She licked along the shaft from balls to tip before taking the whole thing into her mouth, pushing past her gag reflex when she heard Fitz’s appreciative, almost surprised moaning. She was gratified when he started muttering under his breath, and when he placed his one hand tentatively on Becka’s head, she forcefully placed them both there. She held onto Fitz’s hips and felt herself getting wet again as his hips began to buck against her, his fingers knotted through Becka’s hair, his moans growing low and clotted with desire.
Becka pulled back suddenly and looked up into Fitz’s pleading face.
“Do you have a condom?” she asked, and Fitz rewarded her with a gratified grin and fished in his desk drawer for what seemed like an eternity as Becka positioned herself face down on the table, leaning on her forearms, and awaiting him. She chose this position because she didn’t want her fresh tattoo to come between them, and Fitz understood immediately. His hands glided up and down her back, sending shivers up her spine, the wetness between Becka’s legs familiar and thrilling, her sex throbbing in anticipation. Fitz teased her just right, making her want to writhe and squeal. She heard the crackle of a condom wrapper behind her, and raised her hips even further in anticipation.
Fitz perched himself up on to the table and with equal care eased himself into Becka, both of them gasping as they joined together.
“Are you okay?” Fitz whispered, and Becka nodded in reply, biting her lower lip and rocking softly against his hips. Fitz seemed to hesitate a moment before he began to respond, his tiny, almost imperceptible thrusts mounting in intensity as Becka encouraged him with her own movement.
“No need to be gentle,” Becka whispered, and Fitz, in a choked voice, replied “What if I want to be?” but his actions no longer kept up with his words. Becka moaned as Fitz thrust harder and longer, his hand wrapping around Becka’s hip, to slide his finger between her lower lips and tease her clit again.
The two came together, gasping and bucking against each other. Fitz’s strong hand grabbed Becka’s chin to turn her face around, and they kissed deeply as the last throbs of their orgasms ebbed away.
“I don’t normally do that sort of thing,” Fitz mumbled into Becka’s neck, the stubble scratching her, his breath hot and panting.
“I wouldn’t have known,” Becka grinned, winking. “I don’t either, as hard as you may find it to believe. And I seem to have been terribly rude and made this table all wet underneath me.”
“Not a problem,” Fitz winked back. “Wipeable surfaces are a mainstay of the tattooing profession! And this was a lot more fun than the usual clean-up job,” he said mock matter-of-fact. He pulled his underwear back on, followed by the jeans, and suddenly transformed back to all-business. He recoated Becka’s tattoo with ointment and taped down a layer of cling wrap. It was during these few minutes, with the traces of Fitz still laced over her body, that Becka suddenly wondered, far too late, if this was such a good idea after all… She never slept with guys on a first date—and this wasn’t even a date. She rarely slept with guys period, she just had a hard time inviting intimacy into her life.
But Fitz’s hands still felt good against her skin, his scent exciting Becka’s mind in a way his body had moments before. She’d felt it when they kissed, and she wanted to keep on kissing that magical mouth, feel the graze of his beard against her flesh, stroke the strong arms as they encircled her, and above all, most shocking of all to Becka: she wanted to talk to him.
That was the real kicker, and a vague source of worry to Becka. This was a new feeling she had: no irritation, disgust, or boredom, no regret or fuzzy recollection. She could definitely say this was the best sex she’d ever had (and it’s been so long for her, truth be told), yet on top of that all, it was definitely more intense, more… something than any of her few previous encounters. She found herself wanting to look into Fitz’s eyes, get lost in the verdant gaze of this considerate yet scorchingly hot lover. She didn’t know what to say, so she just smiled like a dope and took the Kleenex proffered by her tattoo artist to clean herself up before she pulled her panties and her jeans back on.
“Oh, I almost forgot the best part!” Fitz smacked himself on the forehead. He grabbed Becka’s hand (who tried to hide her shiver of excitement at even this small gesture) and led her over to the wall mirror. He held her by the shoulders, and Becka saw, for the first time, barely visible beneath the distorting layer of gel and plastic, her very first tattoo.
“I should have shown you before, but I got a little… carried away,” Fitz whispered over Becka’s shoulder, tickling her ear in a way that threatened to send her knees buckling. Her eyes swept from the reflection in the mirror to the watchful gaze of the man behind her. She had so many feelings she could barely describe, and she felt her eyes well up as she tried to order her thoughts. She found she simply couldn’t, and so instead she said the only thing she could think of at the time: a plain, unadulterated truth.
“I love it. Thank you so much,” Becka whispered, and smiled when she was rewarded with another deep crimson blush from Fitz.
“I want to see you again,” Fitz said suddenly, his face all at once awash with concern.
“Well, duh, we have another appointment,” Becka said, and Fitz shook his head sadly and bit his lip, his staring eyes pleading to be understood.
“I want to see you somewhere else. I… I want to take you on a date.”
“A date?” Becka sighed: those never went well. But as she looked into Fitz’s eyes, his heart pinned so firmly on his sleeve, and his sexy, sexy hair flopping down over his delicately creased brow, Becka realized she wanted to try. She really, truly wanted to. And she’d just come twice in ten minutes, so it wasn’t just her intense horniness making decisions for her. She thought of Jerome and Wendy’s silly gossip now and laughed. “I thought you were into older women?”
Fitz looked confused for a moment and shook his head. “I like grown-ups. You don’t have to be old to be mature. And I think you’ve got an old soul. I want to get to know it better.” He smiled in a way that made Becka’s chest thump and her skin sing out for caressing. She could feel herself smiling again, a stupid drugged smile of a girl falling for a man, possibly the first real man she’d ever met. Everyone before seemed pointless and a waste of good energy when she could have spent it worshipping Fitz. Or, as she told herself when Fitz took her hand in both of his, worshipping his magnificent body. She was deeper in lust (it had to be lust, right?) than she’d ever been before, and she definitely wanted to explore just how far down the rabbit hole went.
And so, Becka told herself, it was lust saying yes to Fitz’s proposed date. It was lust making plans to meet at eight on such and such date, endorsing restaurants, and choosing bars unlikely to be crowded with the patrons from Lux.
And it was definitely lust kissing Fitz under the illuminated sign of Dickie’s Emporium, tangling its fingers in his disheveled hair, pressing its pelvis against his groin. Lust was the one making her heart ache at the thought of their parting, and the long hours and days before they’d be together again.
Lust was the one falling in love with Fitz, not Becka.
Becka didn’t do love…
Did she?
Chapter Seven
Her tattoo healed nicely over the next few days, and Becka couldn’t help running her fingers along the smooth raised lines of the design. She didn’t dare get near the heart at its center but she gazed at it in the mirror, first beneath the plastic wrapping and then without. Whenever she imagined it, her mind inevitably turned to that incredible evening with Fitz, the feel of his stubble against her chin, of his lips between her lower lips, of his teasing tongue and soulful eyes. She was infatuated. She was mature enough to admit that. But try as she did to banish Fitz from her waking thoughts, Becka couldn’t fight him in her dreams. Four long days passed in horny agony, and every flaming inch of her body longed for the caresses she replayed over and over in her mind…
All she could think about was Fitz. He
loomed like a phantom in her peripheral vision, the sultry slacker charm, the wavy hair, that lazy sauntering gait, and those deep green eyes… Becka heard his voice in her ears, whispering filthy things when she tried to sleep, and when she did she just saw her illustrated man, beckoning to her through the endless misted rooms.
As their pre-arranged date drew closer, Becka wondered if she should back out. She didn’t have his number, but maybe she could pass a message on to Mick, and he to Karen, and so on? She knew she wasn’t thinking straight, but she’d never been so anxious over a guy in her life. It felt so wrong, and yet for almost a week Becka caught herself staring moon-eyed into the middle distance. Her appetite was a wreck, and her hand was almost sore from playing with herself too much every night, reminiscing that one encounter with Fitz.
After what felt like an eternity, it was finally time for the hallowed date, and she resolved to go. She straightened and then curled her hair for hours, achieving no effect she couldn’t have pulled off in minutes, but the action soothed her. She mused over outfits, but that led her to wonder what Fitz would be wearing, and then she’d think about Fitz getting dressed, and then, of course, undressed, and then she was right back where she started.
They were meeting at a pretty nondescript bar near Dickie’s Emporium; not the greasy biker bar that Becka’s feverish dreams had placed them in (complete with a mechanical bull, a squad of encouraging biker dudes, and Fitz wearing a cowboy hat). It was just a regular bar.
Some corporate types in suits were drinking pilsners and margaritas in a booth by a glowing neon jukebox, trying to buy drinks for the overly made-up coeds next to them. A few solitary types sat up at the mirrored bar, drinking quietly. Fitz sat slumped against the burgundy upholstered vinyl seats, a stack of cracked peanut shells on the table before him, puddled in the condensation running down his cold glass. He wore a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to display his collection of lurid body art. Fitz was a curated exhibit, slouched in that padded seat.
Becka’s heart beat wildly, and she reminded herself, for the thousandth time, that this was only lust. Dense, deep, utterly immobilizing lust. Nothing more. Fitz, for his part, was so happy to see Becka as she shyly approached the table that he knocked over the peanut bowl, his lower lip clamped under his perfect teeth, a goofy glance upward from beneath his fringed mane. He looked impossibly cute, and Becka was glad the jukebox was playing Michael Jackson loud enough to cover her heartbeat. Fitz smiled and waved over a server.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll have another of these,” Fitz said breezily, lifting his half-empty Guinness glass before shyly turning to his date, “and you, Becka?”
“Oh, just make it two,” Becka smiled at the waitress while mentally slapping her forehead. It just sort of fell out of her mouth: Guinness? She could handle a PBR or two, but a serious, heavy glass of black tar and clotted foam? She felt sweat bead on her forehead and she nearly gagged thinking of the stuff. Stout. What kind of a maniac invented stout beer?!
But something in her wanted to fall into old routines. At Lux, if Becka was trying to ingratiate herself with some stud or another, she’d order what they were having. It was a subtle move deployed on the kind of narcissists Becka was accustomed to flirting with, a totally insane knee-jerk reaction to horniness. And now, she’d have to suffer through a beer in plain sight with no chance of pouring it off into a decorative fern. And Fitz would notice her hating this drink, and instead of being flattered, he’ll wonder why Becka ordered something she didn’t even like, and then he’d realize Becka was twenty-two and immature and totally not worth hooking up with and… well damn it, she had to get to like Guinness some time, right? Grown, mature people drink it. And red wine. At least she wasn’t drinking red wine.
“Are you okay?” Fitz asked, a look of beatific concern gracing his gorgeous features.
Becka snapped out of her reverie and smiled back. She was over-thinking things. So she’d pretend to like Guinness for a while. No biggie. She could handle this.
“Totally fine, just looking forward to the…. to the Guinness.”
Fitz scrutinized her face, and Becka burned up under his amusement. She wanted to crawl under the table and burrow into the peanut-shell strewn floorboards with her bare hands.
“You don’t really want to drink Guinness, do you?” he asked, with a chuckle.
“Sh-sure I do! I love… that stuff. It’s great how it’s so heavy and… and thick,” Becka tried to enthuse, trailing off before adding lamely, “I, like, really like it.”
The waitress came back with their two black and tan pints, and Becka involuntarily gulped as it was set before her, watching the froth wobble, thicker than rancid sea foam.
“You really don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to.”
“No, I— “ Becka whined, sounding unconvincing even to herself.
“Really. Come on, stout isn’t for everyone. I’ve got Irish in me, so I’m used to it, but you really look like more of a vodka-cranberry type.” Fitz pulled Becka’s glass over to himself and nodded to their lingering server.
“I would definitely like a vodka-cranberry, if you have those, please.”
“Coming right up!” the waitress grinned and left these two pretty obvious lovebirds to their date.
“How did you know?” Becka asked. She realized she was disproportionately impressed with this divining talent, but the guys she usually saw wouldn’t have noticed if Becka was having a seizure, let alone guess her preferred early-evening refreshment.
“Well, you’re a modern young woman, aren’t you? I bet you like to keep calories low, thus the vodka, and nobody drinks screwdrivers any more…”
“Orange from concentrate? Eew, no thank you.”
“Exactly! So, y’know, vodka-cranberry.”
“I’m also partial to a gin and tonic or a Mojito if they’re going.”
“Well shit, who wouldn’t? If they had mojitos going here, I’d be having one myself!”
“They’ve got margaritas,” Becka gestured to the merry suits in the corner, now wrapping their arms around the scantily clad girls.
“Psshhht, from a machine. Slushie margaritas are an inferior breed. If you want booze candy, get a jello shot. Someday I’ll make you a real margarita, but you’d better be ready to lie down a while after it.”
“Gladly,” Becka winked, and was gratified that now it was Fitz sporting a blush. The server returned with her drink, and she toyed with the lime wedge a little before gulping half of it down.
“Whoa, slow down there. I don’t want you on the floor! Well, not this floor,” Fitz winked, and Becka giggled in a way she was fairly certain she never had before. She sounded like a cartoon squirrel or a pre-school girls soccer team. She clamped her mouth shut and batted her eyelashes. Oh god, Fitz was so handsome. Like, soap-opera handsome. But not a daytime soap, like a proper, prime-time for-real handsome. She felt a little tipsy.
“Can I get another of these?” she raised her voice across the bar, and received a thumbs-up from the bartender. She collapsed back into the booth, and Fitz shook his head laughing.
“You get silly when you’re nervous, huh?”
“Heeeeey, speak for yourself! You’re like the Godzilla of peanut-town. Klutz.”
“Klutz?” Fitz looked mock-hurt and pouted over the rim of his beer glass, dipping his bottom lip in foam and licking it away.
“Sexy klutz,” Becka mumbled into her own glass.
“Simmer down,” Fitz grinned, but he offered no objections when Becka’s knee pressed against his beneath the table, nor when her hand reached across the booth to trail her finger over his in-seam. Becka was gratified by the look of pleased surprise. Her flirting was so stupidly obvious, and yet Fitz still had the grace not to have believed Becka was a sure thing.
“Come on now, we can get to that later, can’t we?” he asked, even as Becka felt her ministrations taking effect, the low throbbing pulse beneath the taut black deni
m covering Fitz’s lap giving away his excitement.
“We can talk about anything you want,” Becka murmured, picking up her second drink, which as far as she was aware, arrived by magic. All she saw in the room was Fitz and his eminently kissable mouth. She took a sip of her drink and leaned in, voraciously kissing her date, whose protesting hands quickly wrapped around her waist, his illustrated arms holding her close as he murmured into the bend of her neck.
“Hey c’mon, I was supposed to seduce you with my witty banter…” but Becka was too busy kissing him again for Fitz to offer an example.
She broke off the kiss and murmured, “You did.” They only stopped kissing when a neighboring booth of suits caught on to their increasingly heavy petting and whooped and Ooooooo-ed at them in support. They both blushed, and despite there being no rodeo bulls or cowboy hats in sight, and the men wore suits instead of biker leathers, this was everything Becka had dreamed it would be.
“This is ridiculous, I keep trying to get to know you and all I can think about is tearing your clothes off right here in this bar,” Fitz whispered once the suits had turned their cheering to another set of canoodlers. “I feel like a teenager.”
“Me too,” Becka whispered, and pouted when Fitz laughed.
“You practically are a teenager!” he grinned, and she rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, I’m young, I get it. But we’re not so different, you and I.”
“Oh really?” Fitz asked, sipping at his beer, his breathing still heavy with excitement.
“Yeah! We both like tattoos, and drinks. We… we… Well, I’m crazy attracted to you, and I think you are to me. We both love sex…” Becka listed off their similarities on her fingers, but quickly moved her hand to her glass when she realized how pathetically short her list was.
“I like sex, sure. But I prefer making love.”
“Oh, come on! Cheeseball. I bet you’ve had like, a ton of girls.”
“You might be surprised.”
Fade Back (A Stepbrother Romance Novella) Page 4
