by Kim Jones
“Can I call you back, Em?”
“Why? Is someone there?” Her excitement is palpable.
“No. But I just woke up. I want a shower.”
“You have ten minutes.” Knowing she’ll be counting down the seconds, I hang up and hurriedly undress, then step under the scalding spray. I moan at how good it feels on my tired muscles. Sleeping on the bathroom floor wasn’t a very good idea.
The events of last night flicker through my mind in a series of flashbacks. All of which are too embarrassing to pause on. Besides, I’ll have plenty of time to relive my humiliation when I share the details with Emily.
I’m brushing my teeth when my ten minutes are up and Emily calls back. I make her wait until I’m dressed and have started my coffee before I finally return her call. Once again, she bypasses introductions—desperate for the juicy stuff.
“I got drunk. Hung out with bikers that looked like they belonged on Gangland, and puked everywhere.” She’s silent for a moment.
“Please tell me you didn’t make an ass out of yourself in front of Jud.”
“No, I waited until I got home.”
“You drove?”
Rolling my eyes, I take a sip of my coffee—hot and very strong, just like I like it. I smile when I realize it’s similar to my taste in men. One man in particular.
“Actually Mr. Delicious drove me home.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Emily squeals, causing me to wince and pull the phone away from my ear. But I still feel a surge of heat at the memory. The way he looked at me. Took care of me. Promised me some not-so-gentlemanly action.
“I didn’t mean that literally, Carmen. Give me more. All of it. Everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”
She hangs on to my every word as I give her a step by step replay of last night and early this morning. When I tell her about our bathroom conversations, I have to pause for her laughter. By the time I make it to the part about the note, she declares that she’s completely fallen for him. And so have I.
“There’s one more thing he said to me.” I’m pacing now, trying to burn off some of the adrenaline pumping through my body. Even when he’s not here, Cook has the ability to work me up. I’m considering opening a bottle of wine.
“He asked me if Jud was the only guy I’d ever been with. When I said yes, he claimed that was all he needed to know to know how I want it. Like he’s aware of my sexual fantasies or something. You think it’s true?” I bite my lip—holding my breath for her answer.
I want my best friend to tell me that it is possible. That somehow, Cook has found my imaginary, little black book of fantasies my mind crafted after reading Beatrice Small’s Pleasure Series. But where I’m a dreamer, Emily is a realist. And she’ll give it to me straight.
“I think there’s only one way to find out.”
She’s right…
I have six unread text messages from Jud that I refuse to open. I won’t let his nasty words hurt me or put a damper on my current mood. Which is a mixture of excitement, apprehension and horniness. There are still a few words in the first message visible to me, and they start with, “Having fun, whore?” But those don’t hurt. Actually, they make me feel better about what I’m about to do. I mean, if I’m going to be accused of it, I might as well do it.
Without a second thought, I dial Cook’s number. This time, I want him to answer. After about the fourth ring, I’m worried he won’t. After the sixth ring, I’m preparing my voicemail speech. Then his voice comes over the line, fucking my name.
“Carmen.” My clit literally throbs.
“Hello.” It comes out almost a whisper, but it’s packed with emotion. I might as well have screamed, “Give me your cock!”
“You feelin’ okay, gorgeous?” he asks, his voice is gravelly and low—screaming beneath the surface, “Whose pussy is that?”
His.
Cook’s.
This is Cook’s pussy.
“I feel like I want some company,” I breathe. Too worked up by the possibility of him coming over to care about how desperate I sound. The only noise I hear over the line is the sound of his heavy footsteps.
“You know what’s gonna happen if I come over, Carmen.” My limbs turn to jelly at the hint of promise in his tone.
“Yes. I know.” I swallow back my nerves, but my next words flow like honey past my lips. “I want you to fuck me.”
He speaks without hesitation. “Then open the door.” I stiffen. What the hell?
“You’re here?” His answer is a knock. I spin on my heel to face the front door. “But I’m not ready yet!” I squeak, panic filling me as I look down at my ratty T-shirt.
“Too late. Open the door.” He’s so calm. Meanwhile, I’m running around like crazy. Going from one room to another with no goal in mind.
“Fifteen minutes.” I sprint toward the bathroom. “Ten,” I counter when he doesn’t respond.
“Now.”
“But I have to shave!” I slap my forehead. Stupid! He didn’t need to know that. Taking a breath, I calm down a fraction and try to reason with him again. This is my house. The door is locked. He can wait fifteen minutes.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” I start, surprised at how relaxed I sound. “I need to do a few things first, but I’ll call you as soon as I’m finished and you—” My words catch in my throat when his reflection appears in my bathroom mirror. As if I’m not fully convinced it’s real, I turn and find him standing only feet from me.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen him look serious. There’s no smile. No smirk. No winking or teasing or laughing. That may even be anger in his fiery, hooded eyes. But I give zero shits. This is bad-boy-biker Cook, in all his six foot plus, muscular glory. And he’s here to fuck me—hairy legs be damned.
“Strip.” The order has an edge to it—dominant and controlling, leaving no room for negotiation.
My heart is hammering. I feel light headed. Butterflies in my belly is an understatement. Panties soaked. Nipples hard. I’m two seconds from coming. And he wants me to strip. But I can’t move. My eyes are glued to his ringed fingers. I want them inside me too.
“Strip. Carmen. Now.” He doesn’t yell, but I wish he would. Somehow, this voice is scarier. My nerves start to surface, diffusing some of that lust that’s clouding my better judgement.
“You’re not smiling,” I whisper, as if to explain my apprehension. I guess it’s better than, “You’re starting to scare the hell out of me.” But he doesn’t soften. He simply lifts his lips in an evil grin. If it were possible for him to get any hotter, he just did.
“I’m going to give you to the count of three,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. The stance makes him that much more intimidating.
My mind is at war with my body. This is one of my fantasies. I want control. A little danger. I want him to grab me, strip me, spank me then fuck me. In that order. Or whatever order he wants. But my mind is screaming that this isn’t normal. That I should call 9-1-1. Grab my scissors from the drawer next to me, stab him and run.
“One.”
Shit. He’s counting. I’m still deciding if I want to play this game. “Wait!”
“Two.”
Shitty-Shitty-Shit-Shit… “If I ask you to leave, will you?” He quirks a brow. Shakes his head. And I know what’s coming next.
“Three.”
Quick! Gun to your head … do you trust him? Yes or no.
Yes.
The decision is made. This is happening. Not that it matters now, he’s on his way over. I’m not breathing. And I’m not sure if I want to launch myself at him or duck and run. I’m not doing either. I’m just standing here like a deer in the headlights. Twisting my shirt in my hands. Trying to look at every part of him at once. It’s impossible. For some reason, he looks bigger today. Like he ate one of Mario’s magic mushrooms.
I’m expecting him to rip my shirt off. Grab the collar with both hands and tear it down the middle like they do in the movie
s. Instead, he slides his hands up my arms—slow and sensual. I concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest. His breaths are controlled, measured. Mine are erratic, loud pants.
His fingers trail up my neck. Fist in my hair. He pulls until I’m forced to look up at him. The pressure on my scalp. The hold he has on me. The parting of his lips and the dare in his eyes. All these things send a sinfully erotic charge through the room—erasing any and all doubt I might have had about him being here.
“You still want to ask me to leave?” My body flush against his, I can feel every word he speaks.
I try to shake my head, but his grip is too tight—forcing me to answer him. “No.”
Then his mouth is on mine. Just like the first time he kissed me, he doesn’t wait for permission. He takes what he wants. Exploring my mouth with his greedy, punishing tongue. He kisses like he’s angry. Hungry. Like he can’t get enough. I can’t get enough.
My hands move under his shirt finding hot, hard planes of muscles that singe the tips of my fingers. His body is on fire. Heat radiates from his skin that is velvety smooth under my touch. I explore more of his chest, my thumbs dragging over chiseled, defined abs before lightly caressing his nipples.
One hand still fisted in my hair, he cups my ass with the other and squeezes hard. Gripping his shoulders, I lift my legs around his waist. His hard erection presses against me, eliciting a moan that’s muffled by his mouth.
I feel like I’m floating as he carries us out of the bathroom. I’ve only read about sub space, but that has to be where I’m at right now. And he’s only kissed me. My toes curl painfully at the thought of where I’ll be when he pushes inside me.
With my hands trapped beneath his shirt, the only thing I can do is hold on when I feel us falling. Then my back is on the bed. He’s between my legs. Cool, rough fingers are under my shirt. They tickle my skin—prompting me to bring my elbows down in defense. The moment my hands are free of him, he’s pulling my shirt over my head.
Sitting back, he places his hands on my knees—parting them slowly. I fight the urge to close my legs and cover my breasts, but by the look in his eyes, I’m guessing he wouldn’t like that very much. Although, I might not be so uncomfortable if he didn’t have all his clothes on. And if I could remember what underwear I’m wearing…
“I’m gonna take my time with you, Carmen,” he says, his gaze traveling over every inch of my exposed skin. He’s so calm. I’m panting like I’ve just swam the Mississippi. But when he meets my eyes, I can’t breathe at all. His look is feral. Predatory. So … dominant.
Have mercy.
He’s a dominant.
He’s going to spank me.
And I want him to.
But only if it doesn’t hurt.
“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, gorgeous?” His voice has me fisting the sheets. I’m nearly naked. Wearing who knows what kind of panties. And he just called me gorgeous.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so horny,” I whisper, the endorphin rush has me so high I can’t even hate myself for saying it out loud.
His eyes drop to my sex. “I can see how wet your pussy is.” Heat spreads across my chest and up my neck before inflaming my cheeks. “I can smell it too.” I cover my eyes and silently pray for death, while his finger trails the prickly path from my knee to my groin.
Despite how embarrassed I am by his dirty talk, my unshaved legs, strong scent, river of arousal and underwear, I find myself grinding my hips in anticipation. I need him to touch me. I’m afraid if he doesn’t, I’m going to combust.
“You think too much,” he says, his voice so low I wonder if he meant to speak those words out loud. Been there… He teases my skin along the hem of my panties. His touch just enough for me to know it’s there. “Just relax, Carmen.”
“I am relaxed,” I mutter, twisting my body in an effort to urge him to get on with it. He simply moves his finger back to my knee and starts the agonizingly slow, torture of trailing it back down my leg.
Something between a grunt and a growl escapes my lips. Frustrated, I close my knees—capturing his hand between my legs. And like a bitch in heat, I tighten my thighs and grind my hips. I’m rewarded with some friction from either his rings or knuckles, right against my clit. The two seconds of bliss is nearly enough to push me over the edge. But before I can get there, his other hand grips my hip and jerks me to my side.
A loud smack sounds around the room, followed by a stinging sensation on my ass. I gasp in shock, still processing what happened as I’m pushed to my back, legs parted and his finger is again on my knee.
“I said I was gonna take my time.” His tone has the same deep, sultry tenor. His eyes are still focused on my sex. He’s acting like nothing just happened. I need a session with my shrink and a cigarette.
“You,” I start, pausing to lick my dry lips and take a couple breaths. “You spanked me.”
Head still bowed, he looks up at me from beneath his lashes. The corner of his mouth curves and he winks. “You liked it.”
“I did not.” Liar, liar, crotch on fire. But don’t worry, the flood happening down there will put it out.
He doesn’t respond to my obvious lie. But he does slip his finger beneath my panties and drag it between my lips before spreading the wetness on my thigh. I ignore his smirk and let my head fall back. Closing my eyes, I will my body to relax and focus on the lingering sting of his hand on me, the constant torture of his finger and the reminder that very soon, he’s going to let me come.
“Maybe I should spank you more often,” he says, pushing his finger inside me.
His suggestion is forgotten as I arch my back. “Please,” I whimper, tossing the small amount of dignity I have left. “Please don’t stop.”
“You like me finger fucking you?” I let out a soft mewl and nod. He adds another finger, stretching me—slowly pumping them in and out of me. “Knees open, gorgeous.” I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them, and at his command, I let them fall back open again. “Good girl.”
“Son-of-a…” Damn. How is it possible to feel this good? It’s so good, I don’t want to come. I don’t want it to be over. The rhythm and pressure he’s delivering is just enough to make sure that doesn’t happen. And the dirty talk is like frosting on a cake—it’s still edible without it, but not nearly as good.
“Fuck.” The harshness in his tone has my eyes flying open just in time to see him reach inside his cut. I was so lost in the feeling of what he was doing to me that I hadn’t even heard it ring, but now his ringtone, the sound of motorcycle pipes, fills my ears.
When the bed shifts, I know he’s about to pull away. Before I think better of it, I’m begging. “Please.” His movements never slow as he looks at me. “Answer it. Don’t answer it. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.” Without taking his eyes off mine, he presses the screen and puts the phone to his ear. I let out a breath when he continues fingering me despite the interruption.
“Yeah.” It’s the only word I hear. He’s speaking, but the words are lost as I sink back into my happy place. I’m only there a few moments when his fingers still—prompting me to look up. I find him with a finger over his smiling lips. Had I been moaning? Flushing, I cover my mouth with my hand and squeeze my eyes shut. He rewards my obedience by moving inside me once again.
My obedience?
More aware of what’s happening around me, I catch bits and pieces of his conversation. The words, “I’m thirty minutes out” have me wanting to yell to whoever is on the line that he’s busy right now. Selfish bastards.
“Bad news, gorgeous.”
“No,” I snap. He shoots me an amused look. “You’re not leaving.”
“Greedy, impatient girl,” he tsks, removing his fingers--leaving me feeling hollow and empty. When he puts them in his mouth, I nearly faint. Why does that just get me?
Embarrassment morphs to curiosity as he stands, but makes no move to leave. Instead, he takes off his cut, folds it and lays it on my ni
ghtstand. He places a condom between his lips, giving me a chin tip as he unbuckles his belt.
“Take your panties off.” His command has my stomach flipping. I wondered what it would sound like for him to say that. Now I know. And it was better than I could’ve imagined.
“You’re not leaving?”
“Fuck no.” Reaching behind him, he fists his shirt in his hand and pulls it over his head. “But I don’t have long, so either pull em’ down or I’m tearin’ em’ off.”
Puddle.
There’s a puddle beneath me.
My nerves start to get the best of me and I do what I do best when I’m nervous. I ramble. “I-I thought you were going to take your time. Go slow.” Spank me more often….
His jeans hang open revealing white boxers. When his hand disappears inside, I jerk my eyes to his. He winks. “Next time.”
Next time? There might not be a next time…. My thoughts trail off as my eyes move to his naked torso. OMG…the man is not just built, but ripped. Corded deltoids. Sculpted pecs. Bulging biceps. Abs that could be the mold for an oversized ice tray.
His chest and stomach are smooth, but there’s a fine line of dark hair that centers the notorious man V. But even in all its glory, the perfection of his upper body can’t compare to what he holds in his hand.
It’s big. Really big. I’ve never found a penis to be sexy, but then again, I’ve never called another man’s knees handsome or an Adam’s Apple lickable. And there’s something about the way his ring covered fingers wrap around it that gives it an edge of danger. Maybe it’s the skull that glares back at me—promising me death by orgasm.
“Not a fan of the panties?” I can sense his smile, but when I chance a look, there is none. He’s back to looking predatory and determined. As nice as his cock is, because penis is now a word reserved for ordinary male sex organs, I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re darker—like a blue flame. And just as damn hot as one.
He holds my gaze as he sheaths the condom expertly. He’s probably done this hundreds of times. I’ll just be another notch on the ol’ belt. Perfect. Maybe after he’s finished with me, I’ll never see him again. That way I’ll never have to relive the humiliation of today. Unless we elope and spend our days and nights having sex for the rest of our lives…
