I watch him until he's out of sight.
*
He wasn't lying, was he? When he told me he had something to share, and that it would change everything. I should have let him tell me first.
But I'm also glad I didn't because, ho-ly shit, that was intense.
Best sex of my life.
And, god, that's hard to think about all by itself. There's so much all tangled up in this, so much to think about, so much to feel, so much to try to come to grips with.
I loved Ollie. I loved the shit out of that man. I adored him. I respected him. I fairly worshipped him. I needed him. And he loved me. Wanted me. Took care of me. Adored me. Sex with Ollie had been...well, it had always been about love. Sweet, sensual, enveloping, comforting, familiar, beautiful. I loved having sex with Ollie every bit as much as I loved being in love with him.
But what I just experienced with Lock...felt very different. It was out of this world. Shattering. Mind-erasing. And, really, it wasn't even as all-in as it could have been. He didn't finish inside me--he finished on me. And fuck, was that hot. I liked that. God, I feel like a slut for it, but I liked it. Gripping him in my fist and feeling our essences sticky and slick on his hard flesh, pumping him and feeling him lose it, feeling him grunt and groan and shove against my hand as he came, shooting his hot seed all over my belly.
Fuck, I'm all in a tizzy again just thinking about it.
Several thoughts hit me at once.
He had the presence of mind to pull out, because he wasn't wearing a condom.
He seriously knew what he was doing, knew how to make me come hard and fast.
And he had impressive stamina.
I want him again. I want to roll a condom onto him and feel him inside me, feel him lose control again, only next time I want him inside me.
And, deep down, way deep down where you keep those thoughts that you shy away from admitting even to yourself, I want him bare. Like last night, but I want to take him all the way. Feel him release inside me with nothing between us. I want to feel that heat, that warm wetness inside me...god, I want that.
Sex with Lock wasn't necessarily better than sex with Ollie. It was just...different. Not as sweet, not as familiar, not flushed with that sense of soul-deep, hearts-entwined love. It was lust, between Lock and me. Primal, sensual, animal. So, so intense.
I can't stop thinking about sex with Lock, though. I want it too much. My libido had been woken up, after being dormant for so long. I have a more-than-healthy libido, a sex drive that drove Ollie to exhaustion trying to satiate. If I keep thinking about Lock, I'll do one or both of two things: I'll finger myself again, thinking about him, or I'll get in my truck and go find him at his hotel.
I fantasize about what would happen if I did go find him.
I'd knock on his door and he'd open it, maybe freshly showered, wearing a towel, knotted loose around his waist. Hair wet and slicked back, beard damp, beads of water trickling down those broad, hard, round shoulders, down between his thick pecs, down, down, down. Maybe I'd untie his robe and follow that little bead of water down to his erection, where I'd lick it away. Lick him all over; lick him until he lost it, maybe down my throat.
I don't have a lot of experience going down on a guy. When I first started being active sexually, there was a lot of experimentation, the way you do when you're seventeen or eighteen. You're not really sure what you're doing. Trying things, clumsy but eager. Giving or receiving oral sex wasn't really on my radar: I wanted the real thing, so that's what I went after, all through high school and college. And then I met Ollie, and we were often too busy and too tired for more than slow lovemaking in the darkness, clutching each other close and kissing--making love, as husband and wife. There wasn't a lot of time or energy for much foreplay...for either of us. I never missed it, and I'm pretty sure Ollie didn't either.
But with Lock things are different. He went down on me like a pro. Made me come so hard I saw stars. Fucked me like I was all that existed in the whole world, as if my pleasure was his singular goal. Each thrust was for me, and me alone.
And...he's just gorgeous. Head to toe, he's a beautiful man, in a wild and rugged sense.
And I want things. I want to do things to him.
Naughty things.
Things I've never done, or haven't done in a long, long time. Since before Ollie, if ever. I was a little wild, before Ollie. A college girl, single and not prone to second-guessing myself, or being unsure about what I wanted. I drank a lot, and hooked up with hot college boys. And that's something you'll never hear me regret. It was a good time in my life. I had friends, I was good looking, I enjoyed my classes--as hard as they were--and I never had any trouble snagging a cutie after a party for some decent, if sloppy, sex. I don't regret it, and I will not apologize for it. Then there was Ollie, and that was a slightly different kind of sex. Similar to what I'd known, but better in every way, because it meant so much to us.
And now there's Lock, and it's something totally new, something I've never experienced.
Experienced. Uninhibited. Wild. Fierce. Pure unslakable lust.
I find myself on my couch, thinking of Lock. Thinking of the way he slammed me against the storm door and kissed me breathless. The way he warned me of things we shouldn't do.
I'm thinking of going to his hotel and doing all those things to him. Cutting loose, forgetting all my hang-ups and inhibitions, and taking everything I can from him. Getting him to show me the wild side of sex.
Shove him backward onto the couch. Rip off whatever stupid clothes he's wearing, and suck him off until he can't speak anymore. Suck the coherency right out of him.
My fingers have a mind of their own. Shit, my mind has a mind of its own--a will of its own, more accurately. I imagine Lock on the couch, in the darkness. Curtains drawn, a sliver of daylight is all that illuminates him. He is sitting on his butt on the couch, robe tossed open, baring himself for me. I'd be on my knees between his legs. He'd bury his hands in my hair, grip my curls in his fists and he'd struggle for control as I took his long, thick shaft between my lips.
As the fantasy develops my fingers are moving hard and fast, hitting my button just right. I'm gasping, mouth open, head back against my couch, eyes closed. Thinking of Lock. Of his gorgeous erection in my hands, in my mouth. Maybe I'd do my best porn star impression, giving him a blowjob he'd never, ever forget, for as long as he lives. I don't watch porn, never have, but that has no bearing on this fantasy. I imagine him protesting as he gets ready to come, being gallant and thoughtful and telling me he wants more, he doesn't want to come like this. The way those hot alphas in the romance books do. He'd try to pull me up, but I'd insist. I'd suck harder, tease and tantalize until he had no choice, he would have to let go. I'd make him lose control in a way he'd never felt before.
Oh god, I'm there, thinking of Lock groaning as he releases himself in my mouth, maybe some dripping on my chin as I pull out, dripping in a saliva-string line onto my tits. Oh--oh fuck. He'd be so hard, wet with my saliva, and I'd take him again, see if I can milk every last drop out of him, and then I'd let him go with a loud pop and sink back to sit on my heels. I'd have a sexy, self-satisfied look on my face. And then he'd grab me, not asking, not insisting, but grabbing me bodily off the floor, trading places. He'd be on his knees in front of me, and his tongue would go wild all over me, the way it did last night.
Oh god, oh fucking god, I come so hard I nearly slide off the couch, moaning and groaning all wanton and wild.
I come back to my senses on the floor in front of my couch, Lock's T-shirt rucked up around my hips. I half-expect him to be there, watching me again. But he's not. He's at the La Quinta.
La Quinta? Really?
I sent him away.
I look at the whiskey bottle on the counter and it's--what time is it? I don't even know. Too early for whiskey, that's for sure.
I know why I want a drink.
Why I'm masturbating, thinking of Lock.
Because
it's easier than thinking about why I made him leave.
I dissolve into sobs. It hits without warning, just a sudden blast of ugly crying, thinking of Ollie. Thinking of him dying. Remembering, feeling his loss all over again. Thinking of somebody cutting Ollie's organs out of his battered body and putting them in those special coolers, sending them out to be put into someone else. I wonder who else out there has one of Ollie's body parts?
Shit, shit, shit.
He has Ollie's heart. I heard Oliver's actual physical heart beating in Lock's chest. I felt it thumping under my ear, under my hand. That heart keeps Lock alive. That heart--my Ollie's heart--sends blood coursing through Lock's body.
I can't seem to stop crying, because it's all so fucking confusing. I want Lock. I don't want to be lonely anymore. I want to feel. I want to be wanted. But how can I let that happen? How can I betray Ollie's memory that way, especially with Lock? The man who has my dead husband's heart in his chest. How can I do that?
There are no answers. Shit, I don't even know the questions.
I came to life when I first kissed you
I'm alone in my room at the hotel. Utah is asleep on the floor, snuffing and huffing, legs moving in her sleep. I've got the curtains drawn, and I'm on my bed in just my jeans, idly flipping through the channels.
Bored.
Trying not to think about Niall.
Trying not to relive every last moment, over and over again. Trying to keep myself from jumping in my truck and hauling ass to her house, pinning her to the bed and fucking her until neither of us can see or think or breathe.
But fuck, it's hard.
So hard.
I'm hard--all it takes is a single stray thought, and I've got a raging hard-on.
I mean, Jesus. Like an idiot, I barged into her house, again, and caught her masturbating. Caught her in the act of giving herself a monster O...calling my name. She thought of me while she masturbated. God, that's hot. So goddamn hot. See? I'm hard as a rock again, seeing her in my mind's eye, her hand in her pants, moving fast, hips flicking up and down, head tossed back, eyes closed, face in that beautiful, almost-pained expression of orgasm. Calling my name.
And last night? I barely pulled out in time, and she wrapped that small, soft, perfect hand of hers around me and helped me finish. Helped me finish all over her belly.
In a fit of I-don't-know-what-possessed-me, I stopped at a drug store on the way home and bought some condoms, and--just to make myself feel better--some water and a jar of cashews. I was buying condoms because I was hoping like hell I'd get another taste of Niall James.
I'm trying so damn hard to keep my thoughts away from her, but it's impossible.
Those springy brown curls. Her hips, deliciously bell-shaped. That ass, so juicy, so plump and ripe for so many dirty things. Those goddamned perfect tits. D-cup--I happened to catch a glimpse of the tag on her bra. Pale, creamy skin. And her eyes? Light, light brown--the most expressive eyes I've ever had the pleasure of gazing into, streaked with shots of green. She can express wicked, biting sarcasm with just a look. Or she can beg me for more with a wild, hungry plea in those brown eyes. Almond-brown, that's the shade I'd say they were.
She's just...everything. All of her. I want all of her.
I fight it for hours. Even do some exercising. Pushups, mountain-climbers, planks, Bulgarian split-squats off the couch, until I'm trembling and sweaty and I stink to hell.
I shower, and all through the shower I have to fight myself, fight to keep my hand off my cock and my thoughts away from Niall. I can't jerk off thinking about her. I've done enough to her without using her like that.
But...fuck. Just fuck.
I get out of the shower, towel off, and wrap up in one of those thick terrycloth robes that hotels often provide. I pace around and fight my thoughts. I ignore the ache in my balls. The urge to go to her, take her mouth and use her hard until we're both spent.
I can't fucking help how my thoughts, when they go to her, turn dirty. The way I turned to her, and then had her beneath me. Her hand on me, stroking me. The way she yanked open my jeans with such ferocity, as if she needed me right then, couldn't wait. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't shy about going for it.
I picture all the things I want to do with her, and to her. Get her on her hands and knees, on this very bed. I'm sprawled out on my back on my bed, robe open, only sort of held closed by a loose knot. The TV is on, but I'm not paying any attention. I'm staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, jaw tensed, trying my damnedest to guide my thoughts away from Niall, and losing.
"Fuck," I snarl.
I give in. God, I hate myself for this, but I'm out of fight. I ache. I've been hard for hours, and I'm about to explode.
I wrap my fist around myself, close my eyes, and picture Niall. The way she was that first time I showed up at her house. Wearing nothing but a tiny tee. Big, beautiful breasts stretching the thin cotton. Nipples straining, hard and thick. Her tight core playing peekaboo under the hem, trimmed close. Not bare, no funny shapes, just well-trimmed and well-groomed fuzz. Perfect. All woman. Those thighs, brushing together but with a tiny little keyhole gap. If she took a deep breath, her tits would lift, and the shirt would go with them, and I'd have been able to see all of her core. Tight, taut, glistening with need. Shit, even better, wet with my saliva.
I'm stroking myself, thinking of her body, her core, the way she tasted, how sweet she tasted on my lips, how responsive she was, how her tits bounced as she writhed in my grip, the way she came apart so beautifully. God, I'm aching, throbbing.
I hear Utah snuffle in the other room, making a little sound in her throat, padding around and looking for a new spot to lie down. There are other sounds, but I'm not paying attention. I'm focused on imagining Niall, and getting myself there.
I happen to blink my eyes open, and for a moment I know I have to be lost in the throes of some kind of hallucination or exceptionally vivid fantasy, because I could swear Niall is here in my hotel room with me, watching me jerk off. Hand over her mouth, eyes wide, leaning against the doorframe.
I let go of myself, abruptly. I sit up. Blink hard. But the vision of Niall doesn't go away.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, just the top part tied back out of her face. And she's wearing...god, holy fucking shit, she's wearing a shin-length sundress, tight and patterned red with white zig-zag stripes. Molded to her ass and thighs so tightly it's clear she's not wearing a damned thing underneath. No sleeves, just little straps over her shoulders. The top part is molded to her too, propping up her magnificent breasts. It's a casual dress, a summery thing. You see chicks wearing them all summer long. But on Niall? It's pure sin. Raw temptation.
She's got a little clutch purse in her hand, dangling at her side. She drops it, brows drawn, eyes wide, her expression one of torture, of need, of conflict.
"Don't stop," she whispers.
God, she's real.
She's real.
She's here.
I can't fathom it. Don't know what to do. I throb, my pulse hammering like a drum from nerves and need and from having been so close to coming and having stopped.
"Lock...don't stop. Keep going." Her voice is a dulcet whisper.
"What do you want me to do, honey?" My voice is a whisky-rasp, rough, gruff, low.
"Keep touching yourself." She takes a step closer, hips swaying sensuously. "You were thinking about me, weren't you?"
"Yeah," I grunt. "I was thinking about you."
I clutch myself in a shaky hand, my grip tight. I watch, enraptured, as Niall sashays like a ghost, a dream, a succubus toward me. She looks as conflicted as I feel about everything, but just as unable to stop this as I am.
"Touch yourself," she says in that slow, raw whisper, "and think about me. Like you were."
"I'd rather touch you."
"I know. Me too." She climbs onto the bed, and I'm aching in my hand. "But I want this, first. I want to watch you do this." She kneels on the edge of th
e bed near the foot end, out of reach. "The way you watched me."
I groan. "God, Niall. You're making me crazy."
"This whole thing is crazy. But I can't seem to stop myself." She inches closer. "Stroke yourself."
I glide my hand down, root to tip, once, slowly. "Like this?"
She moans, a tiny sound in the back of her throat. "God, yes. Like that." She puts her fingers over mine, holds me, but I can only feel my own hand on my erection, and her soft hand over mine--it's tantalizing and torturous. She shows me with gentle pressure how she wants me to move my hand. Slowly, in a smooth rhythm. "Like this."
I'm fighting the edge away, fighting for control. And losing. "Jesus, Niall. God..." My hips buck, and my stomach tenses, but I hold it back, fight it off, keep my eyes open.
She tugs the top of her dress down with one hand, lifting her breasts free. "Does that help?"
"God, Niall. You're so..."
"So what, Lock?"
I remember her telling me how badly she needed to hear me tell her how gorgeous she is. "Perfect, Niall. You're utter perfection. So beautiful it hurts." I groan and lift my ass off the bed, feeling my O rise up inside me, making me shake and tingle and hum, still fighting it off, now using muscle control to keep it back. "God, I want to touch you. I want you to touch me."
She lets her hand slide off mine. Her fingers wrap around me, above my hand. Hers is small and pale above my larger, tanned hand. We move in sync, both of us stroking me, now.
"I want to watch, Lock." She inches closer. Biting her lip, that conflicted expression of forbidden, irrepressible desire on her beautiful face. "You watched me come, heard me say your name as I came. Now it's my turn."
She finds my other hand, fisted beside me, and lifts it, placing my palm on her breast. I take the heavy globe in my hand, squeeze, knead; brush my thumb across her nipple. She watches, rapt, as we pulse and pump our hands on my erection. She doesn't take her eyes off me as I get closer and closer to losing control.
But I never want this to end. I want to feel this forever, her here with me, touching me, her soft breast in my hand. Seeing the need in her eyes, knowing as soon as I'm done, I'll get to make her feel this good, too. Or better.
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