by Aria Ford
If anyone comes out of the kitchen to take out the trash, they’ll see me on my knees. Armani in the filth of the alley, a supplicant with my face buried between her thighs. I’m a jetsetter, a rich playboy. I don’t go down on waitresses out in the street. But here I am, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be. It would take a plane crashing into the building to get me to stop now. I trail my fingers along the velvet of her thigh and get to my feet. She’s wide eyed with shock, her hands clenched at her sides. I take them and put them on my shoulders, and I kiss her again. She can taste herself on my lips, I know. She’s trying to talk, and I’m trying to stop her. Except, she’s not talking, she’s unfastening my belt, dragging my zipper down. I peel off her bra and toss it somewhere, her breasts filling my hands. I like how they’re soft and heavy, how the friction of my palms makes her nipples hard.
In seconds, I have her up against the wall. Her thighs in my hands, her legs parted around my hips, her back flush against the bricks. I see the haze of lust in her eyes, the way she reaches for my mouth again and again until I’m dizzy from kissing her instead of breathing. I’m buried inside her, so sweet and so wet. My blood is pounding in my ears and nothing matters but these tight thrusts, the earth tilting off its axis as I come hard and fast inside her, those silken hot thighs around me. I want to roar with it.
She’s kissing me. I’m not letting her down off the wall, still balls deep inside her, her passage still milking me. I run my hand down her sensitive body as she squirms. I reach between us and rub at that spot above our joining that makes her thrash and squeal. I’m relentless, making her come even when she’s drooping against the wall and whimpering. Her hands beat at my shoulders as it goes on and on, her voice mewing that it’s too much, she can’t take it. Tears course down her cheeks by the time I’m done with her.
Except I’m not done with her. We both know it. I may never be done with her. This girl whose name I don’t even know. This girl whose taste is in my mouth, whose imprint is on my body now as sure as if she’d branded me. Everywhere she touches, she claims. I don’t know if it’s her innocence that’s got me undone, or if it’s the fact I rescued her. She feels like mine, like she belongs to me.
I set her back on her feet and take her in my arms and hold her. I kiss the top of her head and hold her close for a minute, not quite wanting to let her go.
CHAPTER FIVE
Caleigh
I just screwed some guy in an alley.
Actually, I just screwed some rich, powerful guy in an alley, which makes it weirder and, if possible, worse.
The fact that it was amazing is not even the point. The point is I don’t go around having sex in public places or with strangers or…pretty much anywhere with anyone ever since college. I haven’t been with anyone since I dropped out two years ago. So, when all those feelings came to the surface, when he took me in his arms and held me, but before that, when he just looked at me, and I nearly dumped his salad on him—he could have me anytime he wanted me. Any way he wanted me.
That was never even in question.
So, when he saved me, when he came after me, it was going to happen. There was never a moment I thought it wouldn’t happen. Him and me. I didn’t think it would be up against a wall necessarily, but I knew it would be somewhere, that it would be tonight. Because there was something between us, attraction or lust or some kind of link, because he rescued me—it didn’t matter what I called it. It was there like chains binding me to him. Like the pull of the moon or the tug low in my belly that I already felt again, the need to be filled by him, by all of him.
I was torn between shameless lust and complete embarrassment. I stooped and picked up my pants and put them on. I looked for my bra in the alley and found it by a dumpster. I pick up the scrap of white lace and its cheap underwire that always jabs me. I turn my back to him and put it on, then retrieve my shredded black blouse and shrug it over me, holding it together in the front. Now, suddenly, I guess I’m modest. Not so modest when I was screaming my head off up against that wall with my legs wrapped around Griffin. A man whose last name I don’t even know. I mean, I could Google it. There can’t be that many super rich hot guys named Griffin in town. But I think whipping my phone out to try and figure out who he is would be even tackier than finding by bra by a dumpster if that’s possible.
He looks perfect. He doesn’t look like the back-alley walk of shame. He looks like a damn cologne ad on the back of Vogue. That devilish dark handsomeness, the looking-for-trouble grin, the dark suit that costs more than my entire net worth. I go up to him and raise up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. I want to thank him since he saved the day in more ways than one. He rescued me from being raped by Simpson. He kissed me when I was at my lowest point, when I stood in this alley wishing I could just die because there was nothing to hope for. I’ve lost the catering job that was my only meager hope to save money for college. I’ve been treated like garbage by an entitled creep. I’ve run away, and I’ve got nothing good to run to. And he came out that door to find me. Like I was worth looking for, worth saving. So instead of thinking this was probably the second worst day of my life (losing my mom and dad and Josh still ranks higher), I feel like I’m not totally lost for the first time in a long time. Because he found me. Griffin found me.
When I kiss his cheek, he puts his arms around me. My silent goodbye isn’t going to be so brief, it seems. I let him fold me in his arms, and I lay my head against his heartbeat. I feel better than I have in years. I don’t feel alone. I don’t feel like he’s a stranger. He kisses the top of my head, which is sort of a sweet thing to do. He doesn’t look like he would be sweet, but he is. Like how he kept asking me if I was sure, how he made me come again even after he was done. I think I could stand here outside this club forever if he’d stand here with me like this.
I remember I have some shred of pride left, and I pull away, give him a shy smile. I can’t quite meet his eyes. I know he’ll be one of my best memories. That I’ll remember this for years to come when I’m feeling lonely. But I don’t want to cling. I don’t want to hang around until he tells me he has to go meet some woman. Someone he’d be really interested in, someone smart and glamorous and beautiful, who could be more to him than a pity fuck behind a bar. It stings to think of it like that, so I think of it again. To remind myself how far apart we are, to remind myself that someone like me could never be with someone like him.
I turn and walk toward the street, giving him a halfhearted wave goodbye. I’ll go to the bus stop and wait. I have a plan: going home, taking a shower, crying, and eating Chips Ahoy.
I’m blinking back tears and holding my top shut. Before I make it to the sidewalk, his hand is on my arm. I feel a rush of relief, even if he’s just being polite. He turns me around, drapes his jacket over my shoulders. It’s warm from his body heat, the silky lining sleek against my torn cotton shirt. It feels so good. I thank him, tell him it’s a nice thought but I’m headed for the bus.
“No,” he says.
“No?” I blink at him.
“I’ll give you a ride. Make sure you get home safely.”
There’s no room to argue with him, and I don’t want to argue anyway. I want five more minutes or ten just sitting near him and breathing in the cologne and the salted caramel smell of his skin. He takes out his phone, and seconds later we’re getting into a black Town Car, a driver holding the door for me. The interior is leather and there’s warm air from the vents and soft jazz from the speakers. It’s like rich person heaven in here. I sink into the seat gratefully.
He doesn’t ask me where I want to go or where I live. I don’t tell him. Instead, Griffin slips an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, kissing my lips. At first he nips at them gently, teasingly. I lick his top lip playfully and get the hot, wet slide of his tongue in my mouth as payback. I feel the heat pool low in my belly, and I want him again already. It’s like there’s still a pull I can’t resist, even though the sexual tension should be gone now that we’ve
done it.
Nothing seems to have dulled the sparks I feel, the fireworks that flare behind my eyelids when he kisses me. His fingers pry the elastic out of my ponytail so my hair falls free into his hands. I feel him weave his fingers through my hair, soothing my scalp and making me tip my head back. He uses the opportunity to kiss my neck and my toes curl.
“Tell me your name,” he says against my throat.
“No,” I say, “I know this is only one night. Let’s not pretend it’s anything more or less than that. Don’t spoil the—the magic of this with our real lives. We won’t look for each other that way. We’ll let this be perfect as it is—”
“I knew you were a romantic,” he says with a sort of growl. He captures my earlobe in his teeth and a sharp sensation of wanting jars me. I hold his head down, not wanting him to stop.
I’m already attached to him, connected. Like he understands what I need. I don’t need to fool myself into thinking he wants anything to do with me after tonight. I won’t give him my number and then spend months being disappointed when he never calls. I’d rather be a perfect memory than a girl he doesn’t bother to text back.
“I have to call you something,” he says, “So I know what name to scream.”
I feel that down to my toes when he says it. I get to be with him again tonight. I get to make him scream. It feels like an unexpected gift.
“Call me anything you want.”
“Kate,” he says decisively, and I’m surprised how close that is to my real name. I wouldn’t care if he called me Ethel, though.
“Griffin,” I say.
“It isn’t fair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he says, nuzzling my neck.
“It isn’t fair that you’re so gorgeous and so far out of my league. Who cares about fair tonight?” I tell him.
I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around him, pull him down over me. He slides me down beneath him on the seat, and I stretch out to full length. I love feeling his weight on top of me, his legs twisted up with mine, all that body contact. I arch against him as we kiss. It’s easily the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, but it’s more than that too. The way he kisses me, the way he cradles my cheek in his hand make it feel like he’s kissing me, and not just anyone. My shirt’s fallen open and his jacket is underneath me somewhere. My breath comes faster. I rise against him, my breasts rubbing against his muscled chest. I don’t want fabric between us. I don’t want anything between us.
The car stops and he sits up, pulling me into his lap.
“I live in this building. Will you come upstairs with me?” he says.
I don’t stop and think. I do what I want for once, and I say yes.
CHAPTER SIX
Griffin
She’s letting me take her upstairs. I haven’t felt this completely lucky since I bought my first club. This girl, the one I’m calling Kate, has me wrapped around her finger. If she told me she wouldn’t go upstairs, I swear I would’ve asked her where I could take her, or if she just wanted to stay in the car. I would’ve closed the window between us and the driver and just stayed.
I had her spread out on the seat, her softness yielding beneath me, and I couldn’t keep it together. All I knew was this powerful sense of focus, of need to get inside her, to join with her, like that was my only reason for anything, for breathing.
I wrap my jacket around her and guide her inside. In the private elevator to the penthouse, I don’t even wait. I bend her back over my arm and kiss her breathless. Our embrace is reflected in the gleaming brass walls on every side. Her blond hair falling over my arm, her surrender, her hands on my back. I plan to have her again and again. I may never stop.
In the apartment, I give her a second to look around. It’s overwhelming probably, so beautiful and not at all what she’d be used to. I can only spare about thirty seconds to let her be impressed, though. Because it’s all I can do to keep from bending her over the nearest table.
“Do you mind if I—go to the restroom?” she says.
I point the way down the hall and wait for her. I should be opening champagne or something, probably. Getting out something to nibble since I bet she didn’t get to eat. I didn’t eat either now that I think about it. But I’m too focused on getting in her pants. I can’t organize my thoughts to set up a romantic looking seduction scene. In fact, I have to talk myself out of knocking on the bathroom door, asking if she’d like to share a shower.
I can’t stand having her that far from me, in the literal next room. It’s giving me the shakes, and I’m pacing. I need her back. I won’t feel right until I have her bare in my hands, until I know everything about every inch of her. When she comes out, she’s wearing my black silk robe. I feel like I could drop to the floor, my knees turned to water at the sight of her. She’s gorgeous, her messy blond hair, her smooth pale body wrapped in my black robe, the same silk that I’d worn this morning now hugging her naked curves. I can’t swallow.
I stand as if frozen for a minute just looking at her. Then I realize I can still move, so I do. I go to her and scoop her up, bring her to my bed. It’s on a platform, covered in a dark purple velvet that is as lush as possible. The lights are low from sconces on the wall. She looks so perfect in my robe. She’ll look even more perfect spread out on that deep purple velvet, all creamy skin and golden hair and eyes a surprising dark brown. I peel back the silk and reveal her skin, the dusting of freckles on her chest, the mole low on her belly by her right hip. I look at her so long she starts to squirm. I touch her, placing my palms on her thighs. I slide my hands up her sides, tease just beneath her breasts. I watch her pink nipples tighten and go hard as I stroke nearer and nearer to her rosy peaks.
When I finally touch one, a feather light brush of my thumb over her nipple, she moans. I could come in my pants just from that sound. It feels so primal, so intimately connected to the way I was touching her that I get a sympathetic tug of pleasure from her moan. I can’t wait. I take her nipple in my mouth, my tongue laving the pebbled tip until she’s writhing beside me on the bed, her hands in my hair, pulling my hair, in fact. I love it. I feel alive in a way I never have now. I can feel the tug of her hands from my scalp all the way down my spine like a live wire jumping with electricity. I’m so hard already that I don’t know how long I’ll last. I have never had to worry about that. I know I’m excellent in bed, and staying power hasn’t been a concern. Either because I’ve never been this aroused before or because I didn’t care that much if my lover got off. My lover. That’s what she is tonight.
“Kate,” I say, my mouth on hers as I shrug out of my clothes. She helps pull off my shirt and seems absorbed in touching my abs and my chest. I love her small, warm hands on my skin. The way she touches me and looks at me is incredible. I can’t stop kissing her long enough to speak. I pull her up on her knees and kiss her again, her hair falling all around us like a curtain. She reaches for my belt, and I can’t help bucking into her hand, letting her feel the bulge of arousal that waits for her. She smiles against my mouth, a satisfied grin that makes me afraid I’ll come right this second. God, how is she doing this to me?
Once she has my zipper down and I’m in her hand, she strokes the length of me with soft, tentative fingertips. I grit my teeth and count backward, trying to hold out. When I can’t take anymore, I curve my hand behind her neck, under her hair, and lower her onto the bed. I lay her back while she’s still on her knees, her legs folded under her, lifting her hips a little, so her sex is open for me. She looks so amazing lying there and the way she looks at me—I feel like I can’t get air into my lungs fast enough. I’m panting like I’ve run for miles.
I nudge myself between her knees and she lifts her hips higher to meet me, eager for my invasion. I flash back to the first time I kissed her. Was it only tonight? An hour ago? The way it felt when I slid my tongue in her mouth the first time, like I was penetrating her, raw and real. I position myself against her opening, determined to hold out, to go slowly. She reaches for me
, for my hips and drags me down on top of her until I fill her. I enter her all at once with a deep push and the intensity of her tightness enveloping me draws a cry from me. I hold myself up on my hands, my face over hers, but she keeps pulling me down until I cover her completely. My hands are in her hair, our tongues mating in time with my thrusts. It is so fast, so unbelievably fast and consuming, like a wildfire. We lay side by side on the bed, sweaty and spent. Her fingers steal into the palm of my hand almost shyly. I hold her hand, staring up at the ceiling. When I can breathe normally again, I gather her in my arms, her head on my shoulder.
“I’ve never brought a woman here,” I say.
“You bring men here?” she says.
“No! I just—go to a hotel or to her place.”
“Oh. Then why me?”
“I have no idea,” I tell her honestly, “I didn’t want to let you go, so I brought you home with me.”
“This wasn’t part of your plan?” she says.
“It was. As soon as you started to walk away from me, I decided I wanted to spend the night with you. I don’t—do that. I don’t stay the night. But I want you to.”
