After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  I brought my hand down even more, and her thighs parted. It wasn’t quite as much access as I wanted, so I grabbed her leg with my other hand, and I lifted it over the edge of the tub.

  Much better.

  She gasped as my fingers plunged into her. Back and forth. In and out. She felt so fucking good. Having her ass jammed against my cock wasn’t half-bad either.

  Her arm came up to circle the back of my head, and I dipped my mouth the parts of her I could reach. Her forehead. Her cheek. The spot just below her ear. I couldn’t get enough.

  I drew in a breath and lifted my eyes. And realized that what I couldn’t get at with my mouth, I could get with my gaze. The full length mirror on the wall opposite the tub gave me the perfect view.

  “Open your eyes, Aysia,” I growled.

  Her lashes fluttered, and her answer wasn’t much more than a mumble. “What?”

  “I want you to watch me make you come.”

  At that, her lids flew open. Her stare locked on mine in the mirror. Then it slid low.

  I watched her watching the slow circle I made with my forefinger.

  I watched her watching as I hooked it inside her and pressed up.

  Her gaze didn’t move. Not an inch. But her body did.

  Up came her hips, driving me in farther.

  Her thighs quivered as I added a second finger.

  Her nipples drew into two hard points, jutting out above the water.

  I could feel how tightly wound she was; I could see it, too. She was on the edge. All I had to do was nudge her over.

  “Now, honey,” I ordered. “Let go.”

  Her muscles clenched around my fingers. So tight. So perfect. Then she thrust up a final time, cried out my name, and released. Just for me.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  I collapsed against Marc, breathing heavily. His erection was still pushing into my back, but I needed a moment to recover. A few moments. Okay. Maybe a full minute.

  Every time he touched me, I thought it couldn’t get better. Then it did. Even the way the tips of his fingers were running up and down my face right at that moment felt phenomenal. And sent another stir of desire through me. It wasn’t a small one, either. It was a more like a wave had receded, then come back again immediately, stronger than before.

  I wondered if this was how addiction felt.

  I shifted sideways, and he helped me the rest of the way along, lifting me so that I faced him. My thighs straddled his, and the tip of his cock brushed my stomach just under the water. His eyes were on my face, and they were full of a longing that made me ache.

  “Honey.”

  Even the endearment held meaning. Or maybe it was more than meaning. A question? A need? A request for something I was sure I couldn’t even give? That thought made me ache even more.

  I pushed up, hovering just over his rock hard length. Then I dropped just enough that it slid between my legs without actually entering me.

  “Aysia.” My name was a ragged breath on his lips.

  I rocked forward. It was a slow, torturous move.

  “Aysia.” This time it was a warning.

  I pushed up again. Then down.

  “This isn’t safe,” he growled.

  Still poised over him, I bent down and touched my lips to his. Ghostlike. I turned in a soft circle, my clit rubbing over his head, still without penetration. Already, I could feel the heat building below the surface.

  “You don’t like this?” I teased.

  “Fuck yes, I like it.”

  “Sooooo…” I dragged the word out to match my tiny hip movement. “Should I stop?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprised by his vehemence, I almost fell right onto him. In fact, if his hands hadn’t shot out to stop me, I might literally have accidentally driven him into me. It was almost funny. Except the look on Marc’s face made it anything but.

  “You’re really serious,” I said.

  “I’m serious enough that I’m telling you—the sexiest fucking woman on the planet—to stop. Even though my dick is telling me I’m a lunatic. Even though a sane man would be begging you to keep going. Hell. A crazy one wouldn’t stop you, either. But I have to.”

  I felt a blush climb up my cheeks, both at the compliment and at his accompanying speech, and all I could manage to say was, “Oh.”

  He lifted his hands from my hips and put his elbows on the edges of the tub. “Honey…if you don’t stop, I’ll lose control.”

  “Control…hmm. Do you need that?”

  “No,” he admitted easily. “I’m happy to let you have it.”

  “But?”

  “Even this…” He inclined his head down to the non-existent space between us. “Is a gamble. And you’re after a weekend, not a lifetime, remember?”

  His words weren’t teasing. They were as serious as his request for me to stop. And I noted—because I couldn’t help it—that he’d said you’re and not we’re. What did that mean? I swallowed a need to ask him.

  But strangely, I couldn’t help but picture it. An older him and an older me. A lifetime of getting there with moments like this as interludes.

  And suddenly I wanted him even more. I wanted every inch of him in me. So badly that it was dizzying. I swayed a little, driving him closer again.

  Marc muttered something incomprehensible, then reached up to push his fingers into my damp hair, and he pulled my face to his. His tongue dove into my mouth. Thoroughly and aggressive. Claiming ownership.

  And I met the claim with one of my own.

  Hands on his chest. Mine.

  Teeth on his lips. Mine.

  Thumbs over his face and down his throat. Mine, mine.

  Fingers down between us to clasp his erection under the water. Mine, yes, please, God, yes. Mine.

  Once more, I pulled myself over him. I angled him toward me. In a second, there wouldn’t be anything accidental about having him fill me. There would just be us. Skin to skin.

  He groaned. “Aysia. Honey.”

  This third time…my name wasn’t a breath. It wasn’t a warning. It was plea, plain and simple.

  I started to ease down, anticipating how sweet he was going to feel. But before I could get so far as actually finding out, a noisy buzz filled the bathroom.

  Marc’s eyes flew open. “What the hell is that?”

  “The door buzzer.” I groaned. “Shit. The car . . .”

  “What car?”

  “Your car.”

  He frowned. “My Quattroporte?”

  “Yes. That, too. But also the car I arranged to get us to the private dealer in Chilliwack. And you need to pack a bag.”

  “A bag?”

  “An overnight bag. Two nights, actually.”

  The noisy buzz sounded again.

  “That’s probably the driver,” I said.

  “So we should probably answer it.”

  “Yes. Assuming you want to pick up your Maserati.”

  “I do want the Maserati.” His eyes ran over me slowly, and he met my gaze with a raised eyebrow. “But not half as bad as I want you.”

  “Suck up.”

  “Is that an option? Maybe while in the Maserati?”

  “Marc!”

  “What?”

  The buzzer went off a third time.

  He sighed. “The driver’s not going away, is he?”

  I shook my head. “Doubtful. I didn’t prepay.”

  He slid back and gestured to the bathroom at large. “Ladies first.”

  Regretfully, I climbed out and grabbed two towels. I wrapped myself in one and handed the other to Marc.

  “Do you want me to answer the buzzer while you pack?” I offered.

  “Sure.” He finished his quick towel-off, moved toward the door, then pa
used. “Aysia?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a box of condoms in my nightstand. I won’t be forgetting to bring it.”

  I sucked in a breath as he left the bathroom. Prior to the moment of reckless abandon, his statement would’ve been a sexy one. Now, it just sounded like a warning. And I couldn’t blame him for issuing it.

  What were you thinking? Unprotected sex? Seriously?

  But he didn’t bring it up again as we made the trip from downtown, through the suburbs, and out to the more rural neighborhood. In fact, he was remarkably relaxed considering the fact that we rushed out with some pretty specific unfinished business. He joked with the driver and teased me in the back seat. He acted suitably impressed by the expanse of farmland along the highway and the perfect view of Mount Baker as we headed east. He grinned like a maniac when we picked up his sleek new vehicle and laughed like crazy when the first thing we did was take it through a drive-thru.

  But my own brain was a mess.

  Having unprotected sex wasn’t something I’d done before. Ever. Or even considered. And it wasn’t like we hadn’t had the option. We weren’t stupid teenagers getting overexcited in the backseat of a car. We weren’t stranded in the woods at the height of the zombie apocalypse. The condoms were in the very next room.

  The whole day it bothered me. I owed Marc one hell of an apology for pushing the risky behavior. And saying I was sorry was something I was actually pretty terrible at doing. But when we were finally settled into our luxurious bed and breakfast room, with its four poster bed and its private fireplace and panoramic, I knew I wouldn’t get away with avoiding it any longer. My conscience wouldn’t let me.

  So as we cued up a movie and balanced a bowl of popcorn on our knees, I opened my mouth to deliver the apology in a rush of awkward words.

  But Marc spoke first. “She thought she was pregnant.”

  “I—what? Who did?”

  “Janie.”

  I struggled for a second before placing the name. “Your ex?”

  “Yeah.” He tossed up a piece of popcorn and caught it in his mouth. “Was fully convinced.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “But…she wasn’t?”

  “No.” Up went another kernel. “She thought she was pregnant. And she didn’t want to keep it.”

  I remembered, then, what he’d said about the breakup. Different priorities.

  “And you did want to,” I ventured softly.

  A third buttery piece went flying, and he snapped his lips shut over top of it. “Of course I wanted to. But she printed a shit-ton of adoption information off the Internet before she even told me. Before she went to the doctor, for Christ’s sake. And when I suggested that maybe we should consider keeping it, she went ballistic. Told me I was selfish bastard. Me. With a good job and a good family and all the resources to do right by a kid…I was selfish for wanting to keep my own child and provide a more than decent life. I lasted the week it took to find out it was a false alarm. I lay awake every night, thinking about a paternity suit. About keeping my kid, even if it meant losing Janie. Just because she wasn’t ready to be a parent didn’t mean she should make that decision for me. I told her I was leaving her right before she told me she wasn’t pregnant after all.”

  My heart squeezed with sympathy. With understanding. And with that much more guilt about my actions in the bathtub.

  “Marc…” I trailed off, fighting the thick lump in my throat.

  He shook his head, reading my intentions perfectly. “I don’t need you to be sorry. Not for me, or about the situation, or for wanting to be a bit wild. You didn’t know. No one does, honey. Not even my parents. But I thought I should tell you, so you get where I’m coming from. Okay?”

  The lump was so thick now that all I could do was nod.

  He leaned back and tossed an arm over my shoulder. “Good. Let’s get the movie started before I change my mind about watching the cheesy romance one and insist on the one full of guns instead.”

  I let him pull me in, but I stole a quick glance at his profile before I turned my attention to the screen. And for that second, I let my imagination run far wilder than it had in the tub. I let it envision the same thing it had earlier—an older me and an older him—with one small added detail. A crazy one. A kid. With his strong jaw and my blue eyes and a funny smile that was all his own.

  And I wondered how his ex could possibly have wanted to give that up.

  Chapter 11

  Marcelo

  So.

  Apparently the best way to cleanse one’s system of a girl like Aysia Banks is not to spend the entire weekend with her. Not to wake up wrapped around her. Not to go to sleep that way. Sure as hell wasn’t to eat picnic lunches together while fighting over whether apples and peanut butter were better than apples with caramel.

  By the time Sunday evening rolled around, all I could think about was how shitty Monday was going to be. Then Tuesday. And every other fucking day after that.

  My mood mustn’t have been as obvious as I thought, though, because as we made our way over the last stretch of highway, she turned to me and said, “You’re awfully pensive.”

  “Pensive?”

  “Quiet. Thoughtful. Reflective.”

  “Thanks, Little Ms. Thesaurus. But my concern wasn’t what the word meant. It was whether or not it’s an accurate descriptor.”

  “You’re staring out the windshield so hard I’m kind of worried you’re trying to break it with your mind. I think that warrants an observation on your pensiveness.”

  My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m not pensive. I’m royally fucking disappointed that the weekend is done, and I’m trying to find a way to either make it last, or to convince you that we should keep seeing each other.”

  She was quiet for a second before answering, and when she did speak, it was in a very soft voice. “We had a deal, Marc.”

  “Deals get amended all the time.”

  “Is this how we’re going to end it, then?”

  End it. I hated the way that sounded.

  “Is what how we’re going to end it?” I snapped back irritably.

  “In a fight.”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “This weekend was basically a romantic montage,” I said. “I don’t understand why you think that’s a bad thing.”

  I could see that she was fighting a smile, but her reply didn’t give me any hope. “The only reason it was a romantic montage is because we both knew it was going to be over today. No strings means no expectations. No expectations means no awkwardness.”

  “Fuck the expectations, Aysia. I want the goddamned strings.”

  She drew in a breath so hard that it echoed through the car. “Are you going to quit your job, Marc? Walk out on Mike Roper?”

  “I—Christ.” I ran a hand over my hair in frustration. “Why does that have to be my only option?”

  “Because I’m not going to leave Eco-Go. And the only way for us to keep seeing each other is if one of us does.”

  I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut again quickly. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave Mike’s company, even if I wanted to. No way in hell would I ask Aysia to do it. Even if she wanted to. Even if she hadn’t disclosed the details of how things played out with her parents. Not after a lust-filled year let alone a lust-filled week.

  “I hate the goddamned rules,” I muttered.

  “But they exist for a reason. And it’s not just as a cock block.”

  I couldn’t muster up a smile. We’d turned off the highway, in just a few minutes, we’d be at her place. Where I somehow doubted she was going to invite me up for a nightcap.

  She let out a sigh. “Eco-Go matters to me.”

  “I know.”

  “And the dating policy is there
to protect it, as a company.”

  “I get it, honey. I really do. I just don’t like it. And I’d be a pretty shitty PR person if I didn’t push to get what I want. But I’m not a shitty person in general, and I’m capable of taking no for an answer. The problem is that it feels so fucking wrong to just let you go.” My voice had an embarrassing hint of raw emotion at the end of the last sentence, and I had to clear my throat before continuing. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit that working beside you is going to be tough.”

  “But imagine how much harder it would be if it went on for months, then ended badly.”

  We reached her street then, and I pulled over in front of her building and turned to face her. “Do you always assume the worst is going to happen?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I have to assume that the worst could happen. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say it.”

  “Fair enough,” I conceded. “But does that mean you also assume that the best could happen?”

  “Of course.”

  Her tone was as soft as her expression and, automatically, I brought my hand up to caress her face. She flinched. Just enough to tell me that no matter what I said, she’d come back to this same thing. The rejection stung. I pulled back without completing the touch.

  “I guess this is it, then?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  She stayed there, unmoving. Staring at me like she was trying to hold onto the moment, trying to memorize what I looked like right that second. In spite of my wounded pride and disappointed heart, I did the same. I studied the sweet curve of her lips and the untamed curls that framed her face. I committed to memory the tiny, paint-dab mole high on her left cheekbone. I drank in the flush that crept down the slope of her throat then dipped to her cleavage. Even though I knew I’d be seeing her the very next morning at the office, I made sure I had every detail of right now filed somewhere safe in my mind.

  When she finally opened the door without kissing me good-bye and without telling it was the best weekend of her life, I managed to hold my shit together in the manliest way possible. I even pulled my car out without looking back. Yeah, I cranked up the generic rock radio station. Maybe I cursed out a loud a few times. Altogether, though, I took the weird breakup of our non-relationship like a fucking champ.