by Penny Wylder
When he finally collapses against me, we keep our arms around one another, both of us breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat. I can feel his heartbeat hammering, and my own pounding back against it, our chests pressed together. When he finally leans back to catch my eye again, we both laugh, half-delirious.
"Fucking hell," he murmurs before he kisses me again, softer this time. More sensitive.
"I know," I whisper when we break apart once more. Our eyes lock, and there's something about him, about his eyes, his touch... the way that felt.
When he pulls out of me, I have to fight the urge to let out a sigh of protest. I want him back inside me already; I want to stay as close to him as possible, both of us basking in the aftermaths of our orgasms.
Luckily he doesn't stay apart from me for long. He scoops me up into his arms and carries me through the apartment, toward his bedroom. It's a different layout than mine, I notice, a little larger, more open-plan. I like it. And he's decorated it well too, not like the typical bachelor pad. It's all modern designs and simple, tasteful furniture.
Then I forget about the apartment, because he's setting me down on the bed and curling in beside me, and I'm lost in his kiss again.
A few minutes later, we lie side-by-side on our backs, staring up at his ceiling, still breathless, our bodies slick with sweat, sticking together.
“Bet you never expected your doorman could do that,” Zayne says, a little smirk dancing across his lips.
I lean in to kiss the corner of that smirk. “I knew he was good at fighting off bad guys,” I say. “I had no idea he was such a naughty guy himself.”
“Only when inspired,” he replies, and I laugh, remembering our conversation in the café earlier.
“So what else inspires you?” I ask, settling into his arms.
“Music mostly,” he replies. “If we’re talking that kind of inspiration.”
“What type?”
“Indie bands, classic rock… Little bit of everything really. It’s the best part of my day sometimes, just heading into the stock room to get everything ready, listening to the perfect playlist.”
“Make me one sometime?” I ask, and then feel my cheeks flush. Was that weird to ask? Is this just a hookup, can we do things like make each other playlists?
But Zayne is already nodding, his eyes bright with ideas. “Definitely. I know what to put on it already.”
“You do?”
He tightens his arms around me. “I thought of the perfect song the moment I met you.”
I laugh. But he doesn’t. I turn in his arms to meet his eye. “Really?”
“Sometimes people just do that. People who really click with me. It makes a song come into my head, and I want to share it with them…”
“Can you play it for me?”
He reaches across me for his phone. For a moment, I regret the lack of warmth where his arm had been a moment before. But then he’s back, phone in hand, and I snuggle into his side as he cues up the music.
I’ve never heard the song before. Don’t recognize the band either, but I love the rhythm. It’s an acoustic guitar, and a soulful singer, singing about a girl he once met, but never knew her name. It’s sweet and sad all at once, and as I curl up against his side and listen to the lyrics, my head fills with a pleasant buzz. This feels right. Zayne feels right. I don’t know how to describe it.
When we finally drift off an hour later, my body curled up to his wrapped around me, arms around my waist, cradling me against him, I have one last thought before I drop off into sleep.
Uh oh.
5
I wake up the next morning, and for a moment, I'm disoriented. This looks like my apartment. Sounds like my apartment. There's the same distant blare of traffic and the same slant of sunlight through the standard-issue blinds. But the bed feels softer beneath me than I'm used to. And I'm warmer than I'm used to, too. Mostly because there's a very warm body curled against mine, and a strong arm wrapped protectively around my waist.
I shift a little and feel something else press against me. A hard, thick cock prodding my ass.
Then I remember last night. Everything from the coffee date all the way to our wild session on the couch. I smile and turn my head to peek over my shoulder.
Zayne blinks at me, sleepy, still waking up. But he probably has the same idea that I do, because a moment later, he shifts his hips against mine, and his cock digs harder against my ass.
"Good morning, sexy," he murmurs.
"Morning, hot stuff." I grin. He kisses me softly and I smile into it. Then I wriggle my ass, let it grind against his cock.
"Still thirsty, I see," he comments when we break apart. I laugh. But he doesn't. He pushes gently against my upper back, bending me forward into a tighter curl. "Be careful what you wish for, naughty girl."
"What if I'm wishing for you to punish me, though?" I ask, and bat my lashes just a little.
"Hmm..." He hums a little under his breath as he traces his hands over my back, down my spine to cup my ass on either side of his cock. He spreads my cheeks and lets his cock slide between them, along my slit. Then he runs his hands back up my back, massaging lightly. "Then I'd have to say, be careful what you wish for," he finally says.
I feel the bed shift as he turns to reach for the nightstand. I hear the crinkle of a condom wrapper, and for a moment, his cock leaves my backside as he slips it on.
Then he's back, hands sliding around to my front now. He massages my breasts, one at a time, taking his time, kneading them hard before he pinches each nipple, rolling it between his fingers until they’re hard. He pinches my right nipple harder, enough to make me gasp, and then he grins and kisses the back of my neck.
"Was this what you had in mind?" he murmurs against my skin. "Me punishing you, taking what I want from your body..."
"It's yours," I whisper. "Do with me what you wish."
"Oh, Clove." His hands slide down the flat plane of my stomach to my mound. Flattens against it, and his forefinger grazes my clit. "I plan to."
He strokes my clit slowly, lightly. At first it feels nice, but as the pressure builds, that light touch becomes torturous. I thrust against him, but he pins me down, his arm heavy on my hipbone.
"Ah, ah. This is my pussy. I'm in charge, naughty girl."
I swallow hard. Those words send a pulse of desire straight to my belly. "Yes."
"And what I want right now..." he says as he keeps stroking me lightly, faintly, "is to fuck you senseless."
With that, he thrusts his cock into my pussy, hard and without warning. I gasp and buck against the sheets. He plunges deep inside me, and my pussy is tight with surprise. But I'm already wet from his touches, his slow strokes, and he slides all the way inside me without resistance, stretching my muscles, making me ache.
"I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk downstairs," he whispers, and my pussy pulses around his cock, another spike of desire heating me up.
"You like that, I see." He pulls out of me. Thrusts in again, harder. "You're such a dirty little slut. I love it."
He keeps it up like that, fucking me, then slowing down to tease me, stroking my clit alternately whenever he pauses. It's not long before I feel desperate, crazed with desire. I try to thrust against him, but he spanks my ass once, hard enough to sting. Then he keeps fucking me, hard but slow, driving me wild.
Finally, just when I feel like I'm going to lose it, going to go crazy from the urge to truly fuck him, he grabs my hips and starts to fuck me in earnest. It feels so good after all the teasing that I cry out. That shifts into a low, throaty moan as he keeps fucking me, his cock spearing me with every thrust, thick and tight inside my pussy.
He bends me in half, fucks me so hard that I lose track of anything but his body against mine, his cock in me, my hands fisted in the sheets. When I finally come, he's right there with me, both of us crying out with pleasure at the same time as we finish.
He pulls out, still breathing hard, and rol
ls onto his back cursing under his breath.
"You are positively addictive, Clove Walker."
"I could say the same about you, Zayne Pearson."
We move to the shower, ostensibly to clean off. We are covered in sweat, after all. Among other things. But he insists on washing me, and when he lathers up his palms with soap and runs those rough, strong hands over my body, slowly, head to toe, I can't help it. The fire starts to build in my belly again, this lust, insatiable, impossible to please.
Finally, when it feels like too much, I spin to face him, half-covered in soap that he's massaged into my body.
"Let me suck your cock again. Please."
He half-laughs, eyes hooded and dark with amusement. "Who am I to deny a lady what she wants?"
He steps back, and I kneel before him in the shower. Let the hot water run over my back and shoulders, rinsing me off even as I part my lips and suck his cock into my mouth.
He tastes just as good as I remember. And this time, when I build up a pace, sucking him in and out of my mouth until he starts to thrust into my throat, losing control, he doesn't stop me. He throat-fucks me, slams his hips into my face, the tip of his cock sliding down my throat with every thrust, until he's gritting his teeth and groaning loudly.
I keep going, my hands wrapped around his balls, tugging at them, toying with them as I suck him into my mouth. He fucks my face, slams against me, and I relax, opening myself to him fully. I let him take control and fuck me how he wants, until he's right at the brink.
"Swallow my cum," he groans, just before it hits him. When he comes, I tighten my lips around him and press my tongue along his length. He comes hard, deep in my throat, and I swallow it all, savoring the taste, the particular, unique flavor that's all him. I keep going, keep sucking until he moans my name, and only then do I lean back to lick his cock clean, slowly, an inch at a time.
I stand up, and I'm amused to find him red-faced and breathing hard, leaning against the shower wall. Now it's his turn to struggle to stay upright.
"How was that?" I ask innocently, batting my eyes.
He shakes his head, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on mine. "You were definitely still thirsty," he points out, and we both laugh a little.
Eventually, we do manage to clean off. Then we stumble out of the shower in towels and he gestures for me sit on the couch.
"I can help," I protest as he sets about making breakfast, puttering around the kitchen.
"You can, I'm sure," he admits. "But you aren't allowed to. You're only allowed to sit there and relax." He shakes a spatula at me, threatening. "You're my guest, Clove, you don't get to cook."
I groan in faux-protest and sink back against the cushions. "Fine. But only because I like it when you boss me around." I stick my tongue out, and he laughs, then turns to finish flipping the omelets he started.
As he does, I catch a glimpse of the book on his kitchen table. “1Q84?”
“Just started it. Have you read it?”
I sit up straighter, grinning. “Oh yeah. I love Murakami.”
“Kafka on the Beach is one of my favorites.”
“You’ll love this one. Especially…” I bite my tongue. “Damn.”
He laughs. “No spoilers! That’s cheating.”
“Okay. I’ll just say you’re gonna love it, that’s all.” Now that I’ve noticed the one book, I let my gaze drift to the shelves beside his TV, chock full of others. “What kind of stuff do you normally read?”
“Little bit of everything. A lot of dystopian, literary fiction. You know, the depressing shit.” He laughs, a little self-deprecating.
“Why do you like depressing books?”
He shrugs. Pauses to flip the eggs on the stove. “I guess it just makes me feel like my problems aren’t so bad. No matter how much shit I might be dealing with, it could always be worse.”
I snort. “Very optimistic world-view.”
“Well, could be worse. I could think my problems are the absolute worst. Then how annoying would I be?”
I grin and roll my eyes. “Fair point.” I can’t help letting my gaze drift to his bookshelf again. I spot at least three of my favorite authors there, along with more than a few who have been on my radar for ages.
Well-read, good taste in music, hot as hell, and he cooks…
He joins me on the couch a few minutes later, two plates of perfectly cooked omelets in hand. I take one bite and my eyes go wide. He added spinach and cheese and bacon and something else, some spices I don't recognize but that go perfectly.
"How are you still single?" I ask, once I've washed that bite down with a sip of the coffee he brewed.
He laughs. "What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" I gesture wildly around the room with my fork. "You're hot, you're smart, you're fucking fantastic in bed, and you cook? That's ridiculous. How has some lucky hot girl not snatched you up already?"
"Is the omelet really that delicious?" He shakes his head. "It's only eggs and some veggies. You should really try cooking more, Clove."
I narrow my eyes. "I cook! I make a mean ramen noodle soup."
"Packet ramen doesn't count."
I roll my eyes now. "Yeah, well. My ineptitude in the kitchen aside, you're still a catch. So my question stands."
"Which question?"
Now I frown. "The why you're single one, obviously."
"Oh, you know. Same reason anyone is single."
"That's not exactly an answer," I point out.
"Maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet."
"The fact that you're so obviously dodging the question makes me think there's more to it than that," I reply, shaking my fork at him.
He sighs and takes another bite of his omelet. Takes his time chewing it and drinking a long sip of coffee before he answers me. "I don't trust a lot of people," he finally admits. "I haven't exactly had the best history when it comes to dating."
I snort. When he looks hurt, I spread my hands. "Sorry. I just meant... I mean, obviously I don't have the best track record either. You had to beat up my most recent stalker of a first date, for Christ's sake. I can relate."
"Yeah, he seemed like a real winner. Dating in this town..." Zayne shakes his head.
I frown at him. He's still dodging. There's something he's not telling me. But then again, how long has he known me? A couple of days? No wonder he doesn't want to go too deep into his backstory. So, fine. He can be weird about this if he wants.
"What's your weekend look like?" he asks, and I let him change the subject this time.
"Dunno. I was going to use the time to catch up on some reading for work, but..."
He grins at me. Raises an eyebrow. "But?"
"But, I could be persuaded to be naughty and slack off. If, you know... a more interesting opportunity presented itself."
He takes my plate, the omelet already mostly devoured since I couldn't help but inhale the deliciousness. Then, gently, he sets it on the end table, his own plate with it. "Is that right?"
"Yeah, I guess I'm easily influenced." I grin.
He leans toward me. Places one hand on either side of me, and stares down at me. "So, if some other plans came up that involved, say... spending most of the weekend naked and splayed across my bed..."
"I wouldn't object. No." I raise an eyebrow.
He breaks into a grin too. Then he grabs my hands and pulls me upright. Without warning, he hoists me up, tossing me back over his shoulder and slapping my ass on the way up. "Good. Because I had some plans of my own in mind. And they do not involve letting this sexy little minx get away just yet..."
I squeal and kick my legs in faux distress as he carries me back to the bedroom. Frankly, I could get used to this.
6
By Monday morning, I'm starting to wonder if you can get addicted to orgasms. I've had more than I can count on both hands in the last two days. Between Zayne tying me to his bedposts with a couple of T-shirts to eat me out, then him fucking me bent over h
is kitchen table, and finally against his balcony window, where half of New York could probably see if they looked up at the right moment, and where our neighbor across the street could definitely see if they opened their windows, I had no idea I could get so turned on so fast by someone.
In between fucking, we took breaks to watch a couple of movies. He's got great taste in films, preferring older film noir above all else. We watched a few I'd never seen, like Double Indemnity which involved some hot-as-hell hookup scenes that led to us getting distracted and fucking again before we switched to watching Chinatown.
Our conversation after Chinatown was almost as good as the fucking, though. He spent an hour dissecting the movie with me, savoring all the minute details, letting me rewind to gush over certain scenes. I love doing that when I watch movies—it makes me feel like they last longer, like they’re books I can slowly digest. I’d never met anyone else who was interested in doing that. Mostly my exes just humored me when I insisted on it.
But Zayne? Zayne not only enjoys it, but after that, he encouraged me to do it with every movie we watched afterwards. We spent hours on each one, and while that would normally make me feel like a total nerd, with him it just felt normal. Like comparing these movies to our lives and dissecting each one was a perfectly cool, natural thing to do.
He cooked the whole time too, and I swear, each meal tasted better than the last. He made me a veggie curry for lunch, then steaks for dinner, and leftover steak and eggs for breakfast the next morning. Who needs NYC brunch when you have your own personal chef and sexy sex master in house?
But Monday arrived, as it always does. With it came the responsibilities I'd been avoiding. A shit ton of reading that I'll need to catch up on all morning, plus all the work drama that led me to complaining to Zayne last Friday, which I still need to handle.
But somehow, after this weekend of retreating into the Zayne bubble, I feel more ready to face it than ever. I feel energized, recharged, ready to tackle the whole world if I need to. What could possibly go wrong? I’ve finally found a decent guy who's in my corner– and in my bed, for that matter.
