Hard Stick

by Paige North

  He tips his baseball cap back, revealing a V-shaped red scar over his eyebrow. He’s so tough, so raw, so unlike the clean-cut, all-American boys back home. I’ve always heard about how attractive bad boys could be, but I never quite got it . . . until now. Heat stirs between my legs as he drawls, “I’m in no hurry.”

  I can’t explain why I’m happy about that. I should be scared to death. But the idea of being in this apartment, alone for the first time in my life, is suddenly terrifying. I step inside and drop my backpack in the foyer, then fumble for a light switch. When I flip it and light fills the room, the first thing I see is a giant hole in the Pepto-pink plaster wall, as if someone put a fist through it. Then, something catches the corner of my eye. A bunch of somethings. Three thousand-leggers scurrying in all directions for a hiding place.

  “Oh, god!” I shout miserably, grabbing my backpack off the floor and hugging it to my chest. “This looks nothing like the pictures.”

  “You mean, the leasing office didn’t put the bugs in the pictures?” He cocks an eyebrow at me in disbelief, and I think I see a shade of amusement in his expression. He strides forward and peeks into one of the rooms. He flips on another light switch. “Ain’t so bad.”

  I peer into a small living room and he’s right— though it smells musty, it actually looks kind of quaint. One thing I liked about this place was that it came totally furnished, which meant I wouldn’t have to spend my first few days here looking for a sofa I’d have to ditch after I got my degree at the end of the semester. And sure, the furniture has seen better days, and it’s seventies avocado plaid, but it looks comfortable, overstuffed, and perfect for vegging on (not that I’ll have much time for that, if Professor Morgan is as much of a slave-driver as they say he is). There’s also no tape-outline of a body on the floor, either, which is a plus.

  I close the front door and realize it’s hot and stuffy as hell inside. Fanning my steaming face, I peer into the kitchen. It’s small, and smells like old bacon grease, and the appliances look about a thousand years old. But it’ll serve its purpose, since all I’ve been eating my last three undergraduate years has been ramen noodles.

  Just then, I hear the ding of my phone, coming from the backpack in my arms. Another text from Brandon, I’m sure. I don’t bother to fish it out.

  When I turn around, my new friend is already heading up the staircase with my suitcases. Well, why don’t you make yourself at home? I think, following him.

  I come to a cramped landing with a small bathroom and two single, square bedrooms. If downstairs was hot, this is an inferno. I peer inside the bathroom at the austere décor, the white shower curtain, the rust-coated metal fixtures. When I about-face to take a look in the bedroom, my face nearly smacks him in his broad, broad chest. He’s leaned up against the door jamb, looking too relaxed, as if he’s the one who’s going to be living here. He’s staring at me, expectant, his eyes hard on me.

  “Um . . .” I say, to fill the silence. Brilliant.

  “You have freckles,” he observes, obviously way too close to me. My face is now probably all the shades of a summer sunset.

  “Yes,” I mutter. Thanks for noticing the one thing I’m most self-conscious about, jerk.

  Then he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair from my cheek, his fingers ever so-subtly grazing my chin.

  A bolt of pure electricity spirals through to my core. My breath catches. “What are you doing?”

  He simply shrugs, as if he hadn’t noticed his electrifying effect on me, or as if his every touch sends women wild like that.

  “It’s balls hot in here,” he remarks, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “No AC?”

  He has long, thick lashes, the kind that would make babies jealous, and I have the urge to trace my finger over the scar on his honey-colored skin. “It’s fine. I’ll open all the windows and air the place out.”

  “In this neighborhood?”

  His doubt makes me doubt myself. Okay, maybe I won’t open all the windows.

  “Well. Do you live in this neighborhood? It’s good to know someone handy nearby if I ever need something.” I try to make my voice light and unaffected, but he’s affecting me. Oh lord, yes, he is. The heat from his body is radiating to me and all I can think about is how his skin would feel against mine.

  He shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Oh. What were you doing here, then?”

  “Just out for a walk.” This would be where he leaves. But he doesn’t. It looks like he’s doing everything possible to stay. And I can’t say I mind it one bit.

  He draws in a slow breath, still studying my lips, and I know what comes next. He wants to kiss them. And, more than anything, I want him to.

  “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t check under your bed before I left, to make sure there were no monsters?” He murmurs, his voice low and breathy.

  Gentleman. That’d be the last word I’d think of when I look at him. In fact, something tells me I should be less concerned about monsters under my bed and more worried about what’s right in front of me. But I can’t help it. Those blue eyes vine their way right inside me, unraveling me, shaking loose every last care in my head. I can barely think.

  “Well,” I venture timidly, looking at the bare mattress in the center of the stark room. “Are there any?”

  He tears his eyes from me, and it’s like physical pain when he steps away, retreating into the bedroom. He leans over, dips his head close to the ground and glances under the bed for barely a second. “Nah. You’re good.”

  You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. Sexual tension, that’s what this is. I’ve never experienced anything like it before, not with any other boy, and definitely not with Brandon, but here it is, unmistakable. I can practically taste it, and already I can tell that I love it.

  But how can that be? I just met him. I’m in a strange city and it’s late and obviously I’m overtired and it’s playing with my head. I need to put an end to it. What would my mom do? I throw myself into her Easy Spirits and blurt: “You’ve been so nice. Thank you. Can I maybe get you some tea?”

  “Tea?” He’s definitely amused by that.

  Nice going, Savannah. I flush like the innocent school-girl I am. He doesn’t seem like a tea person at all, more like a hard liquor type. And I don’t have either, so why am I playing hostess? He raises that eyebrow again, pulls off his hat, and fixes it so it’s backwards on his head. Now, he doesn’t look quite so dangerous, just slightly younger.

  But still not like someone who likes tea.

  “Okay,” I say, heading for the staircase, “Maybe not tea but how about a glass of—“

  Before I can leave the room, his hand is on my bare arm, searing the flesh there, and as I whirl to see what he’s doing, he crushes his mouth onto mine.

  Chapter 2

  I gasp against his mouth in surprise, but that doesn’t stop him. Oh, no, he knows what he wants, and I have a feeling he always gets it.

  He kisses me deeper, harder, his hand reaching up, tugging my hair free of the bun. I surrender at once.

  My legs give way under me, and I sway against him. I slide my tongue into his mouth to taste him, and it mingles with his. He has a masterful tongue. There’s nothing tentative about it at all. He’s claiming what he wants.

  Me.

  And it doesn’t matter that all my life I’ve been the good girl, the one who doesn’t do stuff like this. I’m in the city now, playing by an entirely new set of rules.

  He growls, pressing against me, all hard muscle and searching hands, and god, I can’t get enough, my mind spinning and my whole body tingling. I feel drunk and giddy as his hands work their way under my tank top. They’re just as I imagined. Big, callused, hot on my skin . . . I groan aloud as they find my breasts, kneading them with such power that I cry out, his thumbs rubbing over each peaked nipple.

  He tears his lips from my mouth with a deep, ragged breath. “Fuck, they sure know how to grow tits in t
he heartland,” he growls, licking his way down my throat. I throw back my head and let out a shaky breath as pleasure courses through my body.

  Now his hands find the spaghetti straps of my tank top and yank them down before I have a chance to utter a protest. Not that I would; every ounce of shame I have is gone, replaced by unbearable need.

  I cling to him, desperate, knocking his baseball cap to the ground and twining my fingers through his thick hair as he descends lower on my body. He takes my breast in his hand and sucks my nipple into his mouth. His tongue is so hot that I gasp aloud, falling deeper and deeper under his spell. I arch up against him, wanting to give him more.

  I lean back, breathing hard as he feasts on my breasts, thinking, Who is this girl? I shutter out any thoughts of back home, the people I left who would surely think I’m insane. Why can’t I just do what feels right, for once, instead of what is right?

  Because, God, this feels right. He’s so hungry and powerful and raw and even if I never see him again, I need this.

  “Come here,” he growls, gripping my ass and lifting me, wrapping my legs around him so that I can feel his hardness through the two layers of denim separating us. He guides me toward the mattress in the center of the room, laying me down.

  Standing over me, between my legs, his eyes are heavy lidded, full of desire. All I can do is stare up at the man who is claiming me. My tank top is down around my waist. He reaches over, and with no trouble, unsnaps the button on my jean shorts, then starts to ease them down over my hips.

  I feel the material falling past my knees before dropping to the floor, leaving me almost completely exposed to him, except for my little pink thong. His fingers find their way under the thin string of material at my hips, and before I can think, he removes them, as well. I draw in a sharp breath as he stands between my thighs, spreading them.

  I struggle onto my elbows as he bends in front of me, his eyes trained on my clit. “Wait,” I say, suddenly realizing what he’s up to. “I don’t . . . I’ve never . . .”

  “You’ve never had anyone lick you before?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Brandon . . . never. I don’t know why. He was scared enough about sex in general that it never even got to that. But the thought of this man’s magical tongue on me makes every nerve in my body sizzle with electricity.

  “New city, new experiences,” he murmurs. He bends his head and licks his way up my thigh. He pauses, his breath on me enough to send me soaring into oblivion. When his tongue gently touches the sensitive nub, I arch up and let out a cry.

  “Oh, my God,” I groan.

  His tongue has a straight shot right up to my very center, igniting fireworks. Everything that I thought I knew was nothing. This is what real pleasure is.

  Whatever his tongue is doing to my clit, it’s enough to make me writhe on the bed. I buck in time to his lapping, spreading my legs apart. Wider and wider, shamelessly. My dignity doesn’t matter anymore. All there is the feeling of his tongue on me.

  And then, just when I think it can’t possibly get any better, it does. He inserts a curled finger into my pussy, pumping it slowly in and out, once, twice . . . and then I lose it.

  I thrash on the bed, biting my fist so hard I’m sure I draw blood. “My god,” I mumble, my voice choked by my hand. “Please . . .”

  “Come now,” he says.

  I have no choice but to obey the command. I shatter to pieces, filled with liquid heat and electricity, like a freaking volcano blowing its top off. I scream and writhe as I tangle my hands in his hair, grinding myself shamelessly against his mouth.

  “Well,” he says, as he pulls away. The stubble around his mouth is wet with my juices. I blush, but he seems so very unaffected. Like he brings women to their knees all the time. “Did you enjoy that?”

  Oh yes, yes yes. But I can barely make my lips move to form actual words.

  My heart beats a wild drumbeat in my ears. I need to do something, now, to take the focus off of me. So I pull him toward me, my hands searching the rock hard muscles of his chest. Oh, he was more than an athlete in school. He must work out every day. I lift the hem of his shirt and he helps me by pulling it up the rest of the way, and . . . yep. If he doesn’t work out every spare minute of the day, then God must’ve blessed him mightily. I’ve never seen anything more exquisitely sculpted. The tattoo that I’d spied on his neck is a vine, cascading over his chiseled collarbone, curling over one bulging, lean pectoral. I reach for him, licking at his nipple, first. His skin is sweet, salty, and I want more.

  I scoot myself to the edge of the bed and we change positions. He sits down and lies back. I unfasten his belt buckle, pushing his jeans and underwear down, then my eyes fasten on his cock, which is resting, rigid, on his stomach. My goodness, it’s just more and more perfection. It’s almost a shame to keep this covered. There is nothing about him that says boy . . . he’s all, one-hundred percent, glorious man.

  I almost don’t feel worthy of touching it, so my fingertips graze it gently at first. Then I wrap my palm around his hard, thick, scorching hot length. I’ve never done this before, but the words keep reverberating in my ears: New city, new experiences. And I want to do this. I don’t even know this man, and yet I want to please him, to pleasure him.

  I shift back on his legs so I’m on my shins, straddling his knees. He’s so so thick in my palm, all veined and powerful and beautiful, I can barely breathe at the thought of what I’m about to do. It’s something I’ve never done, though I’ve thought about it a million times. But now, it finally seems right. I slide my hand down to his base, then up again, starting a little rhythm. “This good?” I ask him through a veil of hair.

  “Yeah. Harder. I’m not gonna break,” he says, his voice husky, labored. “Put your mouth on me.”

  I throw my hair to the side so I can see him and let his expressions guide me. Then I lean over and touch my tongue tentatively to the tip of his cock. There is a bit of moisture on the end, and he tastes of salt and heat. It’s a magnetic taste, and I want more. He grunts, and sits up on his elbows watching me, his eyes half-closed, dazed with desire. For me.

  I never knew I could have this power over a man. It gives me confidence. Gathering the courage, I run my tongue down the length of his shaft, up and down.

  I lift the length of it and suck the entirety into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.

  He tangles a hand in my hair at the base of my neck and pushes me down, further, further. I can feel him shudder a bit as he hits the back of my throat. He groans. “Fuck that’s good,” he growls. “This is fucking incredible.”

  Huh. I was never good at much. At school, I was always a mediocre student, and in sports, I never was excelled. Hearing him say that this feels good, on only my first time out, is only making me more rabid to please him, to reduce him to the shivery mass of jelly he’s made me.

  I pull off, then sink down again, this time gauging it better so I won’t come close to gagging. I suck him deeper, deeper, and I can tell from the rapturous look on his face that he likes it. I start to set a rhythm, cupping his balls in my hand and massaging them, and he starts to move with me, thrusting up and into my mouth.

  His hands are all hard pressure on the back of my head, urging me on. His breathing is ragged, and I know that he’s close.

  Suddenly he pushes me back. “Stop. I want to fuck you,” he says. “Let me feel that tight pussy of yours, okay?”

  Though he is totally in control here, I feel like he’s speaking my thoughts. I want him inside me. In fact, the thought of it sends a pulse of pure desire straight into my center. I nod.

  I pull back, holding his cock up, and start to position myself over it. I want nothing more than to sink onto him, to feel him thrusting into me.

  Then I suddenly stop.

  I’m on the pill, but this isn’t Brandon. This is a man I’ve only just met. My confidence falters, and I do, too.

  He notices. “Condom’s in my wallet.”

  I slink o
ff his body and find his jeans pooled on the floor. I pull out his wallet and see a picture of a little girl in pigtails. So he has a family? “Is this your . . .”

  He blinks, and his expression transforms. The desire leaks away. “Sister,” he mutters.

  “Oh.” I push it aside and pull out the condom. I swallow. He looks at me, and I can tell he sees my hesitation. “Sorry. I don’t normally do stuff like this.”

  The heavy-lidded, desirous look in his eyes is now completely gone, replaced by a rigid, lucid look of alarm.

  He plucks the condom out of my hands. Instead of ripping it open, he nudges me aside and hangs off the edge of the bed, reaching for his jeans. “On second thought, I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Is there a . . .”

  He pulls on his jeans and finds his shirt “No problem, Savannah. I’ve just got to go.”

  Suddenly, I feel so cold. Used. And I didn’t even sleep with him. Yes, I was close. And yes, I wanted to. I still want to. But he’s not having any of it.

  He’s putting on his shoes when he lets out a short laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He picks something up off the ground and shows it to me. It’s a small brass key.

  My key. The one I . . .

  Oh, my goodness. “Where did you . . .”

  He points at his feet. “On the floor. Think it fell out of your pocket.”

  I cover my hand with my mouth, my face heating up. If I’d just dug my hands a little further into the pockets of my jeans, then I likely never would’ve met him. I never would’ve been here, with him, naked in bed. “Oh, my gosh.”

  He sits back on the bed and grins at me. “You ever say fuck, girl?” He says. “You know, like Oh, fuck. Because that would fit nicely in this situation.”

  I shake my head.

  “Wow. You even just cringed when I said the word. It bothers you country girls that much?”