask him where your clothes are. All business. Purely professional. Except if I do that—
I pull myself out of bed before I can continue spiraling in my own thoughts, and suddenly feel extremely nude standing in the daylight. I scan the room one more time for my jeans, and even flap the sheets. Nothing. And then I notice his closet.
It’s a bold move, but I’ve got no other option. I slide open the door quietly and flick through the hangers, finding nothing but expensive-looking shirts and pants. At first I’m just looking for the oldest, most ragged shirt he owns—something he wouldn’t mind being hijacked like this. But the man doesn’t seem to own a single T-shirt, and eventually I find myself feeling the fabrics, appreciating some of the nicer ones. Eventually I settle on a beautiful soft linen shirt that still bears the faintest trace of some cologne. I tease out the arm and can’t help imagining how Colin would wear it—the sleeves rolled up so the muscles of his forearms would twist like the branches of some impossibly strong tree. The collar buttons undone to reveal the indentations of his collarbones, probably a little lopsided in that reckless, shabbily confident manner of his.
I put the shirt on, roll up the sleeves, and button it up a little. It just about reaches the tops of my thighs, and I don’t quite button it all the way over my cleavage, though it still feels like I’m completely covered. Something about the cut of the shirt making it feel like his shape is around me. The faint scent reminding me of how he engulfed me last night…
Bracing myself to face him, I open the door and go to the living room.
The TV is loud, and he’s standing behind the stove at his kitchen counter watching it as he pushes hash browns around in a pan. He’s naked except for his boxers, his hair messy with bedhead, his stubble rough from not shaving.
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can he glances up and sees me—an expression of such ferocious, intense lust in him it paralyzes me like I’m a deer in headlights. His eyes scour my body the way his hands did so many times before, head to toe and back again, finally resting on my eyes. I don’t need to be telepathic to know exactly what he’s thinking, and he’s thinking it so strongly I can’t help thinking it too.
“Wow…” he mutters, as if slowly coming to his senses, from the fog of his own desire.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I mumble, feeling suddenly awkward. “I couldn’t find my clothes so I took one of your shirts.”
“Mind? That shirt never looked so good.”
He’s smiling as he says it, but I can hear the low timbre of sex in his voice. I try to think of something witty to say, but before I can he slides the hash browns from the pan onto a plate and moves around the counter toward me. In nothing but his boxers, I can’t tell if he’s already horny or simply as big as I remember.
Without any hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (and maybe it is), he approaches me and bru
shes several messy strands of hair from my face so he can look down on me with affection. Then his hands wind around my waist and pull me toward him.
The kiss is soft and gentle, tender and patient. I relax into it easily, my hands going to the sides of his face intuitively, his stubble against my palms. His hands move lower down my back until they’re on my ass, and yet something about this kiss goes beyond the sexual. It makes my heart swell and my limbs tingle with happiness more than sensuality.
With his perfect lips and roving hands, he steals all the anxiety and uncertainty of the moment from my body and mind. The strangeness of waking up with him and the anxiety over what it all means dissipating as he presses me against his hard chest. It’s not quite passion. Not quite primal, burning urges. Not the kiss of a man who wants my body, but the kiss of a man who wants me. It feels like a lover’s kiss.
When he pulls away it takes seconds for me to open my eyes, to realize my lips are still parted, as if I’m waking up all over again. When he moves back to the kitchen counter, I feel my whole body buzzing so much it feels like an earthquake.
“I made a quick breakfast. Bacon, eggs, hash browns,” he says as he moves back and plates up. I’m still so dazed that his voice seems to be coming from another planet. “Sit.”
“Uh… Thanks.”
I move to the other side of the counter and sit on the stool there. As he pushes a plate in front of me, I notice him gazing at my crossed legs. Another tickle on my skin.
For a few minutes we eat, me focusing on the food, him standing on the other side of the counter. His attention is neither on the food nor on me now, but the TV. Suddenly I’m aware of the argumentative women in the show, the volume pretty loud. I turn and watch it for a second over my shoulder, then look back at Colin, a little amused at how transfixed he seems.
