by Jessica Lake
"They have," I breathe, turning my face up to him, although I still can't quite bring myself to look him directly in the eyes again.
He has a broad face, wide cheekbones and a jaw that almost makes my lips tremble with wanting to kiss it. His chin, as strong as a superhero's, has a little vertical cleft right at the center. I want to kiss that spot, right there. I want to wrap my arms around his muscular neck and pull him down close so I can kiss it. I want the Irishman's hands on my body.
And the second I become conscious of wanting it, there they are, his fingers sinking into the flesh of my hip as he pulls me in close against his body and I nearly swoon with – with what? What's going on? What's happening? Is this what everyone's been talking about? This feeling of being caught in a rushing river, unable to reach for an overhanging branch or a steadying rock because it's all moving too fast?
And then I do turn my face up. I don't think about it – hell, I don't even know I'm going to do it until it's happening – and he opens my lips with his own, pushing his tongue into my mouth and kissing me hungrily.
It's never been like this before. Kissing has always seemed slightly repulsive, too wet, too messy, too squishy. But it's not like that with the Irishman. His kisses are hard and demanding and I can feel my entire body softening, melting under their power.
What am I doing? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except how good this feels. I reach up, shyly sliding one of my hands around his neck, marveling at how strong and warm he feels, and then –
"Lila!"
I jerk back, the spell broken, and turn towards Katya. She's standing wide-eyed at the end of the hallway, as if she can't quite believe what she's seeing.
"Lila," she says again. "I, um – Max was wondering where you were."
6
Declan
That's how she leaves me – out of breath and rock fucking hard in the middle of the hallway. I don't even flinch – nor do I have the wherewithal to try to hide the obvious bulge in my trousers – when her friend, the blonde, takes my hand and leads me to the men's room.
I look down at my cock after she leaves and laugh out loud, realizing I'm going to have to cool off a little before I can piss. And briefly, I consider taking care of business right then and there. Well, in a stall – I'm not a fucking savage.
But I don't take care of myself, because that girl was hot for me, I could feel it. She was red-cheeked with it, stumbling over her words like a virgin at a school dance. And I want her to finish the job she started.
By the time I get back to the table, after forcing myself to think of the most disgusting, least sexual scenarios I can for about 10 minutes, the boys are obviously wondering where I've been.
"What took you so long, mate?" Conor asks. "You havin' a wank in the toilets in a nice place like this? Ya dirty pig."
"Aye," I laugh, taking my seat and not bothering to tell him he's closer to the truth than he thinks. "Come on then, whose round is it?"
Kevin holds his hands up. "Don't look at me, I got the last one."
But it's difficult to concentrate on the masculine banter knowing that she – the girl who just kissed me like she wanted me to push her up against the wall and fuck her right then and there – is only a few feet away.
Is it just how hot she is? Is that it? Is that the only reason I feel like I couldn't string a complete sentence together if I tried? Or is it something else, something more than the firm curves of her body or the soft, sweet scent of her neck?
There are different kinds of women in this world. And you can't always tell which kind you're dealing with until you get them into bed. Some of the most confrontational ones turn into limp putty as soon as they're alone with you, flopping onto their backs and looking away when you try to make eye contact. Others seem to view sex as a kind of sporting event, always in competition with the yelping contortionists they've seen in porn videos on the internet. Every now and again, you meet a wildcat. She doesn't need to roll her eyes and scream and generally carry on like a lunatic because there's something there – a certain sparkle in her eyes or a note of real need, real desperation in her voice when she needs you. I've only met a few like that, and even then most of them seemed a little embarrassed by the strength of their own desires.
The girl in the tight dress – the one who just about made me cum in my pants like a goddamned teenager – didn't seem embarrassed. I grab the drink that has appeared in front of me – a pink, fruity number that someone has ordered as a joke, and try not to think about what it would be like to feel her spreading her legs underneath me.
Time passes. Who knows how much. Ten minutes? An hour? Two hours? All I know is I'm lost in a reverie, unable to keep my mind on any kind of conversation until she suddenly appears at my side with a tray of drinks, which she begins to hand out one by one, studiously avoiding eye contact with me. She's right there. Close enough to get a whiff of her soft, vaguely sweet perfume, close enough to reach out and slide one hand up the back of one smooth thigh...
Just before she leaves, and still without acknowledging me, she pretends to have dropped something and, when she bends down to 'pick it up' what she does instead is drop something into my lap before walking away.
I don't even hear the comments around me, the stunned tone in Andy's voice as he looks around at the table – "Jesus H. Christ – did you see that girl?" – because I've got something in my hand. Fabric, small, warm. Is it –?
Before the thought can fully form in my mind, my thumb suddenly slides over wetness and I know, I just know, what I'm holding. My cock, already primed by those furtive kisses in the hallway, throbs to life. I must have an odd look on my face, too, because Conor laughs and asks me what's wrong.
"Nothing mate," I reply, not quite succeeding in keeping a certain gruffness out of my voice. I cough and try again. "Nothing. Why? You boys still good? You having a good time, Kev?"
Before anyone can answer, I suddenly feel something else in my hand. Paper. A slip of paper. Heart pounding, I look down and unfold it. Handwriting – neat, rounded handwriting in blue pen. The words take a moment to register. And when they do, it's all I can do to remain seated. To somehow stop myself from stomping over to the bar, grabbing the brunette, and throwing her right over my shoulder.
What does the note say? It's a street address and a time. Midnight. And underneath that, three little words. Three little words that make my cock ache.
"I'm a virgin."
I mean, she can't be. She can't be. Can she? What kind of virgin is this bold? What kind of virgin is this hot? I look up, scanning the bar to find her. She's serving someone, but even as she takes the order she glances very briefly in my direction, meeting my gaze directly. I snatch my phone out of my pocket and check the time. Not even 10 p.m. Fuck. Fuck.
I can't wait that long. It's not hyperbole, I realize, as she eyes me again, tilting her head slightly to the side that time, reeling me in with a little smile. It's not a figure of speech. It's the literal truth – I can't wait that long. I cannot endure two more hours of a hard-on so insistent it demands attending to. I get up without thinking – because there's no longer enough blood in my head to think – and head over to the bar.
7
Lila
I get a better look at him as he walks towards me, with a expression in his eyes that puts me in mind of a predator stalking its prey. I didn't used to like muscles on men when I was younger. I still don't like cartoon muscles – the kind you get out of a glass vial and not through honest physical work. Briefly, I wonder what the blue-eyed man – who's mere presence in the same room is doing things to me that other men have spent weeks trying, and failing, to do – does for a living. Not that it matters. Not one little bit. I don't care what he does. I don't care where he comes from or what his circumstances are. All I care about is the effect he's having on me.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. We stand across the bar from each other, my hands desperate to reach out for him, my lips echoing with th
e memory of those kisses in the hallway. And then he speaks.
"I can't wait until midnight."
I don't have to ask what he means, because it's written all over his face. A dark flower of desire blooms in my belly, so quickly and fully that I almost stumble, and all the dilemmas and problems of my life suddenly boil down to a single one: how quickly can I get out of this cocktail bar?
"Hey!" Katya calls, as I walk out from behind the bar and head towards the back door. "Lila! Where are you going? I need you to help with –"
I turn around to face her, and time seems to have slowed down. Am I dreaming? Is that why I feel like I'm walking through molasses, like every single second without the Irishman's hands on me is the purest kind of torture? "I'm, uh, I just need to – uh, to get –"
But I don't finish. I just keep going, heading down the hallway and then pushing the heavy metal door open with both hands and emerging out into the hot, dark night.
He's there before I can even look or reach for him. He's right there before the door has even closed behind us, his hands grasping at my body, pushing me up against the rough brick wall in the alley and raining hard, hungry kisses down on my lips.
I've heard women describe this before. They use words like 'melt' a lot. I've never understood it before – although I always pretended I did. And now, with this man whose name I don't even know yet yanking the top of my dress down and bending his head to run his tongue around one of my nipples, I suddenly know exactly what it means. It's a literal description of what it feels like, the urge to open myself entirely up, to dissolve in the full face of real, direct masculinity for probably the first time in my life.
"Fuck," he growls, in his accented English, as my leg seems to lift itself up around him.
There's not enough time to be scared, which is funny given how much time I've spent obsessing about this very moment, about how much pain there would be, about whether or not I would embarrass myself with tears or some other kind of unsuitable emotion. I'm still scared, I realize, as a strong, rough hand finds its way up under my dress, up my bare thigh until I feel it – a single finger, slow now as he breaths heavily against my neck, slipping itself between my lips.
"Oh!" I gasp as he begins to fumble with his belt, using his body to hold me against the wall, to spread my legs. Fear or not, I sense that what's coming is as inevitable – and unstoppable – as a tsunami. It's outside of me, looming over me, a new kind of threat – the kind I want nothing more than to succumb to. I lean my head back against the bricks and inhale.
Bright light. Very bright light. Shouting. I reach up and shield my eyes with my hand.
"OK!" A voice booms. "That's enough. Take it back to the hotel, you two. Come on – let's go."
An unpleasant buzz starts up in my head as the cop approaches us, shining his flashlight right into our eyes. The Irishman ignores him at first, up until the moment he gets right up in our faces.
"Are you deaf!?" The officer bellows. "Do you want me to arrest you for public indecency? Because you certainly won't be getting any tonight if you have to spend it in the –"
I don't know how we manage to extricate ourselves from each other but, under the heavy glare of the cop, we do. The Uber ride back to my rented apartment is an exercise in self-discipline as we sit next to each other, burning up.
"My name is Declan," he whispers as we get close to my complex. We haven't spoken very much, because conversation just doesn't seem to be a priority.
"Declan?" I repeat back to him, unfamiliar with the name.
"Yeah. You can call me Dec, if you like."
He has full lips, a detail I notice when I dare to look at his face for the first time since we left the LBD. The kind of lips you want to kiss until your own mouth is raw. A strange swooping sensation seizes my belly as the Uber turns onto my road. Am I going to be able to walk the few steps to the front door? Put the key in the lock? It doesn't feel like it. It doesn't feel like I'm going to be able to do anything at all except offer myself up to the Irishman – Declan.
"I'm Lila," I whisper, fumbling with the key. "I – yeah, I'm Lila."
The door swings open and we walk into the apartment.
"Is it true?" Declan asks, eying me in the gloom before I flip on the bare overhead bulb.
We're facing each other, each of us waiting, knowing the moment will soon be upon us.
"Is what true?" I reply, kicking off my heels and indulging myself in the sweet anticipation of simply standing very close to him.
"What you said," he continues, his voice deep and slow. "In the note – the one you hid in your wet knickers."
In any other situation I would blush or look away. But I can't look away from Declan, his gaze holds me steady. I am suddenly conscious of the fact that I am totally naked underneath my dress – my thighs already slick with my own wetness.
"Yes," I answer quietly, half intending to continue before he reaches down and grips my right thigh, just above the knee. I exhale audibly as he slides it up under my dress, further and further until he's almost there.
"Your thighs are wet," he says as we look into each other's eyes, watching our expressions change as the atmosphere heightens by the second. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel like I can't do anything. Like I'll surely drop dead if he doesn't put his hand where I want him to.
And then he does put his hand there. He flattens it out, cupping my pussy and sliding a single finger up between my lips. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes. It feels so good, his hand between my legs, holding me like that part of me belongs to him.
I need him. More of him. Right now. I reach down, grab the hem of my dress and pull it up over my body and then off. And then I stand, deliciously exposed, in front of Declan. His eyes drink me in greedily, taking in every curve, every smooth expanse of belly and hip and pert breast.
"You're beautiful," he says, and his voice is so low now I can barely make out what he's saying. "Jesus, you are so fucking beautiful."
It's amazing, being looked at like that. All my life I thought it would be unpleasant – all my life it has been unpleasant – because apparently it was never the right man. It was never Declan with his broad, muscled shoulders and his crystalline blue eyes. He's looking at me like a starving man might look at a juicy steak, and I love every second of it.
It doesn't last long, the moment before. As soon as he cups one of my breasts in his hand, running the tip of his thumb over a nipple that tightens up under his touch, I'm done for. I wrap my arms around his head when he bends to kiss my breasts, to tease my nipples with his tongue, and with every little movement of my body I can feel the wetness between my legs, the need, growing.
Declan unzips in front of me, taking my hand in his and guiding it into his pants, along his thick, stiff length. It's bigger than I thought – it feels bigger than I thought it would be. I look down, unable to really see anything, and then back up into his eyes.
"It's –" I say, and then stop because whatever I'm doing to him is making his eyes close and his mouth fall open and that drives me wild.
"It's what?" He pants a moment later, pushing his hips forward. "It's what, Lila?"
"It's – it's big," I whisper and without any further comment he reaches down again and pulls it out. Would it be strange to say it's beautiful? Because it is. Thick, rigid, topped with a glistening pink head. All I have to do is run my fingers down it gently and Declan moans.
"Be careful," he warns, kissing my neck and squeezing my breasts in his hands. "Be careful with your hand, girl, or this is going to be over before it starts."
"What do you mean –" I start to ask, before realizing I already know what he means. He means I might make him come. Just with my hand. I want to make him come. I want it so much just thinking of it sends a bolt of sweet electricity through my sex. He senses it.
"You want to," he whispers into my neck, before pulling away just slightly to look me in the eyes. "Don't you? You want to make me come?"
"Yes,"
I reply, and before the word is even out of my mouth Declan is turning me around to face the wall, using his body to push me up against it. I feel him suddenly, against my lower back, and my body arches itself back towards him – as if it knows instinctively what to do.
There's a tension in my limbs, in my muscles. I know the moment is here. I want it. I want it even if it hurts, because he wants it. And I want to give Declan from Ireland whatever he wants.
"Open your legs," he breathes against the back of my neck. "Lila, open your legs a little wider."
I open my legs a little wider and then he's right there, the tip of his cock nudged between my lips, resting against my opening. I stop breathing without noticing and close my eyes, squeezing them tight when I feel a sharp pain, and even tighter when it just keeps going.
"Oh," Declan moans as I blink, wide-eyed and repeatedly, at the sting. What I don't do – even as he pushes himself into me further and further, so far it briefly makes me wonder if something's gone wrong, if this is really how it's supposed to feel – is pull away. My hands curl into fists against the wall, sending a few chips of paint fluttering to the floor, and I'm conscious that I'm enjoying myself. Not in spite of the pain – because of the pain. Because it's making Declan feel good. I can feel the tension in his body, the effort it's taking to restrain himself. When he's finally all the way inside me, I remember to breathe, exhaling hard, whimpering as he pulls out, just a little, and then pushes himself back in.
"Am I hurting you?" He asks, reaching around so he can caress one of my breasts again. "I – I don't mean – oh, fuck, you feel – you feel so –"
He breaks off and holds himself still for a moment, panting. I turn my head, looking back over my shoulder, enjoying how much he wants me like I don't think I have ever enjoyed anything else before.
