“I guess I don’t like to be touched too much,” he says.
What? I bite back a sound of frustration. That body is made for being touched. His skin is like velvet, stretched taut over an undulating landscape of hard muscle. It’s the ultimate girls’ playground.
He reaches behind me and unfastens my bra and unclips my garter belt. Then he guides me down onto the nearest chair and unhooks each stocking before rolling it down carefully, then slipping my shoes off, too. When I stand, the remaining scraps of lingerie fall away, and I’m completely naked. Without my shoes, he towers over me, and I barely come to his shoulder. His nipples are at my eye line, dark brown, flat, and gorgeous, and I long to lick them. But what can I do with a guy who doesn’t want to be touched?
He leads me over to the bath and tests the water. “It should be perfect,” he says.
I tie up my hair and slide in obediently. It is, lusciously hot with lots of fizzing Jacuzzi jets, deep at one end with a high, sloping shelf on the other. He disappears for a moment, then returns with a razor and a box of blades. He deposits them at the edge of the bath and then he takes off his underwear. His cock is beautiful, huge and very clean-looking. At first I look away, embarrassed to be staring. But why the hell shouldn’t I? As he climbs into the water, I feast my eyes on it. I used to think cocks were ugly, but his is like a work of art, a marble sculpture. I imagine it inside me, in my mouth, and I’m dizzy with desire for him.
“Come here,” he says, sitting on the shelf. He pulls me onto his lap, his erection jabbing against my hip, and he kisses me softly, one hand caressing my breasts. “We’ve got to let the water soften your skin first,” he murmurs, “otherwise the razor might be harsh the first time.” I’m startled by his gentleness, this change of pace. I suspect I’ll never know what’s coming next with this man, and the thought fascinates and scares me in equal measure.
I’m now eye to eye with his pec tattoo. The text is in Latin. I studied it for two years, but the grammar is tricky, and I can’t figure out the meaning of the words. Quam minimum credula postero.
“What does it mean?” I ask, my finger trailing an inch above his skin.
“It comes after carpe diem in the original poem. It means ‘trust little in what tomorrow may bring.’”
“That’s kind of dark.”
He shrugs. “It could be. Depends how you look at it. At the time I had it done, I was sick of everybody with their carpe diem tattoos, making out that they were all about seizing the day without even knowing what the original poem meant.”
“Did you take Latin?”
“For six years. I loved it actually. We had a good teacher, and we even learned how to do composition.”
“Wow, you’re a man of many talents,” I say, aware that I still know absolutely nothing about him. He smiles, and his hand closes on my breast again.
“There’s only one talent that I’m interested in now.” He tweaks my nipple, quite hard, and I cry out. He does the same to the other, pinching them both at the same time, and the effect is electric. It hurts, but it hurts so good.
“Do you like it?” he breathes in my ear.
“Yes.” He pinches them twice as hard, and I feel like they’re connected to a pair of jumper leads as the shock radiates all the way down to my clit.
“Okay, I think you’re ready now.” He lifts me off his lap. “Go sit up on the edge of the tub.”
While I clamber up, he puts a new blade on the razor.
“Now lean back and spread your legs.”
I prop my weight on my hands, but I’m shy to open my legs and show him everything.
“Wider,” he says.
Slowly, I spread my knees little by little, squirming with embarrassment. He waits patiently, gazing at me, until my legs are far apart enough for his satisfaction. I feel deeply uncomfortable, having him stare at me like this, but also very aroused. He reaches for a bar of soap, lathers it in his hands and spreads it all over my pubic hair. Then he takes the razor and begins to shave.
The first bit is easy, as he shaves away the tiny patch covering my Mound of Venus, but when he moves down to my labia, I hold my breath and ball my hands into fists. He’s very careful though, pulling my sensitive skin taut and shaving in tiny, gentle strokes. When he’s done, he puts down the razor and scoops up water in his hands, splashing it all over.
“Perfect,” he says, surveying his handiwork. I feel very bashful but curious to see how it looks. Reflexively I reach down and touch it. Wow. It’s very different. Incredibly soft and silky with no hint of stubble.
“Did I miss a bit?”
“No, it’s good,” I reply.
“Good. Now turn around.” I freeze. No way am I going to give him a close-up of my rear view as well. His eyes bore into mine. Before I know it, I’m turning around and kneeling on the shelf, with my upper body lying flat along the edge of the tub, and my ass poking out of the water. I’m so grateful that I can bury my face in my hands. This is too much. I’ve had entire relationships with guys who have never had a good look at my asshole before, and now it’s only inches from a stranger’s face.
“Spread your legs a little wider,” he says.
I obey, my shame deepening by the second, and I hear his breath catch. At least he must like what he sees.
He soaps me up again, and the razor touches my skin, making very light strokes along my ass crack. Again, no pain, and he’s done in seconds. He rinses, then runs a finger from my clit to my asshole.
“Perfect,” he proclaims. As his finger lingers on my asshole, gently circling, I let out a moan. I had no idea that could feel so good. He chuckles. “Like that?”
I do. In fact, I find myself wishing he’d slide his finger in a little. “Maybe,” I say.
He pulls me into the water and kisses me again. He’s a kisser, and that’s a rare and beautiful thing in a guy.
“You’re beautiful, Reagan. So beautiful and perfect,” he breathes. Then he climbs out and brings towels for us before helping me out. His erection seems even bigger and harder than before, and I wonder how he maintains such self-control. Once I’ve toweled myself dry and let my hair fall loose again, he sits on the edge of the bed and stands me in front of him, facing the mirror. The sight of my pussy is startling. It hasn’t been that bare since I was maybe thirteen years old, and there’s no hiding anything now. It’s a natural innie, but my outer labia are now slightly parted, the darker pink inner labia peeking through. It looks kind of obscene. It’s no longer a hidden slit; it’s a thing, hungry and needy.
“Like it?” he asks.
“I guess.”
“You will.” He pulls me backward onto his lap and parts my legs, opening me to the mirror. I watch, hardly daring to breathe, as he spreads my labia with his fingers before dipping a finger into my wetness and then rubbing it over my clit. He begins to make little circles while whispering in my ear, telling me how beautiful my pussy is and how amazing it’s going to feel gripping his cock. It’s fucking hot, and my hips starts to make little jerks of their own accord. My vision blurs as I look in the mirror at a gorgeous man and a girl, totally lost in lust, with his hand between her thighs.
Suddenly, Adler lifts me up and throws me down in the middle of the bed.
“I have to taste you,” he growls and dips his head to my pussy. He tips my thighs back and plunges his tongue right in. Oh. This feels good. Different, but good. I swear he’s a couple of inches inside me, his tongue muscular and agile as he flicks it back and forth. Then he moves onto my clit. That touch of his tongue on my sensitized bud is incredible, and when he sucks it, drawing it into his mouth, I almost levitate off the bed.
He keeps it up, making tiny circles, sucking, and his rhythm is perfect, not too fast, not too heavy. My mind fills with thoughts of his body, thoughts of that big, thick cock and how much I need it inside me, and something new is happening inside me. It’s nothing like the small, focused explosion that comes from the vibrator. It’s more gradual, something slow
ly building, deep and serious. Like the moment before a storm breaks or the tension before an epic sneeze. Time seems to separate, and I’m blissfully falling through space. My breath comes in huge gasps. I clutch at the sheets. I shudder all over. And then a big boom detonates between my thighs. My clit pulses, and a series of superfast spasms shoots deep inside me, right through my core, and all the way to my finger ends. Adler keeps licking me, keeps up that incredible rhythm, until the spasms recede into gentler waves and gradually fall away. I burst out laughing.
Adler climbs up the bed and arches over me, his biceps and shoulder muscles bunched. “Having fun?” he asks, a wicked grin playing on his lips.
“That was an orgasm. What I told you about before, with the vibrator, that was not an orgasm. It was just a nice kind of buzz. This was more like a—like an earthquake. Or a volcano. Or maybe both at the same time.” I start laughing again like a lunatic. I feel so blissed out, yet stupid it’s taken me this long to realize what an orgasm should feel like.
“There’s no substitute for human touch.” He gets up and retrieves our champagne, and I have a celebratory swig.
“I love your smell, your taste,” he murmurs, and when he kisses me, I can taste myself on his lips, sweet, salty, and musky. Suddenly, I want to taste him, too. I reach for him, turning my body so I’m on my knees. He allows me to grip the base of his cock, but as I dip my head toward him, his hand presses on the base of my throat.
“Later. Now I need to be inside you.” Keeping his hand on my throat, he pushes me back down. He reaches into a bedside drawer, pulls out a condom, and tears open the foil packet with his teeth. He rolls it on expertly, then, holding his cock in his hand like it’s a big, dangerous tool, he presses it against my entrance. Pinned down by his hand, I am helpless as he sits back, watching himself enter me. This is real, I realize. He’s not joking or messing around. He’s got me exactly where he wants me, and I’m incapable of moving, of escaping him.
The first inch is incredible, and then my muscles tense up. He’s really big, and thick. But he takes it slow, a little at a time, and gradually my muscles yield to him until he’s all the way in. I cry out as his pubic bone butts up against my clit, and I’m a little shocked I’ve managed to fit him all in. The look in his eyes is dark and almost cruel as he lets go of my throat and pushes my thighs up toward my chest, folding me almost in half, before he begins to fuck me.
He moves slowly at first, and I see the tension in his muscles, how much it’s costing him to hold back. And then something snaps in him, and he begins to thrust in earnest, pounding into me. Initially, it’s too much, but soon pleasure takes the place of pain and I welcome his long, powerful strokes. He changes position often, lifting my legs over his shoulders, then twisting me onto my side. When he pulls out of me, I know immediately that he wants me on my hands and knees, and he makes me assume the position, head down, ass up, back arched, before he enters me again. His cock rubbing along the front wall of my pussy forces wild, animal sounds from my mouth. He presses a finger on my clit, and then he plunges into me, his hips butting my ass so hard that I can barely stay on my knees. I come a second time while he’s pounding me. It’s different again—fast, strong ripples grip his cock while I muffle my cries with the pillow. When I’m done, he flips me onto my back and lays his weight on top of me. One hand is in my hair, tugging hard, while the other is clamped over my mouth, and he screws me hard and jerkily until he comes with a gasp.
7
I want him to stay like that, on top of me, holding me in his arms, but he pulls out, lifts himself up and away from me. He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, but I don’t move. Deliciously heavy, I stare up at the ceiling, my veins charged with euphoria. I touch between my legs tentatively. I’m a little sore. I’ve never been taken that hard before, with such assurance and lack of concern for my needs. I was his to be used as he wanted. And I loved it.
Naked and still a little hard, he comes back into the room. He smiles, half affectionate, half cocky. “Did you enjoy that, Reagan?” he asks, putting his underwear back on and lying down beside me.
I feel a flicker of disappointment, hoping we’d have sex again. “It was amazing!” I gush before I can stop myself.
He pushes a lock of my hair back from my face. “Good.” He seems very calm. I want him to take me in his arms and tell me how much he loved it, too. How it was the best sex of his life.
“Did you enjoy it?” I ask.
He laughs as if it’s a funny question. “Of course. You’re very beautiful. And very pliant. I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together.” He glances at the discreet clock on the nightstand. “I have an early start tomorrow. We should sleep.”
“Sure. I’ll just use the bathroom.”
The mirror tells me I look wrecked. But in a good way. My hair is all mussed, my cheeks are pink, my lips are red, and my eyes are blazing green. I look like I’ve taken ecstasy. “Natural ecstasy,” I murmur. This is what sexual satisfaction looks like. How have I lived for so long with only polite sex and thin vibrator orgasms?
I clean my teeth using the complimentary toothbrush and paste. When I pee, there’s a trace of blood on the paper. I smirk, feeling like I’ve lost my virginity again.
Back in the bedroom, Adler seems to be asleep, far over on the left-hand side of the bed. I climb in, debating whether I should snuggle up to him. I love snuggling with guys. With most of my boyfriends, I actually preferred the snuggling to the sex. But I don’t have the balls. I lie down with my head in the center of my pillow instead.
“Goodnight, Reagan,” he says. And that’s it. Before long, his breathing deepens. I stare at the dark shape of his head. He seems far away, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. I want to share the experience we just had. I need pillow talk. I need reassurance, dammit!
Or maybe I need to stop being lame and drift off to sleep thinking about the amazing sex I just had. He said he needs to leave early, and it’s already gone four a.m. But it takes me a long time to drop off, and I only fall into a light sleep, semi-aware that he’s beside me. When he turns onto his side, I think about pressing myself against his back, but I don’t. There’s something forbidding about his big, silent presence, and I don’t dare to breach the chasm in the middle of the bed.
At seven-thirty, his alarm goes off. It jolts me wide awake, but I pretend to be sleeping while he showers and gets dressed. He doesn’t wear yesterday’s clothes, but takes a fresh set out of the closet. He was immaculately prepared. From the Champagne in the fridge to the bathtub already full of hot water. Hell, he probably even had the tub filled because he already figured out I don’t shave my pubes. He probably does this with a new girl every weekend.
My eyes are closed, but I sense that he’s ready to leave. He comes around to my side of the bed, and I feel him lean close, smelling of shower gel and shaving foam. He inhales through his nostrils, and I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. A moment later I hear the bedroom door close very softly.
My eyes snap open. He’s smoothed out his side of the bed, and I slide my hand between the sheets, hoping to feel the residual warmth of his body. But there’s none. As I lie back down, I see a note on my nightstand:
You were sleeping so sweetly that I didn’t want to wake you. The room is yours until 3pm. Call down when you want breakfast. Don’t worry about checking out—it’s all taken care of.
I’ll be in touch soon,
Adler.
Hmm. I lay my head on my pillow and close my eyes again. It’s a pleasant message, but not a sexy or romantic one, and it leaves me feeling kind of empty. I also feel very tired and headachy, and the bed is insanely comfy. I drink a glass of water, set my alarm, and sleep heavily until eleven-thirty.
I’ve got a fierce hunger rumbling in my belly, so I call down to see if breakfast is still available. Twenty minutes later, it’s delivered to my room. I try not to look like a poor imitation of Pretty Woman as a waiter rolls it in on a trolley. It’s del
icious, and there’s so much of it. I eat in while reading the morning paper, feeling like a queen.
When I’ve eaten way too much, I have a long soak in the tub then massage the hotel’s luxurious body lotion all over me. It’s not ideal having to put last night’s dress back on, but I sniff it, hoping to pick up Adler’s scent. There’s a definite hint of his cologne, which fills me with yearning.
After leaving the hotel at the last possible minute, I spend an aimless afternoon in my apartment. I hate it when girls ruin hot sex by endlessly dissecting every nuance of the guy’s actions and spend the next day wondering if he’s going to call again instead of wallowing in how much fun it was. But I find myself doing the same. Images from last night keep insinuating themselves into my mind—some scorching hot, others uncomfortable. Yesterday I was a girl I didn’t recognize, and I’m not sure I like her. From the moment Adler’s hands pressed into my thighs in the bar, I changed, and became pliant, just like he said. It wasn’t a sexy game, where I could’ve snapped out of it at any moment; it was serious. My whole self rolled over and said he’s in control now.
I wish Monica was here so bad. We would have gone out to brunch, giggled and gossiped, and the little hole in my heart would disappear. Instead, I wait until her shift’s over and she’s free to talk.
She calls just after six p.m.
“How did it go?” she demands immediately.
“It was hot. Really hot,” I say. And I give her an account of the night, leaving out only the most intimate stuff.
His To Have Page 7
