by Helena Maeve
Imogen looped an arm around his and tugged him into the building. There was no light in the stairwell and the elevator had been out of commission for some time, but the manager had promised he’d fix it. They passed a handful of eviction notices on the way up to the third floor, by which time Russell was puffing for breath and Imogen couldn’t stop recapping the fight.
“Did you see me in the first round? Man, I thought I she had me on the ropes—bet she didn’t think I’d drop a knee, huh?” She liberated her keys from her jacket with an absent hand and dropped them twice before Russell took over. “And that left hook? Christ, it hurt like a bitch. I didn’t think I’d get up. Des?” she called out into the silent apartment.
No answer came.
“She must be out. New girlfriend, you know what that’s like…” Imogen sauntered inside, flicking on lights as she went. “Actually, maybe you don’t. Do you even date anymore, Russ?”
He sighed, latching the door behind him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but…no. Not for some time.” Not since the ex-wife, he must’ve meant and Imogen knew not to pry further.
“Bummer,” she drawled absently, peering into the fridge. There were no cupcakes, but Desiree had just bought a six-pack. She’d sprung for something worthwhile, too, none of that cheap stuff Imogen was used to her drinking. Girlfriend must have good taste. Nudging the fridge door shut with a lackadaisical hand, she held out a bottle to Russell—just the one, she wasn’t allowed alcohol while she was training—as a sort of peace offering.
He shook his head, looming in the kitchen doorway like a mountain of a man. He dwarfed the squat countertops and the narrow window without trying. “Look,” he sighed, “you fought well tonight, but—”
“No buts,” Imogen said. She didn’t want to talk about the fight anymore. Her thoughts were grasshoppers darting aimlessly from topic to topic, until suddenly they settled and Imogen reached for Russell’s belt buckle. “No more talking.”
“What—?” he started, but the question never manifested. Breath left Russell’s lungs on a sigh as Imogen cupped him through his jeans. His cock was still soft, but it stiffened steadily as Imogen squeezed her fist around it, giving him a few light, aborted pulls.
He seized her forearm, but he didn’t make her pull away. “I thought we said we wouldn’t do this again,” he murmured, almost but not quite the admonishment she’d feared.
“Then I guess you should stop me,” Imogen countered, rising up on tiptoe as if to kiss him. She didn’t—she never did because it would’ve felt too intimate—and was gratified to see him bend to her will, his lashes fanning low over his cheeks as he watched her mouth.
You want me. A spark of something almost like pride kindled at her core. Desire pooled in her belly. She knew Russell would let her have her way.
In this, at least, they were birds of a feather. Adrenaline pumping in her veins, Imogen fumbled open his fly and reached casually into his boxers.
She heard Russell’s breath catch, saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard, but otherwise he remained still in anticipation. You never do like to rush me. Her cunt clenched when he canted his hips into her touch. She glanced down, knowing what she would see. Russ was thick, but not very long, the angry, red flush of his length a stark contrast against her ivory skin.
“Yeah,” Imogen moaned as pearly wetness beaded at the tip of his erection. She wanted to get on her knees and lick it off. She wanted to slick her fingers with it and fuck herself while he watched. She did neither. “Bedroom,” she said instead, and, “let’s go.”
Russ offered no protest, but it took him a moment to move out of the kitchen door and stumble drunkenly down the hall into Imogen’s room. He knew the way.
They made it into bed in a tangled heap. Russ landed on his back, mattress springs squeaking under his not-unimpressive girth as Imogen removed her tracksuit bottoms and peeled off her sopping underwear. The scent of her arousal was impossible to conceal. She didn’t try.
She had to spread her thighs wide to straddle him, but the stretch felt good, like pushing her body to the limit of what it could take when it had already suffered a beating. The sensation left her moaning, whole body tipping into Russell’s as she sank two fingers into her pussy to slake her thirst for touch and taste, for his body.
She felt wicked and debauched, not least because Russell was fumbling with a condom he’d just procured from her nightstand. “You know your way around now, huh?” Imogen grinned. “Boy scout.”
Russ never dropped his gaze from hers, however fast the pink sheen of a blush might have spread from his cheeks to the open V of his plaid collar. He was clumsy with the condom, dropping it twice, but eventually he rolled it down his shaft, clenching his fist tight around the root as though to stop himself coming.
The sight of it went straight to Imogen’s pussy, igniting the banked coals of her need. “I turn you on that much, huh?”
He nodded as though afraid speaking would shatter the magic of the moment, and settled a tentative, callused hand over her hip. Imogen felt a flood of tenderness surge in her breast as she gripped hold and unceremoniously worked herself down his length.
The sensation of fullness, of being split open by a hard cock, was almost enough to tip her into climax. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned, pinching her clit with slippery fingers to take the edge off.
“You okay?” Russ asked, patting tentatively at her bruised thighs. “Genie—” His face resolved into sharp relief as Imogen blinked open her eyes. She couldn’t say if it was pleasure making her see things or the rosy lens of her recent triumph, but she was suddenly struck by how handsome Russell seemed. There was a strange dignity in his features, his proud Patrician nose, his full lips—even his soft blue eyes were gorgeous in their own right. The scars he bore caught under her fingertips as she touched his marked brow, the permanent scruff of stubble on his cheek.
“Fuck me,” Imogen begged, his question already forgotten. He need not be so careful with her. She didn’t break when she got slugged in the arena and she wasn’t going to fall apart now, as his cock stretched her in all the right ways.
Russell got the hint. The timid thump-thump of his shoes hitting the floor confirmed as much, but instead of flipping them over and taking Imogen like she expected him to, he pinned his socked feet against the mattress, rocking his hips up and into hers.
“Oh—” It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t what she’d been gunning for, but it would do. Imogen raked her fingernails down his chest, her breaths hitching as she felt him rub against her G-spot.
“Good?” he murmured, choked and panting roughly with every thrust.
“Y-yeah. Fuck, keep going.” Imogen grabbed for the headboard, rising onto her knees then slamming back down into his lap. The slick sound of skin slapping skin was both divine and familiar. It struck something deep at her core, a need for physicality and passion that she couldn’t otherwise satisfy.
Russell gnashed his teeth, inching closer and closer to the edge. He seemed to be struggling to hold on already, which excited Imogen even more.
She reached for his hand and pressed his thumb awkwardly over her clit. “Touch me there,” she gasped, knowing he’d shy away from taking the initiative if she allowed it.
There wasn’t a lot of finesse to his touch as he rubbed her, his fingers too rough, his hand shaking in her grip, but it didn’t matter because Imogen could feel release within her reach. She chased it single-mindedly, sweat beading on her scalp, dripping onto his clothes. His cock jerked inside her as she began to tense. The expression on Russell’s face when it became too much all but robbed her of breath. Imogen moaned, a faltering burst of sound that cut off completely as she hurtled over the edge.
Pleasure flooded her veins, spilling from her core all the way into her fingertips. She lost her rhythm as she bucked and trembled, only distantly aware of Russ’ orgasm as his body went rigid for a few precious moments before relaxing beneath her own.
She let his hand fall out of
her grasp and slowly levered out of his lap to collapse beside him on the sheets. Russ was still wearing most of his clothes, but he was a warm, soft cushion to which she could cling as she came down from the height of climax. Pleasant exhaustion slithered into her bones, replacing the surge of adrenaline.
Imogen yawned, burrowing into the curve of Russell’s shoulder. “I was awesome tonight,” she slurred. “Say it.”
“Are you drooling on me?” Russ mumbled instead, still laid up on his back, unmoving like a statue.
Imogen mustered an acquiescing sound, too drowsy to come up with anything witty. She wanted nothing more than to lie there with Russ and fall into a dreamless sleep. For a few moments, she thought she might have some chance of getting her way. Then the mattress dipped and she felt Russell shift beside her.
“You could…if you want to stay,” Imogen started. Not her most eloquent effort, but it was all she could manage after coming harder than she’d ever managed to on her own.
Russ offered her his back, but the crinkling sound of him balling the condom up into a wad of tissues was hard to miss. “Get some sleep,” he said at length, zipping up.
“Russ—”
“I have some work left. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t exactly run out of the bedroom like a whole host of devils was on his tail, but he didn’t linger or kiss her goodbye, either. Imogen told herself it didn’t matter.
She waited for the click of the front door, then gave it another handful of minutes before rising from the bed on wobbly knees. The sheets were a mess anyway, and she couldn’t sleep wearing her sports bra. She emptied the trashcan first and foremost, as if that might erase the memory of what she’d done, before heading into the bathroom for a shower.
Russell did not materialize in the tub with her, so after five minutes, Imogen turned off the tap and found her way into a pair of soft cotton pajamas that left a lot to be desired on the sexy front. Who’d know?
Hell, even if Russell did know, he probably wouldn’t care. They weren’t like that.
It was many minutes before Imogen returned to bed and slid under the covers. Megan Luz glared down at her from the frame of a collector’s item poster, fists raised in challenge. Imogen closed her eyes, willing sleep to free her of her meandering thoughts.
If she tried hard enough, if she didn’t acknowledge the scent of Russell’s aftershave on her pillows or the sweet, lingering ache in her cunt, she could almost convince herself that the past twenty minutes had all been the product of yet another vivid fantasy. That it might well have been the kind of thing she conjured behind her eyes when she was horny—which was often enough.
The alternative was more than embarrassing. It was plain dumb. Surely she hadn’t just seduced her coach into bed once again knowing full well that he didn’t think much of her.
Imogen buried her face into the pillows, smothering a groan in cheap daffodil print.
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About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email: [email protected]
Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Helena Maeve
A Touch of Spice
Courting Treason
Collision Course
Misfit Hearts
Eden’s Embers
Flight Made Easy
In the Presence of Mine Enemy
Fault Lines
Feint and Misdirection
Wild Angels: Grounds for Divorce
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