Sin With Me

by JA Huss

  She leans back, hands just above my knees, and pushes herself up and then down, forward and then back, sometimes wiggling her hips in little circles, sometimes not. It feels like I’m being fucked, blown, massaged, tickled, drugged, and fed strawberry ice cream all at the same time.

  “You gonna come for me?” she asks.

  “I think I can make that happen,” I barely moan out as I’m starting to lose the ability to make thoughts into words.

  And now she begins to lift her body up and down, bouncing on my dick slightly as she goes back and forth. Stroking my shaft and bending it all at once, and I automatically start thrusting up to meet her on every return she makes toward me. And seamlessly, progressively, our thrusts get faster. She’s punishing my cock and I’m trying as hard as I can to tear through the ceiling and launch us out into the night sky so we can touch the stars.

  She’s panting, she’s moaning, she’s squealing, and every sound that leaves her perfect, precious body just makes me fuck her that much harder.

  Her red ringlets are bouncing up and down, her perfect, beautiful tits are bouncing with them. She has her hands on my chest now, giving me the sexiest CPR in history. I prop myself on my elbows so that I can get my hips up and dig into her as deeply as possible. Her eyes are closed as she bounces and wiggles and grinds.

  I suddenly remember a Yogi I met when I was in India. He tried to tell me about Tantric sex but I kind of blew it off. I’m regretting that now. Big time. Because I don’t want to come yet. I don’t. I want to stay in this moment for as long as possible.

  But unfortunately, I’m not a Tantric Yogi, I’m just a fucking dumb, broken, marred, undeserving, and—at the moment—very lucky SOB who’s with a woman he’s been dreaming about. Literally. And I can’t hold out another second more.

  “Fuck, angel, I’m gonna come,” I manage to say.

  “Yeah, yes, do it. Fill me up. Fucking fill me up. I need to be filled. Please.”

  And just like before, it’s the ‘please’ that does me in. And with one last push, I unload inside her. My stomach tightens and I sit up straight, grabbing her behind the back and locking my mouth to hers. Her legs wrap tighter behind me, pulling us closer and closer together and pushing her hips down so that she can take as much of me in as is humanly possible.

  I keep thrusting and I feel the inside of the condom filling with come. And I just keep coming. And as I shout out one last “Fuck,” the final bit of sticky heat shoots out of me. I’m gasping for breath. So is she. We are both completely spent and drained and lost inside the other. I touch my forehead to hers and go to kiss her, kind of catching her on the nose by accident. She giggles.

  I lean back, resting on my elbows, my legs dangling over the sides of my kitchen island (which is currently being put to the best use it’s seen since I bought the place) and just… look at her. Her hair is a mess and it’s beautiful. The cut on her lip where I bit her before has stopped bleeding, but the little nick remains. And it’s beautiful. The creamy whiteness of her skin is blotched red from the workout she just had. And it’s beautiful.

  She’s fucking beautiful.

  She starts gnawing at her bottom lip, a gleam in her eye and a smile creeping up.

  “What?” I ask.

  She doesn’t say anything. Just keeps smiling.

  “What?” I laugh out a little bit.

  She pulls her legs back so that she can bend over fully, she leans down close to my face so that our lips almost touch, she lets out a tiny breath, and she says…

  “So. Did you come?”

  Chapter Eighteen - Tyler

  “You’ve got like twenty different kinds of whiskey, ten different kinds of beer, but no bottles of water…”

  She’s looking through my refrigerator and cabinets. I’m sitting on a stool at the island watching her. We’re both still naked. She’s so pretty.

  “The fridge has a water thing in it—”

  She grabs a glass and goes to press the water button.

  “—but I can’t get it to work. Think it’s broken. I need to call a guy.”

  She stares at me, smiles and shakes her head.

  “The sink works fine,” I tell her.

  “Gross. I’m not drinking tap water.”

  “You drank my come, but you won’t drink tap water?”

  “I don’t know where the water’s from. I got the come directly from the source.” She opens the menu/condom drawer. “But I could be persuaded to boil some… I saw a couple of tea bags when you had the drawer open, and… aha.” Indeed, she pulls out two tea bags. They must have been included with one of the Chinese food deliveries.

  “You want a cup of tea?”

  And suddenly, I’m having a very uncomfortable moment of déjà vu.

  “Hey…” She waves her hand in front of my face. “Tea?” She holds up the bags.

  “You sure you don’t just want some whiskey? Beer?” I ask.

  She laughs. “No. Normally I would. Usually I do. But I’m trying to… I think I’m gonna lay off drinking for a while. Fresh start. Tomorrow’s gonna be a new day.” She smiles. It melts me.

  “Joy cometh with the morning,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Hm? Oh. Nothing.” Then I add, “But you’re sure you don’t want, like, just some plain old dirty tap water? Anything at all other than tea, maybe?”

  She smiles again, but while making a tiny frown with her eyes. “Weirdo,” she mumbles at me. She’s right.

  She fills up the electric kettle with water and hits the button to turn it on. “So what happened there?” she asks. She’s referring to the charred toast briquette which I still haven’t bothered to remove from the see-through toaster.

  “Oh. Uh, toast. Is. Y’know. Tricky.”

  She turns to face me and eyes me with suspicion.

  “What? It is,” I say. “Plus, like everything in this apartment, it’s all too fuckin’ fancy to figure out. I think the settings on everything are metric or something.”

  She saunters across the narrow channel between the cabinets and the island where just a short time before she was suspended in the air, held aloft by my cock, and leans in across from me. She rests her elbows on the counter and I very cautiously place my forearms down and allow the tips of my fingers to touch hers. She doesn’t pull away. Which makes me happy.

  Then she takes a deep breath and says, “So… like, serious question?”

  I tap my fingers on hers and nod, “Sure. OK.”

  “What do you do to afford this place?”

  “The lumberjack game is crazy lucrative,” I say.

  “Seriously, dude. Are you, what? High-stakes poker player? Drug trafficker? Please don’t be a fucking drug trafficker. I don’t need that shit right now.”

  “No.” I laugh. “I’m not… uh… I kind of helped invent a thing that we… or I… was able to sell to the government for a shitload of money, but like also I kind of was able to hold onto the patent so that I could sell it to private corporations for their own applications and shit and I also got to keep an ownership stake and royalties and blah, blah, blah, whatever, I made a bunch of cash.”

  She nods. “What is it?” she asks. “What’d you invent?”

  “Just… me and this other guy, Nadir, we… do you know what EOD stands for?”

  “Um… Excited Orgasmic Dicks?”

  God, I think I love this girl.

  “No.” I laugh. “I mean, yes, but in this case… Explosive Ordnance Disposal. It’s like a job in the military that’s there to keep shit from blowing up on people.”

  “… OK.”

  “So, yeah, so it’s a fucked-up, dangerous job, and me and this other guy invented this, like, Artificial Intelligence Augmentation—or, like, I kind of thought of it and then he figured out how to actually make it work—but this thing that could be applied to the robots they sometimes use to make ’em more, like, intuitive and reliable and whatever, and help eliminate the risk to, y’kno
w, human people. Whatever. It’s not actually all that exciting.”

  She’s very, very quiet for a moment. I see her looking at my scars.

  After a second, she asks, “Where’s Nadir?”

  I don’t answer. Or I do. Just without actually saying anything.

  “Yeah,” she says. Then, “So why Vegas?”

  “Why—? You mean why’d I move to Vegas?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shrug. “Dunno. Tried other places. Lived in New York for a while. Kicked around. But I grew up here, so I figured I’d just come home. Plus, y’know, there’s no corporate income tax in Nevada, so… Actually, I don’t really understand that part, but my business manager told me it was a good thing.”

  She laughs. Kind of. Then she gets serious again.

  “So you grew up here? In Vegas?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, ’til I was eighteen and then I split.”

  She nods, again, kind of. Then she pulls her hands away from mine so that our fingers are no longer touching. Which makes me not happy. She stares off.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s up?”

  “I—Nothing,” she says. Then she asks, “Hey, how old are you?”

  And suddenly I start to feel hot and a little panicky. “Oh, shit. Fuck me. How old are YOU?” I respond.

  She half-laughs. “Relax, man. I’m twenty-five. I’m a big girl.”

  “OK. Cool. Sorry, I just—”

  “No, I get it, but maybe you should have asked sooner.”

  “Well, hell, I dunno. I just figured you work in a strip club so you must be at least—”

  “Yeah, no, I got it.”

  All of the sudden, it’s awkward. I’m not completely sure why. But it’s gotten quiet and it feels like it’s hard to talk. I’m not sure what to say. But I try.

  “So where are you from?” I come up with.

  She eyes me, still with some reservation. “Vegas,” she says, finally.

  “No shit,” I say. “Where’d you go to high school? I mean, we probably would’ve missed each other, but—”

  “What did you mean, you dreamed about me?” she interrupts.

  Things are very testy all of a sudden and I don’t like it. I also wish that I hadn’t told her that I dreamed about her. Because I cannot tell her what THE DREAM is all about. Best-case scenario, she thinks I’m crazy (I AM, of course, crazy, but I don’t want HER to think that) and fucking takes off on me. Worst-case scenario, even just talking about THE DREAM brings it into reality somehow and it plays out in real life, here in my kitchen. I don’t know the metaphysics of dream-to-reality science, but I don’t need my whole world going up in flames. Especially not tonight. Not on this night of all nights. Not on this night where for the first time in years, I feel something other than shame, and misery, and regret. So I decide to see if I can get this train back on the tracks.

  “I didn’t mean anything. Hey, how long you been stripping?” I say. (Smooth, Tyler. Nice work.)

  She squints. Like she’s sizing me up. Like she’s trying to figure something out.

  “Not long,” she says. “So where were you headed when you picked me up?”

  I pause. Then, “I dunno. Just driving. I was maybe gonna get out of town. Fuckin’ hate Halloween.”

  She shifts her neck back. Like she’s pulling away. “Why?” she asks.

  I don’t understand why things are weird, but something inside me is telling me that too much truth right now would be a bad thing. I want to tell her the truth. I do. I want to tell her everything about me, but she’s getting skittish and I know exactly what the air feels like before a bomb explodes, and that’s how the air in this room feels right now, so I’m keenly aware that I should move ahead carefully.

  “Just, you know,” I start, “Halloween just feels like an excuse for idiots to play pretend that they’re something they’re not. Dudes get to act like superheroes even though they aren’t and girls dress up like whores and prance around like it’s funny or…” Shit. That seems to make her bristle a bit, so I add, “Present company excluded.”

  She still very much does not smile but we’re in Vegas, so fuck it, I double down.

  “I mean it! You look like… well, shit… you look like an angel. You’re just… you’re beautiful, and you’re kind, and you’re smart, and you’re funny, and when I saw you standing in the road like that, you really did look like an angel fallen from Heaven. And, I dunno, I probably sound hokey, but whatever. I think you’re amazing. And so, y’know, thank you. Because you helped me hate Halloween just a little bit less.” I smile.

  She sighs, bows her head, and peers up at me through her eyelids.

  “Listen, it’s true. And you know what? You can believe that or not if you want, because…” I put on what can only be described as a fucking terrible Rhett Butler impersonation and say, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  She half-smiles, half-looks confused.

  “It’s from Gone with the Wind. ’Cause, y’know, ‘cause you’re Scarlett, and—”

  “Yeah, I, I get it,” she says.

  She still seems annoyed. I shrug, “Sorry. I like movies.”

  I stare down at the floor. I feel like a little kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar. I’m trying so hard not to fuck everything up but somehow, I’m failing. And I am immediately hyper-conscious that we are both still naked.

  She takes a long breath and then slowly approaches the counter again.

  “I’m sorry if I’m being weird. I just kinda hate Halloween too.”

  “Yeah? Why do you?”

  She takes a long pause, studies my face, and then says, “Same reasons.”

  The bell on the kettle dings.

  “Top shelf, bottom left cabinet,” I say, meaning that’s where she can find a mug.

  She turns, pulls a mug from the shelf, places one of the tea bags in, and begins pouring the hot water. The steam rises up around her head, creating the illusion from behind of smoke coming off her fiery red mane. Then she places the kettle down and continues holding the mug. She doesn’t turn around. Her shoulders lift as she takes in a deep breath, and then fall as she releases it. Then she asks…

  “What’s your name?”

  My heart starts racing. Fast. Like real fast. Like holy fucking shit, I’m having a heart attack fast. Then I wonder if I am having a heart attack. Maybe I am. But they say that when you have a heart attack you’re supposed to smell the smell of toast. And I don’t. Smell toast. Or is that for a stroke? And does it matter? Because there’s burnt toast still in the toaster, so couldn’t it just be that I’m smelling that toast? Which I’m not. Smelling toast, that is. So I can’t be having a heart attack. Unless that’s not the smell. Fuck!

  “Sorry. What?” I ask as calmly as I can.

  “I said… what’s your real name?”

  I don’t know why this is freaking me out. This is what I wanted. I’ve wanted to know her and to have her know me. I think. No. I know it. I know I have. I really, really, really like this angel. Shit, maybe I love this angel. I don’t know if that’s possible, but it’s the feeling I feel. I think. Fuck. A. Duck. OK. She’s asked a simple question and I should just give a simple answer. It’ll be awesome. Now she’ll know me and then I’ll get to know her, and we can start building our perfect life together. Because that’s how this is supposed to go. Because it has to. Because I’ve earned it.

  Because I’ve earned it.

  “… Um… Tyler,” I say. “My name’s Tyler Morgan.”

  — There’s a famous moment in the movie The Usual Suspects. It’s right at the very end. It’s the moment where Detective Dave Kujan, played by Chazz Palminteri, discovers who the mysterious Keyser Söze is and that he’s been talking with him, alone in a room, just the two of them, for the whole movie. He realizes suddenly that this entire time, he’s been conversing with an entity of pure evil. An unrepentant, unforgiving, unconscionable myth of a demon whose only function here on earth is to hurt and punish and to serve
his own base, selfish wants and desires. He has been communing with the devil himself. And that moment of realization is symbolized by the coffee mug Detective Kujan has been holding, slipping, in slow motion, from his grip and falling to the floor where it shatters into pieces just as his understanding of reality and the world he occupies shatters along with it. —

  That exact thing, to the letter, is what happens now, in my kitchen.

  The mug goes crashing to the floor, spilling hot tea as it shatters around her feet. I jump up from my stool.

  “What! What’s wrong? What happened? Are you OK?”

  She places both hands on the edge of the sink in front of her and her shoulders begin heaving and convulsing. I can tell she’s hyperventilating. I jump up to come around and see if she’s OK. She raises her right hand in the air, palm toward me, and shouts, “No!” I stop in my tracks.

  “Don’t!” she yells. “Don’t you fucking come near me!”

  I think I am having a fucking heart attack. For real.

  “I—I—” I stammer, like an idiot. “I don’t—What’s wrong?”

  I can sort of see, as I try to peek through the shroud of red hair that drapes her face, that tears have started streaming down her cheeks. She’s attempting to get her breathing under control, gasping air and swallowing.

  She wails, “Oh, God. Oh, my God. Oh, dear fucking Jesus God, WHY!!!???”

  I’m seriously about to lose my shit. I’ve never felt like this in my life. Not even in combat.

  “Please,” I plead, “Please, please, please tell me what’s wrong. Please…”

  She takes two more short, sharp breaths, and then she turns to face me, eyes filled with tears, cheeks as fire-red as her flaming hair, and she screams right in my face…

  “IT’S MADDIE! I’M FUCKING MADDIE CLAYTON, TYLER!”

  —There’s a reason I’ve watched a lot of movies. Escape. As a kid, after my mom died, I needed to get away sometimes, so I’d escape to the movies. Evan, Scotty, and I could sometimes sneak from one theatre to the next and spend all day there. And then when I was deployed, we all would watch movies a lot. Same reason. When you’re not on patrol or on a mission, there’s not always a fuck-ton to do so watching movies is a good way to escape your shitty situation and kill time. So now, all these years later, I still think of things kinda cinematically from time to time. And there’s an effect they use in like horror movies and stuff, especially older ones, where they’ll like move the camera backwards while pushing the lens forward and it makes it feel like the character on screen is being pushed and pulled at the same time or falling away and getting closer all at once. It’s always that moment when someone’s world has just been turned upside down… I can’t see my face right now, but I know that’s what’s happening to me.—