Infusion

by Liz Crowe

  Noah rubbed her back between her shoulder blades until she relaxed. Sensing she’d probably said all she wanted to for the time being, he lifted her chin and kissed her, indulging in one of his favorite forms of foreplay, using his lips and tongue to tell the story he planned to expand upon later. She broke away slowly, her eyes now shining with a different sort of emotion. “You are a damn good kisser. You take lessons or something?”

  He grinned and pecked her nose, then pulled her close, loving how comfortable he felt holding on to her, her face mashed against his neck. When her hand landed on his rapidly hardening dick, he chuckled. “What if I told you I did—sort of.” She leaned away from him, her lusty expression tinged with skepticism. He’d filled her in on the bare bones of his backstory—the successful, third-generation landscaping business brought to ruin thanks to his father’s predilection for betting on shitty horses and being a crappy poker player being the main feature of that. The rest of it—dropping out of school mere months from graduation and hitchhiking his way west, only to find himself employed as a bartender at a strip joint before being ‘discovered’ and put to work on the stage, and later, on a much smaller stage—he’d kept to himself.

  Bolstered by the booze and the promising events of the past few hours, he pushed her off him, found his phone and connected to her loft’s wireless with little effort. Gayle curled up and watched him find a good playlist and crank it, sending the chest-thumping R&B song into the high-ceilinged space. He turned away from her to collect himself and channel his former male exotic dancer. Shaking his arms and hands to try to get the feeling back in them, he had a quick thrill of anxiety over what he was about to do. But when the next song played, it was as if the streaming service had read his history—this was his song, the one he always used for his first dance. The one that, after about a year spent working out, stripping off his clothes and miming sex, the audience would instantly recognize as the moment he—not Noah, but him with a different, long-forgotten name—would treat them to his dancing and stripping skills.

  He smiled, turned around slowly and rolled his hips. Just a little at first, as if he didn’t know what he was doing. Gayle frowned at him. He stopped and put his hands on his hips as if embarrassed by his silly effort, waiting for the moment the music broke. When it did, he jerked his head up and met her gaze, holding it for the next three minutes, during which he danced, he stripped and he treated her as if she were the honored guest, the blushing bride at one of the many bachelorette parties they’d hosted.

  He picked her up, tossed her legs over his shoulders and pressed his face against her lower belly, then dropped her onto the couch so hard she bounced, giggled, hiccupped and slapped her hand over her mouth as he continued to disrobe in time to the music. Once he was down to his skivvies and sporting a massive tent in them—something he’d never done while a dancer, thanks to the painfully tight jock strap he’d worn to prevent such a thing—he picked her up again, this time encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. They swayed together, rolling their hips in time to the erotic beat, and kissed until he was dizzy from it, until he knew that if he couldn’t get inside her soon he’d spontaneously combust.

  The music ended, segueing into something he’d also used for a more energetic dance at one time in his life. “Want more?” he asked, breathlessly holding on to her—not from the dancing but from his gut-deep need to take her into the bedroom and make love for hours, sleep, then wake up and do it some more.

  She shook her head, equally breathless. “Not of this little show, if that’s what you mean.” She smiled, mashed her nose to his, then sucked his lower lip into her mouth. The sensation, while not exactly new, was the most incredible thing he’d ever experienced. It made him ache to be even farther inside her. “Put me down. Please?”

  He let go of her and leaned on the high kitchen counter, trying to catch his breath. She poured two glasses of water from the fridge and handed him one.

  As he drank, he tried not to be insulted by her apparent lack of being ga-ga over his performance. When he set the glass down, he almost missed the counter, which clued him in to his level of drunkenness. As he was reconfiguring his goals for the next few hours—moving from hours of lively sex and more into the realm of passing out on the couch and praying he would survive the hangover. Before he could get all the way there, however, a Gayle-shaped missile launched itself across the kitchen and into his arms. The force of it made him stumble backward so he kept going until he hit the couch again, dragging her with him.

  All the hours, days and weeks he’d spent angling for—fantasizing about—this very minute coalesced into this, into her, or more precisely her lips on his. He clutched at her like some kind of unpracticed rookie, touching her all over, wherever he could find. “You have on way too many clothes,” he managed. Lame. But whatever, since it’s true. Her jeans were irritating him. The very fact of her shirt, her bra, the miniscule pair of panties he finally tugged off her while she lay back on the couch, giggling and hiccupping, pissed him off.

  They were drunk. This was a bad idea. But damn him if he wasn’t more desperate to get hold of her now than ever.

  He loomed over her, one hand on the back of the couch, trying to get his vision to stop wobbling all over the place. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that much straight liquor in…oh…” He smiled when she stretched her arms up over her head, lifting her small but pert breasts. His smile widened as she stretched one long, toned leg alongside him and bent her other one, giving him a clear view of her pussy. “Oh,” he said again. “Yes. I forgot to tell you something else.” He lowered his lips to her neck and kissed his way down her shoulder, over to one breast, then the other. Her abs were slicked with sweat and he licked them, dipping the tip of his tongue into her belly button.

  Her hands were in his hair, twining and tugging, and she lifted her hips, giving him exactly what he wanted. Before he lowered himself to one of his favorite tasks, he rose and met her eager gaze. “What?” She hooked one leg over his shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

  “No. But I should warn you…this is something else I’m pretty damn good at. So…you know…”

  “Stop talking,” she said, her voice husky. “Show me.”

  Noah had to close his eyes against the onrushing dizziness. God damn it, he did not want their first time to be some kind of a stupid, drunk fuck. He had things he wanted to show her, something to prove.

  “Noah,” she whispered. He opened his eyes and looked at her once more, the musky scent of her filling his head. He slid to the floor, tugging her around with him and tossed both her legs over his shoulders. “Noah,” she repeated. He gripped her ass and lifted her so he could get to work. “Oh…yes,” she sighed when he touched his tongue to the sweet nub of plump flesh waiting for him, begging for his attention.

  It didn’t take long, but he’d dealt with hair-triggers like her before. The problem was, when she cried out and clamped his head between her muscular thighs, coating his face with her juices and gripping the fingers he’d been using to stroke her G-spot while sucking her clit, it triggered something in him. Something that demanded he act. Something a little alarming, but one his drunk brain translated as simple.

  “Jesus, Gayle,” he said, his voice hoarse, his entire body shaking as her breathing calmed and she rose so she was face-to-face with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and licked his lips—tasting herself, he knew, when she parted them and probed into his mouth with her tongue. The kiss took on a life of its own, drawing him deeper, further away from the man he’d believed himself to be when he woke up this morning. Closer to the man who wanted her, who wanted to make her smile, to laugh, to be happy—but only with him. The odd possessive surge shocked him, but since he was riding the bourbon express he allowed it to exist in his brain alongside the raw, primal need he had to be inside her ASAP.

  With a low groan, he pressed her back, tasting the delicious sweat on her neck and shoulders, suc
king at one nipple while stroking the other. “Harder,” she demanded. “Harder, damn you.”

  He obliged, pinching and biting the tips of her breasts.

  “Condom,” he croaked, before he did something stupid. One of the many things that had stuck with him after his time spent in service of women in exchange for cash was the hard-stop rule of protection. But now, dear God he wanted to slide into her, to thrust hard, just once to experience the velvet grip of her around him without the latex barrier between them.

  Yep. I am without a doubt way too drunk for this.

  “I don’t care. I don’t care,” she insisted, angling her hips and shifting forward on the couch. “Noah, I want this. Please…” She met his gaze in the split second before she wrapped her legs around his waist and made the last move, the one he’d been holding back from. They groaned in unison at the contact. Noah’s brain tried to ping him, to raise the red flag of danger, but Noah had gone away, he figured. Noah was in a super happy place. And he was not going to stop now.

  She arched her back, calling his name over and over as he pounded into her, blind and deaf and dumb. This was not how he operated, he tried to remind himself. He didn’t just…fuck like this. He was an expert. He provided hours of fun before he allowed himself anything resembling a release. The tight pulse of her climax, combined with the sound of his name followed by “yesssssssss,” dragged him right along for the ride.

  He gasped, his vision dimmed, then got bright white with the capital-O Orgasm that roared up his spine, hit his brain then dove south, making him grunt with the force of the release. Keeping a tight grip on her hips, he closed his eyes and let himself have it, while his brain waved a million red flags he continued to ignore.

  “Noah.” The sound of his name again made him open his eyes. He stared down at her, into those huge green eyes that had so captivated him in front of her yoga studio, and something shifted inside him. Something nice, but scary. He let go of her hips, pulled out of her and flopped onto his ass, attempting to process the swirl of emotions that were decidedly too mixed up with liquor. She stretched like a cat, her legs on his lap, her skin shining. He could smell them, the sex, the sweat, the bourbon permeating their pores. Suddenly so exhausted all he wanted was to curl up on the couch and sleep for twelve hours straight, he put a hand on her leg, feeling the muscles under his palm. The muscles he’d been staring at for days and weeks, imagining this very moment. This moment he’d blown—literally—like some kind of eighteen-year-old kid with his first shot at pussy.

  “Shit,” he muttered, wiping a hand down his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry,” she said, sitting up slowly and sliding over so she straddled his lap. “For what?”

  He smiled up at her, but he was fading and he knew it. He’d been working ten-hour days for Fitzgerald, rounding out his rent money with weekends and a few evenings mowing, pruning, weeding and mulching. But her lips…oh sweet Jesus, her lips were like a slice of heaven. He held on to her, letting his hands slide up her back and into the wild tangle of her hair as he slid into the place he was coming to think of as Gayle-land—a land where he, Noah the sex expert, the highly sought after and just as highly paid gigolo, lost himself so deep he didn’t even care he’d come inside her without protection. Gayle-land tasted of honey, of bourbon, of a faint trace of something he assumed was his own cum. It felt soft, yet hard at the same time. It was full of whispers, of promises, of heat.

  He pulled away from her, giving her lower lip a quick nip. “Okay, I take it back. I’m not sorry.”

  She smiled at him, then stood and wobbled her way toward what he assumed was a bathroom. He watched her go, amazed at his luck, appalled by his performance, encouraged by her last kiss. When she emerged and handed him another glass of water, he took it, drank and fell over onto his side.

  “God,” he croaked. “Can we sleep some so I can maybe redeem myself in the morning?”

  A hand touched his shoulder. Lips found his cheek. He reached for her, but only grabbed air. “Come on, lover boy,” she said, yanking him up and giving him a tiny shove toward what he assumed was her bedroom. Cursing when he located a table with his shin, he limped toward the door and fell face first into a soft mound of pillows. His last coherent thought was relief that when she crawled into bed with him and he pulled her close so he could bury his face in her hair, she sighed and pressed back against him, still muttering his name.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gayle had experienced plenty of hangovers in her life. More than she cared to admit, most days. She considered herself pretty well expert in the tricks to avoid them, short of not drinking at all. Plenty of water, sleeping past the point her body had simply passed out, a solid breakfast the next day to soak up the residual booze in her system. But really, knocking back an entire bottle of way-overpriced bourbon in one sitting, then getting her brains bonked out by the hot and studly kid lying next to her? That did demand the sort of head-clanging agony she woke with the next morning.

  The room was so bright when she did open her eyes it felt like there were lights shining right down on her, making her sweaty under their unwavering glare. She tried to roll over and tug the sheet up, to escape into a bit of sleep, to perhaps ease past the worst of it. But when her nose mashed up against Noah’s broad back, a rush of nausea forced her out of bed and toward the porcelain god. After a few minutes spent in gut-heaving worship, she brushed her teeth and drank about a gallon of water straight from the bathroom tap.

  Way to christen the new place, Gayle. Truly classy.

  When she met her own eyes in the massive mirror over the sink, she couldn’t help but notice the way her lips seemed swollen. Smiling at the somewhat hazy memory, she turned her head and frowned at the line of tiny hickeys down her neck. When her arm grazed her left breast, she flinched and gave a squawk of pain. Glancing down, she noticed both her smallish nipples were also swollen-looking, redder than usual, and sore when she touched them.

  And it wasn’t the only place she was sore. She shifted from foot to foot, recognizing the oh-so-pleasant pain centered between her legs. She decided a hot shower was in order, and spent a solid half hour there, using shampoo, soap and hot water to try and revive herself. But as always, it only resulted in transforming her into a much cleaner, but still woefully hung-over human.

  As she dried off, a noise from the bedroom made her peek around the corner, embarrassed as she accepted the hard fact she’d acted like a total slut last night, at least when she hadn’t been sobbing her stupid head off. Noah had rolled onto his back and had his arm over his eyes. The million-thread-count sheets she must have paid for at some point during the condo outfitting frenzy had slipped to his upper thighs. In an instant, the embarrassment faded, leaving behind a white-hot flush of horniness.

  Taking a minute to appreciate the masculine work of art spread out on one side of her new bed, she couldn’t help but smile at her luck.

  Dude’s an ex-stripper? Bonus points for me.

  As if sensing her eager gaze, his long, elegant dick stirred and hardened as she watched, causing a corresponding sensation between her own legs. With the sound of her rapidly increasing breath in her ears, she touched herself, her fingertip finding the eager bud of her clit in seconds. She touched her sore nipple, then pinched it, making her knees weak and a small sound escape her throat.

  God, but he’d been hot last night. Gyrating around her living room loft, picking her up, kissing her then shedding his clothes bit by bit, like the pro he apparently was—it’d almost made her come in her jeans. Of course, the whole thing had given her a short pause, one that would likely have called a halt to the whole thing had she been sober. Her Noah—the young man who’d been so sweet, helpful, polite, gentlemanly and, of course, painfully handsome when he’d been paying a sort of old-fashioned court to her the past few weeks—he was this…this sex god, used to cavorting around on stages for money?

  Even as her mind made this journey, her finger moved faster and her breat
hing got faster. His dick—truly a work of art and longer than she’d personally ever seen or experienced—was rigid now. A small bead of liquid appeared at the tip. She grinned wider and spread her legs, needing a quick release so she could dive in there and provide him with the same. She closed her eyes and let it happen, a tiny squeak of pleasure accompanying her skin’s heat and the small rush of fluid coating her upper thighs.

  When she opened her eyes, Noah was up on his elbows, his eyes gleaming, his cock still ramrod hard. She licked her lips and stood straighter.

  “Gosh, lady, you sure are hot,” he said, his voice low, his fake-naïve words making her smile. “I love a woman who knows how to pleasure herself.” He crooked a finger at her. “But you know what I love more?”

  She made her way over to him, sitting and taking the heat of him in her hand. As she stroked, he reached out to cup her breast, passing his thumb over her erect nipple. “What?” she asked, unable to take her eyes off the sculpted perfection of his torso. “Tell me what you love more, Noah.” She had a recollection of screaming his name the night before—screaming it a lot. But she adored the way it rolled off her tongue. She wanted to caress it, the way she was caressing his beautiful cock right now.

  “I love it when a woman says my name when she comes.”

  She smiled at him, her heart doing a strange sort of flip in her chest. His eyes—that amazing shade of golden brown—were open, honest, guileless, if she were to use a ten-dollar word for them. They were full of something she recognized and wasn’t sure she wanted to see—at least not yet. And yet her body urged her forward, the way it used to do before.