Bend

by K. Bromberg

  Holy Jesus Hell.

  He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.

  “If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.

  “Is that so?”

  I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.

  “I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.

  “… beautiful creature. You feel so perfect. So open, so willing. I want to take every piece of you with my cock. Open up your world, and make you mine. Taste you on my mouth. Feel this sensation against the bare skin of my cock. God, I want you so badly. Have thought about you all day.”

  His mouth stops moving, stops talking, crushes back on mine, communicating the most with its desperation, his fingers thrusting and then slowly halting their movement, and just staying in place, buried inside, my sex fuller than it has been in a long time. I drop my hand off his shoulders, let the one that has been digging lines of need into his back fall as a wave of sexual contentment moves in.

  His mouth slows, and he slides my leg down, tugs my dress back down, keeping our kiss uninterrupted, his hands moving to cup both sides of my face as his legs straddle mine, my push against the wall less intense as our interaction changes to something less dirty. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against my own as he lets out a long breath that is half groan in its makeup. “God, Riley.”

  He sounds so pained, so remorseful, that I almost check for a wedding ring, almost push against his chest to look into his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t do anything but enjoy the scent of his cologne, the view out of the bottom of my lashes, one of expensive fabric and a peek of tan skin.

  “I don’t know what to do with you.” He finishes the statement with a brush over my lips, his hands lifting my face until it is turned up to him, our eyes meeting for the first moment since I lost all sense.

  Damn, I could look in this man’s eyes all day. Could get lost in them, move for them, lie, steal, die for them. I stare in his eyes and fully accept that I am a woman. Vulnerable, emotional, delicate, easily overcome. I don’t know this man. Have shared less than a hundred sentences with him. Have just given him a piece of my virtue in the form of a finger fuck on a dirty Bahamian street in the dead of night.

  I stare in his eyes and say nothing. Memorize the dark depths of them. The thick fringe of lashes that I’d accuse of being mascara enhanced had he not radiated masculinity from every pore on his body.

  “I don’t need to ask if you do this often. Your body betrays you of the impossibility of that fact.” He speaks tightly, his hands keeping my face up, my eyes arrested by him, not that I have any plans of looking away in this lifetime. “I don’t. I can’t. This … is not normal.” His eyes drop to my lips and he bends, takes a long draw of my mouth, as if it is the last time we will ever kiss. He groans, and my shoulders are suddenly pushed back against stucco. “Fuck,” he swears. “God, I need you underneath me.” He releases me, steps away, rubs his mouth as he turns, half in the light, the shadows protecting me from the meat of his stare.

  “So take me.” The voice coming out of my chest is not my own. It is of a confident woman who admits what she wants, takes what she needs.

  He drops his hand, stares at me. “You don’t mean that. You’d regret it in the morning. And I don’t do one-night stands.”

  “Meaning?” I stay against the wall. He can come to me if he wants something. I don’t know if, at this point in time, my legs have the capacity to move anyway.

  He does come. Is in front of me in three strides, his hands on either side of my head, flat against the wall, his eyes intense, inches from mine. I smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. I notice the angle of his body, his hips too far away when all I want is them pressed against me. Is he still hard? ’Cause I am still wet. Desperately so. “Meaning,” he growls, “that if I have you, you will be mine. You will not return to life as you know it. You will not flirt with men around the water cooler at work. You will bend for me, spread for me, allow me to have every inch of your surface, all while screaming my name and shuddering into my heart. That is what I mean.”

  Holy shit. I try to breathe normally. Try to stop my pulse from jumping through my skin. Try to speak in a way that doesn’t cause my voice to shake. “We don’t have water coolers.”

  He smiles, and the change pulls me off of whatever ledge I am gripping onto. Oh my word. White, perfect teeth. A goddamn mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I can’t figure out if I like his intense side or smiling side more, but I try and hold on to this look for as long as I can. “And the rest?”

  “I don’t think that’s a decision I can make without having your cock first.”

  He tilts his head. “Worried I will disappoint?”

  Hell to the no. “Girl’s gotta be safe.” I release my own smile, one with much less potency, but the best card I have in this the situation.

  His face darkens, the grin disappearing as intensity steals back over. “I’m not joking, Riley. About having you.”

  I watch his eyes, the shudder in them as they look from my lips to my eyes to the door. All minute twitches of his pupils, his head unmoving, his entire body so still it may be made of steel. Controlled intensity. I don’t doubt his words. I also know that there is no way I can anything say but yes to this man. My body won’t allow any other response. “Then take me.”

  Confirmation in the set of his face, the fire that comes to his eyes, the forward press of his pelvis as he gathers me back, pulling me tightly, his mouth coming back down to claim me. Yes, he is still hard. I smile against his mouth.

  Chapter 5

  The driver’s name is Leo. White Escalade with custom rims, tinted windows. I step into the backseat, Brett’s head following me inside, his long legs cramped in the backseat. I clutch my purse, smile at Leo as he shuts the door. I had parted with the girls, their protective nature insisting on a face to face with Brett before letting me disappear into the night. Jena had taken it one step further, getting his business card and verifying his cell. He smiled through it all, relaxed and at ease, the intensity of our alley romp gone as he shook hands, oh my god, those fingers were in me, remembered names, and stole all of their hearts.

  The SUV moves, rocking over cobblestone steps that pirates once roamed, the movement of the car tossing me slightly. Brett’s hand finds me in the darkness.

  “Sorry about the interrogation in there.”

  “I’m not. They’re watching out for you. It’s the smart thing to do.”

  I bite the edge of my smile. “You say that. Jena Crawford has your number. You might regret that in the wee hours of the morning. I think her second major was drunk dialing.”

  He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I can handle it.”

  I glance to the front. To the Bahamian man less than five feet away. “What you said in the alley, about what this will mean …”

  “Yes.”

  I shrug. “I just want you
to know that I’m a big girl. I’m not gonna attach anything to this. If it doesn’t turn out to be anything.”

  He looks out the window. Tugs at the front of his dress pants, adjusting himself, he says, “I may have spoken out of turn. I’m not used to this.”

  I lower my voice. “We can have sex. Without it meaning anything.”

  “I’m not seventeen, Riley. I’m familiar with the concept.”

  I shut my mouth. Do my own turn of looking out the window, trying to decide if I should bail on this man when we hit the hotel lobby. It is easier when I look out the window. When I don’t see the line of his jaw and imagine how it tastes. When I don’t look in those eyes and fall further into trouble. Then he moves my hand, from the armrest where he had held it, to his lap. Pushes my palm flat against him, and I lose a bit of my breath. Wow.

  His hand atop mine, he drags my palm—my exploring, inquisitive fingers—from his belt buckle to his leg, letting me feel exactly how much, how hard, he wants me. I dart my eyes, trying to see more, but the dark cab shows me nothing but the glow of his eyes. Watching me, his mouth hidden by shadow. Those eyes closing briefly when I grip him through the fabric. “More,” he breathes.

  I fumble with the zipper, my own hand struggling, his hand moving to help, holding the fabric tightly as I drag down the metal tag, holding my breath, hoping the driver’s music will drown out the sound, the man’s head not moving, not turning, when the action ends, my hand stealing in and coming in immediate contact with bare cock.

  A moment when my body relaxes as my fingers wrap around it, as if I am finally at piece in a place where I belong and everything else can subside. I am touching it. The thought is a shot of arousal to my body. I move my hand, explore. My first thought, when I wrap my hands around it, the observation that my thumb and index finger don’t meet. That his fingers that had satisfied me so easily in that alley—won’t hold a candle to this organ. I squirm a bit in my seat. Grip him with my full hand and am rewarded with an exhale of breath.

  A squeal of brakes. I look up and realize we are stopping. At a toll booth, Leo leans out the window, the street lights of the toll plaza casting in full light, my hand on Brett’s ohmygodthatisgorgeous cock. He leans forward quickly, pushing my hand gently to the side, and my ears hear the faint sound of a zipper closing.

  “Royal Towers.” He puts his hands on the front headrests, resting his weight on them as he speaks to the driver, and I fight the urge to run my hand over the line of his back. It’s been so long since I touched a man in a loving way. So long since I was in a role other than that of professional friend—sweet ol’ Riley.

  I don’t touch his back. I sit, my hands between my knees, the heat of my fingers remembering the lines of his cock. The ridge between his shaft and his head. How it moved slightly in my hand when I grabbed it. The warmth of his skin.

  Then the truck stops, a burst of air brushes over my bare legs, and I accept Leo’s hand and exit the vehicle.

  “Thank you.” Brett’s hand is on my arm, taking over from Leo, firm pressure in his touch as he guides me toward the entrance, his steps quick, my heels almost struggling to keep up. I tug on his hand, and his head turns, notes my agitation and he slows his gait. “I’m sorry.” He loops an arm around my shoulders, presses a kiss on the top of my head. “Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”

  Do I want to grab a drink at the bar? I don’t think I can handle the wait to walk down the hotel hallway, much less sit out the agonizing process of ordering, sipping, then paying for an unneeded drink. I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”

  He holds the door, our eyes catching for a moment as I pass through. Just that catch, that brief hold of two stares … it relights the fire that didn’t need any additional fuel. I don’t know why I’m going to fuck this man. There is no sense or reason in the decision. But there is need. There is need, and there will be satisfaction. I don’t know what is about to happen, but I know it will be different than anything I have ever had. Anyone I have ever fucked. I feel like I did when I was a virgin. Nervous. Apprehensive. Excited. The hand on my back guides me to an unfamiliar elevator, and I wait as he presses the button.

  Chapter 6

  Brett Jacobs watches her. Thinks. This is a mistake. He should be back in that alley. Or in the smoke of the club. Drinking. Watching. Entertaining himself. He doesn’t take strange women into his bed. His head, his heart, doesn’t understand that. Fucking should have a purpose, should contribute to an end goal. There is no end goal that will work in this scenario. She is from Georgia for God’s sake. Here on a bachelorette party, surrounded by a group of friends with eyes of hawks and sex drives of donkeys. A fuck with her will accomplish nothing—lead nowhere. The words his idiotic mouth had uttered in that alley will never work. What did he expect? That after a few hours in his bed, she will commit to him? Fill the hole that has existed for as long as he can remember? This woman who moves before him, the one who smells of lilies and brown sugar, has her own life. One he knows nothing about. A life that breathes fire and independence. One with roots and commitments and, for all he knows, its own leading man. He watches as the elevator doors open and she steps out, his hand reaching out, snagging the delicate warmth of her wrist, and dragging her to the side, rougher than necessary, his sudden need to know more asserting its dominance. He releases her wrist when she stumbles sideways, catching her weight and pinning it against the closest wall.

  “Jeez.” The word comes out as an annoyed huff, her eyes flashing as he moves closer, places a hand on the wall beside her head, and stares into her eyes. “What is it with you and walls?”

  “What’s it about you?”

  “Me?” She lifts her chin, looks at him head on.

  “I can’t stop myself. I want to pin you and fuck you against every surface I come to.” He swallows. Refocuses his agitation. “Are you in a relationship?”

  Her body tightens. Breath shortens. Eyes focus on his mouth. All reactions he is familiar with. Can read as easily as a financial statement. Lust. A struggle against the reaction, her mind arguing with her want, her eyes losing focus as she licks her lips to wet them. Good God. He barely hears her response, hears the two-letter word sigh out of her lips as she leans against the wall, and he lets himself do what he’s thought about for the last fifteen minutes. Taste that sweet fucking tongue. Reach down and lift her up. Wrap her legs around his waist and carry her the short distance to his door, his hand fumbling with the key, mouths fighting in their frantic quest for more more more. Brett turns the handle, pushes the door, steps into the darkness and carries her to the bed. Tossing her off him, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Collect his wits. From behind, he hears the click of the closing door and, for the first time since meeting her, they are truly and completely alone together. He sends a short prayer upward for strength, restraint, the ability to touch her and be gentle.

  Chapter 7

  “Stay here.” His breath seems harder than necessary, the wild look in his eyes enough to keep me in place, my own lust aiding in the desire to speed this process along. He steps away, running a hand through his hair, moves to the doors at the end of the room, opens the slider fully. Standing there for a moment, his hands high on the doorframe, his head hangs slightly as he appears to think.

  I prop myself up. Make a conscious decision to ignore his directive and stand. Walk across the room until I am behind him. His back straightens, and he turns, his face dark, silhouetted by the lit night before him.

  I stop. Look up into the darkness that is his face. His hand reaches forward, toward my face, and I flinch, his hand stopping a few inches away.

  “Relax.” His hand moves slowly, brushing down and covering my eyes. “Close your eyes.”

  I do. I close my eyes and feel his hand drop. Keep them closed as I turn every other sense to high alert. “Good girl,” he says softly. “Keep them closed.”

  I do. I keep my world dark and try to relax. Feel the heat of him as he moves closer. I inhale, but
only smell ocean, the breeze from the open door washing the scent of salt and sea across my face. Then his hands, brushing over my shoulderblades, tugging down the spaghetti straps of my dress. Swiping back across my collarbone as firm fingers tug at the front clasp of my dress. Silence as he parts the fabric and slides it down until my bra is the only thing on my upper half.

  Closer. I can feel the brush of his chest against the soft pillow of my breasts. Both of his arms wrap around me as he unclips my bra in one movement, the garment dropping, my breasts suddenly loose and free. His arms drop and the hard comfort of his chest leaves me. My eyes flip open.

  “No.” He is before me. Staring. Close enough that the shadow is lifted; I can see the reflection of the bathroom light in his eyes. They are tight on me, a warning look in them. “Keep them closed, Riley. For now.”

  For now. I release a slow breath. Drop my eyelids until I am back to relying on touch, smell, sense, hearing. I don’t know why I opened them anyway. This way is so much better. I don’t have to worry about the look in his eyes. I can let my imagination go wild. Imagine what I want. Enjoy what I—oh God. A breeze blows, the cool air causing my skin to awaken, the caress of the outdoors making this suddenly so erotic in its voyeurism. I don’t remember which floor we are on. Don’t know if it’s the second or twentieth, but knowing that the balcony door is open before me, feeling the soft brush of his fingers as they return to my skin … it is enough to make my nipples stand on edge, the weight in my pussy heavy with its increased need.