by Jana Aston
I take another drag on my iced coffee while I sulk. I always imagined myself as a very generous wife, sexually. It was how I was going to compensate for having no interest in crockpots or any desire to pick up dry cleaning.
He clears his throat as he pulls two bottles of water out of the bottom of the bag and sets one in front of me.
“You should hydrate,” he instructs as he pulls out the chair beside mine.
“I had a Gatorade in the shower.” Now that I think of it, I think I lost some time in the shower because I’m not sure where this morning has gone. Wait—I know what happened. I was masturbating to the memory of the shower I had with Vince last night. Son of a bitch, I’m going to have to start getting up early for work now.
“That sounds about right,” Vince murmurs, uncapping his water and tipping it back to his lips. Do not look at his lips, do not look at his lips, do not look at his lips. I grab a taco and unwrap it, then take a bite and examine the wrapper while I chew. Shredded cheese is delicious.
Also, I’m an idiot.
I’m having tacos with a total stranger who just happens to be my husband because I’m a complete idiot. A hot mess. A disaster of epic proportions.
I’ve fucked up royally.
I take another bite because really, this taco is all I have going for me right now. It’s a crunchy taco and Vince isn’t speaking so the soundtrack for the entire apartment is nothing but me crunching and I don’t even care. I keep my head down and take another bite.
Vince unwraps a taco and I notice he’s still wearing his wedding ring, as am I. It didn’t even occur to me to take mine off. I should though, shouldn’t I? I can’t very well wear it to work this week, unless maybe I stack a few rings around it and pretend it doesn’t mean anything? Like it’s just part of a fun set of rings I picked up along with a husband over the weekend.
God. I’m a mess. Keeping the ring on will not make any of this more real. I’m the worst first date in the history of first dates. Like a first-date praying mantis. The fact that we weren’t even on a date is not lost on me. I’ve got skills, man. Terrible, terrible skills.
I manage to consume three tacos and take a drag on my iced coffee, rattling the ice around the cup as I do before Vince speaks. I’ve been staring at the table and cramming tacos in my face so I’ve not given him much of an in conversationally. He’s eaten two tacos. They were both soft shell with chicken. I made a note of it so that I’ll have a few facts to remember him by. Likes soft-shell tacos, is good at arcade games, likes Scotch, is good at eating my pussy, likes poker.
“So we should talk,” Vince prompts.
“Or we should have sex,” I counter-offer, because I like both tacos and sex. It’s a good offer. Generous even. I’m a giver.
“Why is that?”
Oh, God, maybe he’s the idiot? “Because it’s fun,” I reply in the most duh tone of voice I can summon. “And because your tongue is amazing,” I add before thinking better of it. Not because I’m above giving him a compliment, but because it just doesn’t seem like the time for it.
Vince takes a slow pull on his bottle of water, eyes on mine as he tips it back and drinks. When he’s through, he wets his lips with his tongue and I’m not sure if it’s intentional, but it’s effective all the same.
“You’re very demanding,” he notes. Okay, so he’s not totally unobservant.
I shrug.
“So how do you see this playing out?” He says it casually in that calm, unhurried way he has about him. I’ve got no idea if he means our marriage or my request to have sex, so I go with the one I’m more interested in discussing.
“Missionary, actually. But not boring, so maybe my hands are pinned above my head or one of my knees is hiked over your shoulder so you can get in really deep. I was picturing it a little rough, a good hard fuck with me flat on my back. But whatever you like, I’m flexible. Legiterally.”
Vince rubs a thumb across his bottom lip, his eyes on mine. He’s got the hottest beard. The hair is short, more like a thick stubble, but dark and I find it sexy as all hell. I also think it might have given him an unfair advantage in the oral department, but then again I’m the one who benefited, so if his stubble brushing against my bare pussy gives him a head start who am I to complain? I’m not the oral Olympics judge.
Vince stands and pushes his chair in. There are still half a dozen uneaten tacos piled on the table between us as he leans down, bracing his weight on his knuckles as he bends closer. Then he pauses, and for a moment I’m unsure if he’s going to say anything or just push back and leave.
“Stand up.”
I push my chair back from the table and stand, the scrape of wood against tile doing little to calm my nerves. Nerves because I’m not exactly sure where this is going but I’m hoping it’s going exactly where I want it to go. By it I mean Vince’s penis inside my vagina. He’s been a real dick tease thus far.
He signals with his hand for me to walk, his eyes flickering between the two open bedroom doors off the living room. I swallow and walk towards mine, feeling him directly behind me. I stop when I’ve reached the side of my bed. Vince has stopped in the doorway of my bedroom.
“My roommate isn’t coming home,” I offer. “She stopped by earlier to pick up some of her stuff and then left with Rhys.”
Vince nods but doesn’t speak, hands in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe while he visually inspects my bedroom. I don’t feel like there’s that much to see since I only moved in a few weeks ago. A queen-sized bed with an upholstered headboard, a dresser and a matching nightstand. But he seems to find it all very interesting, based on his slow perusal. The lamp, the mini-blinds, the tank top hanging from the knob on my closet door—his gaze covers it all, slowly, methodically. A smile tugs at his lips when he sees the shark from last night on my pillow.
When his eyes move back to mine his brows rise, as if he’s confused about why I’m standing there watching him.
“Undress.”
I lift my shirt over my head before dragging the yoga pants down my legs, kicking them free of my ankles then snaking a hand behind my back to unclip my bra. I’m not particularly graceful or seductive, but I’m wearing a t-shirt and yoga pants so I don’t think there’s any way around that. Vince watches as my bra falls free, the straps sliding down my arms before it drops to the floor. His eyes trail downwards to the cotton boy shorts covering my bottom and he wets his lips with his tongue as I shimmy out of those too.
He steps towards me, one step, two. When he’s standing directly before me he takes my face in both hands and kisses me. It’s soft and unhurried and perfect, his head dipped to reach my lips, me raised on my tiptoes to meet his. I’m pressed along the length of him, my hands gripping his forearms for leverage. The brush of his clothing along my naked skin reminds me that he’s still fully dressed while I’m naked and needy and ready. It’s delicious, the feeling of being exposed to him. My heart races as his lips press against mine, his tongue sliding between them, exploring my mouth as his thumbs caress my cheekbones. The stubble on his skin scratches mine, the slight abrasion some kind of direct line to my clit.
It’s good.
It’s every bit as good as I remember from last night, which is impossible because it’s also better than I remember. Better than any kiss ever.
Then he’s stepping back, the kiss broken as he moves away, his thumb swiping at his bottom lip as he does. I lick mine in response.
“On the bed,” he instructs. “Flat on your back.” He says it in a tone that tells me he’s reminding me that this is how I asked for it. It’s a bit sarcastic but he’s eyeing me with nothing like sarcasm so I crawl onto the bed and position myself in the center before lying back and watching him. He’s watching me like he’s got all the time in the world. It makes me feel filthy to be naked while he’s dressed. A good kind of filthy, like I belong to him to do with as he pleases. I find I like that. I like it very much.
His hands move to the buttons on his sh
irt, making slow work of slipping them free.
“Spread your legs.”
I swallow hard as I move my legs apart. My heart is racing and I pray to the sweet sex goddess Aphrodite that this is really happening and that he doesn’t have a sadistic plan to make me masturbate in front of him while he watches, fun as that sounds.
“Condoms?” he asks with a glance at my nightstand.
Thank you, Aphrodite, Eros, Himeros and Pothos. Thank you, PornHub and—wait. He didn’t bring his own?
“Is that why we didn’t have sex last night? You didn’t have a condom? For fuck’s sake. I had twelve in my handbag. We really need to learn how to communicate better.” I use my toe to point towards the small clutch I was using last night, now lying on my dresser.
“Twelve, huh?” He abandons unbuttoning his shirt and picks up my handbag.
“I had a lot of faith in your stamina, okay? It’s a compliment.”
“So you left the house last night intending to sleep with me?”
“I left your office yesterday afternoon intending to sleep with you. I spent all afternoon primping and picking out an outfit that made my butt look good.” He doesn’t need to know I’ve been visualizing his sexual prowess since I saw him in the lobby of the Windsor earlier this week. A girl has to have some secrets. Plus it makes me sound like a nymphomaniac and I’m not, really. More of a situational nympho. The situation being Vince.
“Hmm,” he murmurs in response to that, but his eyes trail slowly over me from head to toe before he turns his attention back to my handbag. He’s cataloging my handbag with the same interest he did my bedroom, which is fine because there’s not much in there, and besides, I’m naked so I don’t think anything he finds is going to embarrass me right now.
“Chapstick, lipstick, hair thingy.” He lays them out on my dresser one by one. “Condoms,” he announces, pulling them from my bag like a gaggle of clowns piling out of a tiny car. They’re still in one long strip, each one attached to the next. He removes them slowly, so that they unfold one by one, until an eighteen-inch-long strip of condoms is dangling from his fingertips once he’s pulled them free of my bag.
Okay, seeing it like this twelve might have been ambitious, or a poor use of space planning for such a small bag. Like when people who buy tiny houses insist they need space for forty-seven coffee mugs. Five would be sufficient in both cases.
He rips one off the end and tosses it onto the bed before dropping the remaining eleven onto my dresser.
“An individual packet of lube?” Vince holds that up, brows raised in interest, a smirk pulling at his lips before he tosses it onto the dresser. “You don’t have any issues with lubrication.”
Oh, God. Okay maybe I was wrong about the potential for embarrassment.
“It was a free sample,” I offer. Is it me or is he taking forever to rifle through my things and take off his pants? “It came with the box of condoms.”
“Hmm.” He hums again then goes back to rooting through my bag. “A travel toothbrush and two packets of single-use toothpaste.” Yeah, it isn’t me. He’s taking forever. Also, how much more shit did I cram in that bag? It’s barely big enough to hold a sandwich. Fuck’s sake. I wiggle my toes and exhale, trying to be patient.
“Another hair thingy. Forty dollars in cash, a Tennessee driver’s license and a credit card.” He pauses and I hope that’s the end of my handbag inventory. “Are you planning on staying?”
“I haven’t moved!” I protest, thumping one of my spread feet against the mattress.
“Staying in Nevada,” he clarifies, amused. “You have thirty days to change your license and register your vehicle with the state. The fine for not registering your car is a thousand dollars.”
I married a goody-two-shoed strip club owner. What are the odds?
“You know, your foreplay chit-chat could use some improvement.”
“Duly noted.”
“I’m saying it as a favor. A little dirty talk not centered around the contents of a girl’s handbag wouldn’t kill you. The tacos were a nice touch though. Don’t lose the tacos in your seduction line-up.”
“Payton.” He says it like a question, so I respond when he doesn’t elaborate further.
“Yes?”
“Roll over. Ass up, elbows on the mattress.” His hands have moved to his belt, the buckle clanking as he frees the strap, and I’m caught off guard, unsure what is happening. “Now.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Are you going to spank me?” I throw a cautious look at him as I move to turn over. I don’t particularly mind if he does. I’d just like to know. Or maybe I do mind because the belt unbuckling is making me nervous. I think I’d be okay with a fun hand spanking, but I’m not sure how I feel about being smacked with a belt. “With your belt?”
He pauses, glancing between where his hands are unzipping his pants and my face. “I’d prefer not to, but I suppose I could if that’s what you need to get off.”
“No, thank you.”
“No, thank you?” He smiles and shakes his head as his pants drop to the floor. “Jesus, I can’t with you.”
“Few can,” I agree and roll over, pushing up onto my knees and forearms before glancing at him again over my shoulder. I’m down for a bit of doggy style. It’s not what I asked for, but I really am more adaptable than I’m given credit for.
“You are the bossiest, most aggravating woman I’ve ever met.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“I didn’t fuck you last night because you were drunk.”
“So were you,” I shoot back.
His hands wrap around my waist and he pulls me towards him until my knees are on the edge of the bed, my feet dangling over the side. I grip the bedspread in my fingers and wiggle my ass a little in invitation. His palms smooth over my skin before he runs one of them up my spine. Slowly, from ass to nape. I shiver and hold back a moan, mostly because I fear it would sound like I’m faking it and I’m not. I’m so not. I could probably come from nothing more than Vince running his hands across my skin. His touch makes me shiver in all the best ways, my skin heating beneath his touch, goosebumps trailing in the path of his fingertips.
Then his fist winds in my hair and suddenly I’m pulled upright, one hand on my hip to keep me steady as he lowers his lips to my ear. His fist tightens in my hair as he tilts my head a fraction to the side, his breath warm against my skin when he speaks.
“Do you always behave so stupidly, Payton?” The words are said softly, but seriously.
“Can you be more specific?”
“Do you often find yourself drunk and alone with men you hardly know?” His hand slides forward from my hip, his fingers splaying out across my stomach, the middle two resting a fraction above where I want them most.
“No, never.”
“Yet you did last night.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I trusted you,” I murmur. Now is probably not the time to mention my theories on fate, because this feels like some kind of kinky lie detector test and I’m liable to say more than I’d like to with his fingers inching south.
Then he bites my earlobe and dips his hand between my thighs. Two fingers spread me open as his middle finger glides across my wet center. Up and down, teasing my opening before retreating to circle my clit. Around and around. It makes my knees weak and I’d probably fall out of his embrace if not for the hand fisting my hair and the forearm pressed against my stomach.
“It was stupid, Payton. Reckless. And I won’t have it.”
Oh, hells yes. He’s heard me on the dirty talk request and he’s raised the bar with some alpha male bullshit. I love alpha male bullshit, but only if the guy can pull it off. If they can’t pull it off you end up in the midst of a very awkward exchange in which you’re asked if you’ve been a bad girl and you have to tell him to stop talking.
Vince can talk all day long as far as I’m concerned.
He kisses t
he spot behind my ear, his lips moving down my neck as his fingertip slides inside of me. He rims my entrance with slow, confident strokes, stretching and stroking with perfection.
“This pussy is mine now,” he breathes into my ear. “For however long you’re mine you’ll behave accordingly. I won’t have you taking unnecessary risks with yourself, Payton.”
Belongs to him? Have I just entered a kinky time portal to nineteen-twenty?
I don’t exactly hate it.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes.” Clear enough. His finger is back to manipulating my clit like it’s the only job that finger was born to do, so who really gives a fuck about clarity? Not me. I’m not the head of the clarity oversight committee. I’m not even on the task force.
“You’re driving me crazy.” He brushes his lips against my ear when he says it. He growls the word a little and I’m not sure if it’s a good crazy or a bad crazy. ‘Crazy’ is a word that can be used to describe passion and arousal and infatuation. But it’s also a word used to describe what it feels like to be stuck in a traffic jam or an actual lunatic. “I don’t do crazy, Payton. Ever. I do order and logic and reason and you are none of those things.”
“I might grow on you though.”
I’m almost positive I can feel his lips smiling against my neck before he releases my hair and pushes me down until my elbows are on the bed once again. He slides his hands up and down my spine, pausing at the small of my back to massage his thumbs across my skin in a soothing firm circular motion. Then he continues over my hips, hands gliding down my thighs before he uses them to spread my bent knees farther apart.
Then he… holy shit, he licks me. From behind. Top to bottom before covering me with his mouth. Oh. My. God. I think my new husband might be the head of the oral Olympic committee. I’ve always considered myself pretty outgoing sexually, but honestly this never even occurred to me as an option. Thank fuck I’m facing the mattress because I know my mouth is hanging open like a gaping goldfish and I might possibly be cross-eyed.
