Hard Byte

by Misha Bell

  The moan escapes my throat now.

  This isn’t fair. He can’t just start this sexcapade with my deepest, wildest fantasy.

  His tongue goes flat against my clit.

  Balling the sheets in my hands, I come with a choked cry.

  He looks up with a wicked smile, then goes back down and licks me once, twice, thrice—and another orgasm energizes my every nerve ending.

  Whew. I’m glad I came on lick number three and not four.

  He doesn’t stop, though, and I can feel that sensual smile of his against my sex.

  Another lick. Two. Three. Four.

  His is a bloody clever tongue.

  Before giving me lick number five, he teasingly abandons the clit in favor of my folds—which I don’t include in my count.

  Gritting my teeth, I buck against him, desperate for a release. He gets the hint and returns to the clit for a lick number five—but I’m not there yet.

  Lick six.

  Closer but still no cigar, which is fine. I don’t want to come on a non-prime.

  Okay. Now a lot is riding on this next lick. If I don’t come then, I’ll have to survive the next four licks until we get to the eleventh.

  He must know what I need because he makes lick seven slow and languid.

  Yes! Finally. My toes curl and my moan sounds closer to a scream.

  Before he can resume his ministrations, I wriggle out from underneath him.

  He looks up, a question in his eyes.

  “My turn for a taste,” I pant. “Lie back.”

  He does.

  I kiss and lick his face the way I’ve always dreamed of doing, then press small, teasing kisses to his neck before gliding my tongue over the hills of his pecs and down the washboard ridges of his abs until I’m at the base of Prime.

  Looking up to meet his ravenous gaze, I ice-cream lick up the whole hard, massive length.

  Like a tomcat enjoying a stroking, he closes his eyes in pleasure.

  Is that a bead of pre-cum at the tip?

  Curious, I lick it off. It’s yummy—and a prelude to what it would be like if he came in my mouth, which is another fantasy of mine.

  In response to my attention, Prime grows impossibly harder.

  I wrap my lips around the head and let it slide deeper into my mouth.

  It’s like silk over steel.

  “Fuck,” Alex groans.

  Encouraged, I swirl my tongue around the head—three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise.

  He grabs my shoulders, his strong fingers digging into my flesh.

  I do seven clockwise swirls as he squeezes my shoulders almost to the point of pain, and then I do seven swirls in the other direction.

  Breathing hard, he pulls me away. “I want to be inside you,” he rasps, his accent the thickest it’s ever been.

  “Me too,” I gasp. “I mean, you inside me, not me inside you.”

  With a hint of that devilish smirk, he recaptures my mouth in a kiss, and without our lips unlocking, he arranges me on my back.

  My heart hammers in my ribcage, my senses utterly consumed by him, by his scent, his feel, his warmth. It’s like I’m surfing through an ocean storm on the wave of our kiss, his body over mine the only harbor from the sensual upheaval, his lips the only anchor keeping me safe.

  He enters me, and I feel like bursting into fireworks, the way the game did earlier, when he’d make a tetris with a long, hard I-block.

  His first thrust is too gentle, so I grab his steel-hard glutes and pull him into me.

  His pupils dilate, and the second thrust is faster and deeper.

  My body curves and bends, molding against his.

  “That’s it,” he growls, and the third thrust is better still. The fourth is pretty good also, considering the number.

  On the fifth thrust, I moan in pleasure. An orgasm is coiling in my core, but it’s far away, which is frightening because what if it falls on the wrong count?

  I moan on thirteen, and nineteen, and by thrust twenty-three, he’s pistoning into me—yet I want it even faster, so I squeeze his muscled ass and pull him deeper.

  Yes. Fuck, yes. Moans escape my lips at twenty-nine and thirty-one, and as though through some kismet, he grunts something along the lines “you feel so fucking good” at thirty-seven.

  At forty-one, the thrusts turn punishingly hard and are almost too fast to count—and I love every one of them.

  By fifty-three, I’m counting the sound of flesh slapping against flesh instead of the thrusts themselves because everything is a blur of pleasure with no discernable start or end.

  Eighty-three. I’m close, but I can’t come yet. Nor at the non-prime eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, or eighty-eight.

  Here is eighty-nine and it’s a prime, but I’m not there yet, though I’m so close I can taste it.

  Can I hold off until ninety-seven?

  Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.

  My nails dig into his buttocks on ninety-seven as I come undone with a scream.

  A satisfied, purely male smile curves his lips as he keeps thrusting.

  And thrusting.

  Counting is harder now.

  Was that one hundred and forty-nine?

  Another orgasm starts to build, this one of tsunami strength.

  By one hundred and ninety-seven, I don’t care if I come on a prime or not. I just want the sweet release.

  By two hundred and twenty-three, my throat is hoarse from screaming in pleasure.

  Three hundred and seven. I’m so fucking close.

  “Me too,” he grunts.

  Fuck. Did I say that out loud?

  Doesn’t matter.

  We’re at three-hundred and seventeen, and the black of his pupils nearly overtake the cerulean—and I’m about to explode.

  Must hold off just a little bit.

  Just a few more.

  The release builds and builds.

  And then, at three hundred and thirty-one, a prime, Alex grunts in pleasure, his eyes closing as Optimus Prime jerks inside me.

  Fuck, yeah. My own orgasm storm makes landfall. All my muscles contract as one as I scream in ecstasy.

  Dimly, I’m aware that Alex is hugging and kissing me, but I’m still riding the pleasure wave—one infinitely more intense than all my dildo sessions combined.

  By the time I’ve recovered enough to think again, he’s cleaning me with a warm, wet towel.

  “That’s nice,” I mutter, then yawn.

  He moves me until we’re in a spooning position, with me as the small spoon.

  As I lie there, surrounded by his warmth, I feel incredibly content—and in that hazy land between wakefulness and sleep, a thought comes to me.

  Whatever this is between us might actually work. He’s not the Devil I thought he was when we first met. I like him. Really like him. Way more than I ever did Beau.

  The biggest obstacle is our joint workplace. But maybe no one will judge me for sleeping with the boss. Maybe being with him won’t be as big of a mess as I feared, and maybe I’ll be able to deal with the messy aspects of his life.

  On that pleasant thought, I sail away into the land of dreams.

  Chapter Forty

  I wake up from a wet tongue licking my face.

  Memories of last night rush in.

  Is this Alex’s way of initiating more?

  If so, yes, please.

  Hmm. His tongue feels long. I don’t remember it being that long last night. Only his cock was extraordinarily long. And thick and—

  I open my eyes.

  Golden eyes stare at me from a koala-like face.

  Eeew.

  The tongue doesn’t belong to Alex.

  With a doggy grin, Beelzebub gives my face one more lick.

  “Shoo!” I push him away with a giggle.

  If you got to first base with a puppy, would it be more pedophilia or bestiality?

  His insane enthusiasm undiminished by my rejecti
on, Beelzebub simply switches his licking attentions to Alex’s face—and who can blame him.

  “Holly?” Alex murmurs sleepily.

  “Nope.”

  He opens his eyes, chuckles, and pushes the puppy away while telling him that waking us like that is a “bad dog thing to do.”

  “Hi,” I say when he’s done with his lecture.

  Even with dog drool on his face, Alex looks delicious. He grins at me. “Hi, yourself.”

  “What time is it?” I glance at the sun pouring through the window.

  “Fuck. Time.” Alex leaps to his feet, gloriously naked.

  Grabbing his phone, he barks a few words in Russian.

  “I’m running late,” he explains at my questioning look. “Forgot to set an alarm. Here.” He hands me a robe five sizes too big and begins to dress.

  When his glorious nakedness is sadly covered, I slip on the robe and, at his prompting, follow him to the bathroom. Beelzebub scrambles after us and starts slurping water from the toilet bowl.

  “No!” Alex says sternly and closes the lid. “That’s a bad dog thing to do also.”

  Beelzebub gives him a contrite look, tail wagging apologetically.

  Ooh. I like bossy Alex. Maybe we could play puppy and owner one of these days?

  Alex hands me a still-sealed toothbrush that has a dentist ad on it, and then we perform our morning routines side by side, the domesticity of it all tugging at something in my chest.

  Meanwhile, the pup is over his contrition. He’s running circles around us, sneaking between our legs like a cat, and in general acting like he might’ve overdosed on cocaine and amphetamines.

  “I’ve got to run.” Alex pulls out his phone. “What do you like for breakfast?”

  “Oat porridge.”

  He makes a few swipes and clicks. “One should arrive in a bit.” He grins at Beelzebub, who’s just jumped into the bathtub and is attempting to chew on shampoo. Shooing him away from the bottle, he glances at me. “You mind taking him for a walk?”

  I give the little devil a dubious look but bravely say, “No problem. After that, can I use your computer? I was going to bring my laptop to catch up on some work, but as you might recall, I didn’t get to go home last night.”

  His grin is directed at me now. “You remember that it’s Sunday, right?”

  I shrug. “Some folks on my team said they’ll be working this weekend, so I feel obligated to do the same—solidarity and all that.”

  “Suit yourself.” He leads me to his office, where he gives me access as a guest user. “You can remotely log into your work computer. That way, you’ll have everything set up the way you like it.”

  “Go to your thing,” I say with a smile. “I’ll figure things out.”

  Alex doesn’t seem to want to leave. He leashes Beelzebub—even though I could’ve done it—and sets up a snack inside the toy, explaining that I should use it when I want a break from my furry charge.

  “You’re late,” I say with mock chastisement.

  “Give me a kiss, and I’ll go.”

  I’m happy to oblige. This goodbye kiss is as hot as the one from last night—and suddenly, I don’t want him to leave. And if his longing stare is anything to go by, he’d rather stay and shag me as well.

  Are we both turning into sex fiends like my parents?

  “I’ll see you later,” he says reluctantly.

  “Later,” I say, trying not to drool as I watch him walk to the elevator.

  Beelzebub cocks his head and whines as the doors slide closed behind his master.

  I pat his big, fluffy head. “I know how you feel, bud. Now let me get dressed so I can take you out for a walk.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  It’s official.

  The best way to fall head over heels for a puppy is to take one on a walk.

  Fueled by seemingly endless energy, Beelzebub sniffs every inch of our way to the park and barks at things I didn’t realize anyone would want to bark at, like blooming dandelion flowers and an empty cardboard box.

  Once we get to the area in the park where he can be unleashed, he runs full speed at some mirage only he can see, then jumps at whatever he’s imagining. Afterward, he locates a stick and brings it to me with clear intent: “Let’s play fetch.”

  I toss the stick until my arm is tired, but he doesn’t seem remotely out of breath.

  Well, no help for it. I leash him again, and we resume walking until he finally does his business on a nearby lawn, at which point I learn that when it comes to collecting dog poo in a bag—Gia’s worst nightmare—it’s not as gross as one would imagine, though this could be a “love is blind” situation at this point.

  When we get home, Beelzebub runs after me through the apartment like a duckling imprinted on his mama, even when I need to use the bathroom.

  It’s so cute I forget to be annoyed.

  Still, as soon as I come out, I set up his food and water in the hopes that a food coma will calm him down a bit, and he enthusiastically digs in.

  As I watch him eat, the door buzzer goes off.

  It’s a delivery person with my porridge.

  Finally. I was about to try dog food myself.

  Pouring the plain porridge into a bowl, I get comfy in the kitchen and devour my meal while browsing the news on my phone. It’s not until I’m done with my food that I realize something’s off.

  Beelzebub is no longer in the kitchen with me.

  With a sinking feeling, I go seek the little beast.

  Bloody hell.

  All the toys I’d collected neatly into the basket are all over the floor again.

  I grab the box and begin putting them away—that is, until Beelzebub jumps on me and causes me to drop the box. Barking excitedly, he begins tossing the toys throughout the apartment once more.

  Maybe I should simply let this mess be.

  I can do that.

  Sometimes.

  I mean, I do survive Gia’s place with my sanity intact.

  I hold out for a solid thirty seconds. Then, driven by an irresistible compulsion, I collect the toys again.

  Beelzebub immediately recreates the mess. He must see this as a fun game.

  I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed, and unlike with Euclid, I can’t just take off a VR headset when I tire of dealing with this kind of pet.

  Then I recall the hidden treat toy Alex set up.

  Aha.

  I’m able to clean up the mess once again, and Beelzebub couldn’t care less. All his attention is on the treat-hiding toy.

  Jolly good. Maybe I could do a little work while I’m at it.

  I go into Alex’s office, and as I log in, my thoughts drift to the events of last night. Immediately, questions such as, “What did it mean?” and “What would my coworkers think if they found out?” sprout their unwelcome heads.

  Maybe Beelzebub did me a favor when he kept me chasing after him.

  Deciding to distract myself with work, I remotely log into my office computer and work on Euclid’s code—something I haven’t gotten a chance to do in a while. When I’m done, I open my inbox so I can ask Alison to test my work, but an email from her is already waiting there, a message she sent last Friday.

  The subject is ominous: “I heard a rumor about you.”

  I open the email and my stomach freezes.

  According to Alison, the whispers at the watercooler are all about one thing: Alex and I are sleeping together.

  I stare at the screen blankly, then reply with:

  Who started this rubbish rumor?

  After I click send, it really hits me.

  How could someone from the office know? Is there a spy cam in Alex’s bedroom?

  No, that’s ridiculous. And even if there were, Alison’s email is from Friday, before we slept together.

  Someone lied when they started this rumor, but now it’s not a lie.

  I grasp my suddenly aching head.

  What was I thinking last night?

  I
wasn’t. I just unleashed my hormones. We both did, and now my work life is becoming as big of a mess as this apartment—and it’s too much for me to handle.

  My phone rings.

  It’s Alex.

  Does he know already? Is he about to say how much he regrets what we did?

  Taking in a deep breath, I pick up. “Privet.”

  “Privet.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Just wanted to see how the day is going so far, and give you an update.”

  So he doesn’t know.

  Do I tell him?

  No. He’s got his father to worry about.

  “The day went well, and Beelzebub is doing great,” I say. “How did the intervention go?”

  He sighs. “As well as such a thing can. Dad offered us a compromise. He’ll drink beer instead of vodka.”

  I gape at my phone. Has stress robbed me of ability to understand, or is this alleged compromise totally wonky?

  “Last I checked, beer has alcohol,” I say cautiously. “Isn’t that what you wanted him to give up?”

  “Yes, but this is a step in the right direction. If he sticks to beer, he won’t have enough room in his stomach to reach the blood alcohol levels of vodka.”

  “I guess…”

  “It’s a decent result, trust me. Dad’s generation of Russians scoff at things like the twelve-step program.”

  Okay, do I tell him about the rumor now?

  “All right,” he says before I can work up the courage. “I’m heading back. See you.”

  He hangs up before I can say anything.

  Fine. It’s fate.

  I hurry back to my inbox to see if Alison replied.

  Nope, and why would she? It’s still Sunday.

  Just as I’m about to exit the email dashboard, an email from Alison arrives after all.

  I was hoping you’d be on this weekend, it starts. Only instead of naming names, Alison proceeds to say that she’ll have to carefully ask around to find out who started the rumor.

  Bugger. What’s really telling is that she doesn’t ask me if the rumor is true. Does that mean she doesn’t believe it, or that she thinks I am sleeping with our boss?

  Sleeping with the bloody boss.

  How did I become such a messy, improper cliché?

  I pace the room, then sort all of Alex’s pens in order of length.