“You don’t sound nervous,” I shoot back.
Who is this girl? Vodka and coke is a powerful elixir.
“Inside, I am nervous as hell, let me tell you. Inside I’m so nervous it’s a wonder I’m even sittin’ here talking with you now. But I’m an actor, Lily. That’s my profession, if you have to know.”
“What have I seen you in, then?” I prompt.
He tilts his head sideways, a real arrogant cock of the head, and then grins at me. “You ask too many questions,” he says after a pause.
The waitress brings over the drinks and we order food. Roman orders a burger and fries, and I get a caesar salad and grilled chicken with a side of onion rings.
“Strange, that,” he comments. “Going in for the salad but still getting the rings.”
“Better than rings and steak,” I say. “I’m a nurse, remember—”
“Who could forget Nurse Sherlock?” the man interrupts.
I glower playfully at him, which might be the first time I’ve ever glowered playfully at a man. “You still haven’t told me what you do.”
“I talk to beautiful women in restaurants,” he says. He stares at my face and for the first time I notice how startlingly blue his eyes are, bright, almost glinting. Wolf-blue. He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table, and stares deeply at me. I feel whispers move over my body, whispers I have not felt since I was a girl and puberty first hit me, whispers I thought years of double-shift nursing had stolen from me. “And then I eat dinner with beautiful women . . . and then I take beautiful women to bed.”
Slap him, I tell myself, or snap at him with some sassy comment, or roll your eyes and tell him he’s the cheesiest man who’s ever lived. But I do none of this. Instead, I glance down at the table and feel my already-crimson cheeks flare red, a red so hot I imagine the whole restaurant can see. My inner thighs, bare in the dress but warm in the Vegas June, tingle with desire. I bite down on my lip and then release it at once. I don’t want to let him see what effect he’s having on me.
I sip my vodka and coke. When I finally look back up at him, I see that he’s smirking at me. That smirk . . . it’s so cocky, so arrogant, so at ease. I’ve been on dates with men before, of course, and I’ve always hated how staged the entire thing has felt. I always get the sense it will take ten more dates to get to the heart of anything substantial. Sitting here with Roman, I know that’s not the case. He leans back, folds his arms, and waits.
“You know,” I say, after a ludicrous amount of time, “you shouldn’t say things like that to a lady.”
“Maybe you’re a lady in your day-to-day life, Lily,” Roman counters. “But I don’t reckon you’re one tonight.”
I don’t answer, because he’s right. I don’t feel like a lady tonight. I don’t even feel like a nurse tonight, which is the first time that has happened in years. No, tonight I just feel like . . .
“A woman who wants to let go.”
For a moment, I don’t know if it’s Roman or me who said that. Then I realize it was me, and Roman is grinning and leaning forward and his arms are tight and his hands are large and strong-looking, and, and . . . My mind soars, my body aches, so when he asks me, “What’d you say to me renting us a room in this fine establishment? I’m sure you know it’s a hotel, too, right?”
I swallow. “Yes,” I mutter.
“Sorry, Lily. Was that ‘yes’ to my first question, or my second?”
I feel myself smile again: that inexorable, life-of-its-own smile. “Both,” I say, feeling wild.
Roman stands up, goes over to the desk. I stretch my legs out beneath the table. Every movement provokes a series of buzzing sensations throughout my body, as though an invisible, static sheet is being trailed up and down my skin.
When Roman returns, the food has arrived. We talk more as we eat, but about inconsequential things. Mostly, we can’t keep our eyes off each other. I watch his arms go tight as he picks up pieces of food, and I see his eyes go to my chest, staring openly at my breasts now. I should be embarrassed, or angry. But we both know where this is going, and so the way I see it, he can stare at my breasts as much as he likes.
I see myself in my head for a moment. Not how I am tonight. But Nurse Sherlock, dressed in scrubs, stern. “Are you really going to go to bed with this man? Are you really going to fuck a complete stranger? Are you really that attracted to him?”
“Yes,” I say aloud.
“Good,” Roman says. He’s standing over me, I realize. Bills lay in the payment tray, and Roman is offering me his hand.
“Pardon?” I say.
He laughs easily. “I said, ready to go?”
I take his hand, which is warm and promises pleasure. “Then I’ll stick with my first answer. Yes.”
What am I doing? What the hell am I doing? I ask myself over and over as we ride the elevator up, holding hands. There is another couple in the elevator so we just stand here as the tension mounts between us. This stranger, a man named Roman, massaging my knuckles with his thumb. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life by somehow just rubbing my hand. But it’s what the hand promises: the infinite pleasure of this random encounter. I swallow, nervous and excited at the same time. This is something Carol would do, not me, not good-girl Lily.
We enter his room together, but then he lets go of my hand to lock the door. “Don’t want to be interrupted, do we?” he says. I know this is my only chance to back out of this. Not because I don’t trust him—strangely, perhaps stupidly, I do—but because I know that once the door is locked, I won’t be able to stop myself. My body is roaring at me with pleasure, with desire. My nipples and my clit are working against me; my reason will not win out in this situation, no matter how Sherlock-like it might usually be.
Click, the door locked, he turns to me. Heavily muscled, handsome as hell, with dark desire in his glinting blue eyes.
“You look scared,” he says.
“Scared?” I laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” He smirks, that sexy, casual, confident smirk. “Okay, then.” He walks across the room in a few large strides, and then stands over me, making me feel small. But not afraid; I wasn’t lying about that part. I am not afraid of this man. I am just horny, devilishly horny, hornier than I have been in my entire life. What’s come over me?
When he reaches down and lays his hand gently, teasingly, against my panties, I know what’s come over me. He stares at me as he lightly caresses my clit through my panties, hand between up my dress. He presses down on my clit with his middle finger, pressing firmly, and then—with that cocky smirk—pushes aside my panties and lays his finger against my bare clit.
“Oh,” I moan, unable to stop myself. “Oh, fu—fuck.” I breathe heavily.
He rubs my clit faster, harder, around in circles, this stranger from the bar rubbing my clit now so fast that already I feel an orgasm coming. How is that possible? Usually, it takes me a while to reach climax. But that is with other men, men I know, men with baggage, needy men. Roman is nothing to me right now but a man made for my pleasure. Selfish, but if you can’t be selfish when a man is rubbing your clit, when can you be? I reach down and grab his wrist, twist my hips, ride his hand as he massages my pussy. Shifting up and down, I ride him until his middle finger slips, maybe by accident, maybe not, into my pussy. Fuck, but I’m wet, soaked, so wet that when he slides his finger into me, it slides all the way to my sweet spot without pause.
“Fuck!” I cry, sitting down on his finger. “God—there—right there.”
“You givin’ me orders now?” he grunts, slipping another finger inside of me, pushing against my hot spot.
“I—”
But then I can’t talk. When his second finger pushes against my sweet spot, something which I’ve only heard about from Carol happens to me: I’m come instantly, and hard. I come so hard it feels like my hot spot is a bomb and he has just pressed his finger down on the detonator. I find myself burying my
face in his chest, biting down on his muscle through the shirt. I am aware of people walking to and fro in the hallways, the sounds of the restaurant below, people in the room beside ours. A stranger, being fingered by a stranger in a hotel room . . . and that just gets me off even more. I stand on my tiptoes, and Roman drives into me further with his fingers. The orgasm explodes once, twice, over and over, shimmering through me, making my toes curl. I shift my hips here and there, angling and aiming the pleasure. Finally, the orgasm peters out and I am left leaning into this man, panting for breath.
“Do you think we’re done?” he asks, and then laughs grimly. “No fuckin’ way.”
Before I can so much as let out a whimper, Roman grabs the hem of my dress and pulls it up, over my head. It’s so refreshing to have a man do that, rather than tug timidly at the dress to indicate that he wants me to take it off. I let out a whimper now, as the dress is pulled over my head. Roman stares for a moment at my breasts, eyes wide with lust.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re somethin’ else.”
“So are you,” I say, reaching for his shirt.
I pull it over his head, revealing his ridged, bulging muscles, and then he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down to his ankles, along with his underwear. I’m reaching around to undo my bra as he does this, but when I see his cock, a massive eleven inch rod of rock-hard steel, bursting and huge, intimidating, I pause. It is by far the biggest cock I have ever seen, monstrous, and wildly attractive. Dangerous, and wildly appealing. I wonder if I can take it, and the fact that I’m not sure sends another thrill of risky pleasure through me.
“Don’t stop for me,” Roman says, leaning across and undoing my bra in one expert motion. When my breasts spill free, Roman falls upon me, picking me up the shoulders and carrying me to the bed. He drops me onto my back. I lift my legs, and Roman reaches down and tears away my panties. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, looking at my pussy.
“Are you going to just stand there?” I say, sounding way sassier than I normally do. It seems this night has transformed me, for now, at least.
He grins, and then the grin dies as he collapses forward. He stops himself with his hands, resting beside my head, but his hard body presses against mine, compressing my breasts. His pectorals are like sheets of rock with no give whatsoever. Then he reaches down, hand brushing my belly, and takes his cock in his hand. I realize I’m holding my breath in anticipation and let it out. He guides himself to me. The tip of his cock presses into me, a massive bulge with feels more like a fist, opening me with equal parts pain and pleasure.
“Oh,” I moan, as he slowly eases me open. “Oh, fuck.”
Then he thrusts, and I feel my pussy spread for him, a rush of wet heat replacing the pain. He pushes up, up, until the tip of his cock is way past my tender spot, and then he slides out. What follows next is the craziest, quickest, wildest sex I have ever had. We are both overcome with animal pleasure. I can see it in Roman’s face, twisted now, no longer smirking, completely consumed with me. And I can feel it in myself, in the way I reach up and dig my hands into his back, lift my legs and fold my ankles to lock him inside of me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I cry, as this stranger, this fucking stranger, rams into me so hard that the bed creaks and rocks back and forth. I bounce up and down on him as we fuck, loving the way my ass smacks against his balls, loving how vicious and urgent it is, loving how he doesn’t stop and ask me if I’m okay. He can’t, I can tell; he’s too consumed.
I take one hand from his back and grab his chest, feeling the massive muscles, feeling the way they tense as though to break out of his skin. He angles his hips upward, his cock sliding against the front wall of my pussy and hitting my sweet spot perfectly. Over and over, he thrusts into me, and I hear myself moan, louder and louder. I moan so loud that people in the surrounding rooms must be able to hear me, but I don’t care. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck me, screw me, fucking screw me!” I squeal, my pussy getting very hot now, wetter, slicker, tingles moving around it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Come for me,” Roman growls, thrusting into me so hard he lifts me off the bed for a moment.
When he slams me back down, I feel my pussy tighten, gathering energy. The tingling intensifies. He slams into me again, lifts me up, slams me back down, driving into me with all his strength, which is a considerable amount, more strength than I have ever felt in a man. My pussy gets even tighter, so tight he has to shift his angle to slide back inside of me. When I lean up and bite his chest, my pussy releases. Tasting him in my mouth, sweaty and manly, the orgasm explodes from inside of me, just like it did with his fingers but five times more intense. I bite down so hard on him I draw blood, but I don’t stop, and neither does he.
His cock keeps slamming into me like a hammer, hammering into me, fucking screwing me hard and fast in this hotel room when we only learned each other’s names an hour ago. The wetness and the heat of the orgasm spread onto the sheets. I am squirting on him, squirting hard, and I keep on, not embarrassed. It’s impossible to be embarrassed when pleasure like this has taken hold of you. I lift my hips, and he sees what I want and grabs my ass, holding me up to better position his cock inside my pussy. One last wave of orgasm, surging out of me, spreading down my ass and dripping onto the sheets, a wild release of sudden pleasure.
And then I lay back, breathing quickly, body aching and yet still hungry. Roman leans over me, burying his face in my neck, and comes, comes so hard he makes a loud growling noise deep in my flesh, sending shivers down my body.
“Fuck,” he says, rolling away, breathing just as quickly as me.
“Fuck,” I agree.
We lie like this for around half an hour, growing cold and dry, and then I lean up and begin collecting my clothes.
“What are you doing?” he says, leaning up beside me. As he moves, I can’t help but look at the way his ab muscles tense, layers and layers of them.
“Getting dressed,” I say, but then I look down and see his cock, once again rock-hard, once again ready to burst.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, smiling, nipples hardening, and I drop my bra to the floor.
Chapter Two
Lily
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is my body. It’s an odd thing to think, that you notice your body, but I usually do not notice mine but for the aching of a long, long shift. Normally when I wake up, my arms and legs are infused with the dull, never-ceasing ache which most nurses I’ve spoken to can sympathise with. You get used to it after a while, however, and so you stop noticing it. But this morning I notice my body all over again, even if the aches are now in different places. Nipples, neck, in between my thighs, ass cheeks . . . all of them ache, burn, with the feel of Roman’s pleasure-giving body. His hands gripping my ass cheeks, his lips on my nipples, his rock-hard cock driving wetly and hotly inside of me. When I think of that, I want to reach across the bed and grab him . . .
And so the second thing I notice is the emptiness of the bed beside me. I claw for Roman, wanting to feel his tight, sculpted muscle, but instead my hands find nothing but sheets. I lean up, squinting against the early-morning sunlight which shines through the curtains, and look around the room. My clothes lay in disarray, my dress a crumpled pile on the floor, my panties hanging off the back of a chair, my bra dangling from the corner desk, one of my heels wedged between the bathroom door, the other upside down balancing preciously on the television. I listen, but there’s no sign of Roman, just the general noise of a Vegas hotel coming to life, and the distant ding-ding of slot machines.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and check my phone. It’s half past seven o’clock, which means I have around four hours to get back to my apartment, showered, changed, and into work. I open my and close my mouth, which is dry, lips cracked, and wish for the first time in a long time that I was off today. I rarely think that. Nursing is not just what I do; it’s who I am. But I would like just one day to recove
r from a steamy night with Roman.
As I go about the room collecting my clothes—none of Roman’s clothes are in sight—I wonder if I am angry with him. And then I realize that the very fact I even have to wonder means I’m not.
“Watson, this is a very odd turn of events, is it not?” I whisper to myself as I pull on my panties. “At first, we have a committed nurse, a nurse who would never, never sleep with a man she does not know. And then we have a woman—not a nurse, because her mind had changed by that point—throwing herself into bed with a man. And now she is the nurse again, and yet she is not angry with the man. In fact, she feels a certain degree of warmth toward him. Hmm, yes, strange, one could say. Very suspect.” I giggle, thinking that maybe I’m still a tad drunk, and put on my bra and then wriggle into my dress. “Let us peer into her mind. There is no resentment. No hatred. No anger. Just a woman who is glad that she had the experience. Just a woman who enjoyed herself mightily and will cherish the memory, will go into her life holding the phantom of Roman . . . oh yes, and now we get to the crux of the matter, Roman, she does not even know his last name! Oh, this won’t do—”
BAD BOY’S SURPRISE BABY: The Choppers MC Page 47
