by Anne Calhoun
He should get out of here. Now. Before he succumbed to the spell she was weaving.
Then her head dropped down. Her wild hair slid forward as she exhaled slowly. Lifting her head and gathering her hair in one motion, she straightened and tucked the mass at her nape. Then her fingertips slid over the spot where her neck met her torso, coming to rest on her collarbone. She lightly traced the gentle ridge from the hollow of her throat to shoulders and back, again and again.
He really should leave. What she was doing was the polar opposite of the speed he craved like a junkie craved drugs. It was slow and focused, completely savoring each moment rather than blowing through them with sirens blaring and lights flashing. He really, really should leave.
Except he couldn’t move, and God, he hoped it lasted a really long time.
He watched. She had the hands of someone who immersed them in hot soapy water a dozen times a day, the blunt-cut and unpolished nails trailing over skin and a plain cotton T-shirt. Somehow the confidence with which she touched herself aroused him more than pale skin tipped with long, red nails caressing silk. She wasn’t doing this to turn him on. She was getting lost in her body, starting with a spot he’d never particularly thought of as erogenous.
Ten fingers trailed down her sternum to the spot where her V-neck ended, then parted to find a nipple. A gentle scrape of fingertip over the bud, a circling motion, and her nipples stood out under the cotton when her fingers returned to the collarbone.
He swallowed and shifted in his chair. She didn’t look up. Her jaw had slackened ever so slightly, an easing of tension, and her head tilted just a little. A slow path down, this time to the sides of her breasts, trailing over the full curves, the spot between breasts and collarbone, then the nipples, then collarbone.
Jesus. Left to his own devices, he’d be done by now.
Cock thickening in his jeans, he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees, hoping to ease the pressure. Without looking at him she pulled her T-shirt over her head, then leaned back against the pillows. Her soft belly rounded between the waistband of her skirt and her bra, and the hem of her skirt pooled around her thighs when she drew one knee in. She gave him a look that was mostly about her eyelashes.
“Still with you, darlin’,” he said.
The light strokes of her fingertips became full body strokes, down her abdomen, over her hips and up her thighs, revealing a little more thigh with each movement. She returned to her nipples and collarbone, pausing every so often to touch her lips. He wondered if she was putting on a show for him, or if she was trying to tell him how she liked to be touched, or if she was simply pleasing herself without any thought for him. With any other woman he’d suspect the first two, but with Sarah, it felt like an extension of her personality. No artifice, no subtle hints he was expected to read.
Still, he recorded each touch in high definition in his mind for future reference. He already couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and a pink flush had built on her cheeks before she tugged her skirt high enough to reveal her mound. She wore functional pink cotton bikinis, the last detail that registered before her fingers delved under the elastic waist and he couldn’t see any more, just the suggestive rising and falling of her knuckles stretching the cotton. With a little gasp she slid down on the bed and spread her legs.
Without thinking he gave up on halting his forward progress and crawled onto the bed, planting his knees on either side of her hips and his hands by her head. Her eyes flew open.
“Hi,” he said.
She licked her upper lip, the move unself-conscious and hot as hell. “Can I help you?”
He smiled. “No, ma’am, but I can help you.”
Her hand still down her panties, the other cupping her breast, she looked him over. “Seems a shame not to put you to work,” she said. “Unbutton your shirt.”
That wasn’t what he had in mind, but he’d go with it. He sat back and quickly unfastened his buttons, then tugged his shirt from his jeans.
“Come back here,” she said, her fingertip circling her nipple.
He resumed his position above her, his shirt hanging down to either side of them.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” she said.
“You’re objectifying me,” he said.
“I know. I’m going to feel really guilty about it later, too.”
He would laugh, except his cock was an iron rod in his jeans. He bent his elbows to lean down, but she turned her face to the side. “You can’t touch me.”
“I want to.”
“No,” she whispered.
He suspected that if he pushed her, she wouldn’t be able to articulate exactly why he couldn’t touch her, but the last thing he wanted to do was ruin this. It was too perfect, the utter vulnerability in her body, quivering with tension and so soft. So he kept his face a scant breath from her skin and followed the curve of her cheek to her mouth, then over her chin and down her throat, obligingly arched for him. He paused at the hollow and inhaled, sweat and skin and chocolate and sweet whipped cream, then continued around the outer curve of one breast. Mouth open, breathing deep, he drank her in, scent and taste mingling in his mouth, until his mouth watered. Ribs, belly, her forearm, the muscles flexing as her fingers moved under her panties.
“Take those off.”
She whimpered, but struggled up onto her elbows and worked them down, revealing the darker brown curls covering her mound. No Brazilian here. Neatly trimmed but natural. When she left her panties at mid-thigh, he glanced up her body and found a knowing little smile on her face. He tried to find a polite way to call her a shameless cock tease, but then she parted her lips with her fingers and he forgot words.
Her clit was swollen and slick with her juices, flushed a dark pink, and the scent rising from between her legs made his head spin more than the white wine at dinner. Slow circles, his brain recorded. Not pressing very hard. Soft thighs dented by the drawn-tight panties. Teasing. Drawing it out.
Savoring it. This was insane, and so fucking hot.
Then she parted her fingers so the index and middle finger trapped either side of her clit, and rubbed. A little harder, a little faster. Leaving his elbows planted at her hips, he stretched back and trailed his cheek and nose over her belly, her inner thighs, not quite touching, close enough for the nerves to fire at imagined touch.
He paused above her hand and blew gently on her knuckles. “Good?” he asked.
She tensed and groaned. Her thighs were quivering with the build. “Good,” she said.
“It’d be better with me inside you.”
“God, yes,” she said.
“Let me,” he said. He wasn’t asking. “Sarah. Let me inside you. I’ll make it so good for you.”
“I know you would,” she said, nearly inaudible. “But not today.”
He growled, the sound rumbling from low in his chest, and watched, trembling with frustrated desire as her fingers rubbed faster, harder. Then her sex pulsed, her clit fluttering as she went rigid and cried out, soft and helpless. Her fingertip stroked slowly as her body shuddered with each pulse of pleasure. He’d never paid such close attention to a woman’s orgasm before. It would be interesting if it weren’t so fucking frustrating.
When she went slack, she lifted her knuckles to his chin and tipped it up, so he was looking at her face. For a long moment their gazes locked, her breasts lifting with quickened inhales and shallow exhales, his muscles trembling. Then she trailed her slick fingertips over his mouth, pausing to gently press on his lower lip.
He almost came in his jeans. Instead he licked each fingertip, the taste of her juices spreading over his tongue. But rather than licking his lips, he levered forward and kissed her. She moaned and opened her mouth, letting him lick his way in, stroke her tongue with his, nibble at her lower lip, then her upper lip.
“You are an absolutely rotten loser.”
“I am not. I just don’t concede defeat,” he sai
d, and kissed her again.
“You’re touching me.”
“I’m kissing you. You didn’t say I couldn’t kiss you.”
“Your skin is touching my skin.”
He kissed her heated cheek, then her ear. “Darlin’, if we were skin to skin right now, you wouldn’t be arguing semantics with me.”
She put her hand in the middle of his chest, just touching, not pushing. The pressure and heat set his nerve endings on fire and made the hair lift at the back of his neck before racing down his spine to coalesce in his balls. “That was incredible.”
“Speak for yourself.”
One fine brown eyebrow arched. He was close enough to see a small chicken pox scar on her temple, another by her left ear, and a smattering of freckles on her forehead. “That wasn’t good?”
“It was frustrating.”
“It’s not always about the end result,” she said with a smile.
“The fuck it isn’t.”
“Hot dog eating contests are about the end result.”
“You came. You’re in no position to talk about this.”
“Double or nothing?” she said.
He stared at her. “What?”
“Double or nothing? We go again, no getting off until the next time we meet. If you fail, you get a repeat of tonight.”
“That’s the nothing,” he said. “What’s the double?”
“You decide.”
“You’re actually going to send me home like this.”
She tucked one hand into the rat’s nest of hair behind her head, not accidentally lifting her breasts, and watched her fingers move down his chest to his abdomen. “Unless you admit defeat, I am.”
“And expect me not to do anything about it.”
“That’s up to you. We can stop any time. Go on dates like normal people. Pretend that we don’t both have oversize egos,” she said sweetly, and stroked his ribs. “I’ll pretend I’m a noble winner and you’ll pretend you’re gracious in defeat. Pretend that this doesn’t turn us on. I knew you were watching me. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel your eyes on me. It was so hot.”
Her hand stopped in the sliver of space between his belly button and his cock; for a moment a primitive male urge swamped him. She was naked, spread under him, slick and ready. The smell of sex was all around, and total acquiescence in her face. He could fuck her. He totally could. He was literally trembling. The muscles in his arms quivered not with the strain of holding himself up but with the restraint necessary to not give in. The only thing keeping him from giving in was that he hated losing. He fucking hated it. Spending time with Sarah was like gambling, a rigged environment designed to keep him coming back for more.
He had no doubt she’d perfect that recipe, and in a matter of weeks, too.
“You’re on.”
Her eyes lit up. Her fingers curved around his hip and her thumb stroked his hipbone.
“You’re a fucking tease.”
“In this situation, the line between ‘tease’ and ‘horrible winner’ is a thin one,” she said, but she didn’t stop stroking. Didn’t push him away. Didn’t make any move to close herself off to him or acknowledge her vulnerable position.
Her confidence took his breath away. There was an inherent trust in him, in the moment, in time itself. Like it wouldn’t bring sadness or pain.
He pushed back onto his heels. “Fuck,” he muttered as he rubbed his hand across his face. “Fuck. I am fucking out of my fucking mind.”
She sat up, demurely tucking her knees to one side, found her T-shirt in the sheets and pulled it over her head. The thin, faded gray fabric didn’t hide the shape of her nipples, and all she put on from her clothes discarded on the floor were her panties. He stopped watching the soft jiggle and sway of her body to focus on buttoning his shirt.
“Do you want to take home some of the dessert? They’re baked. All you have to do is pop them in the microwave for a few seconds.” His expression must have been a prize, because she burst out laughing. “Sorry,” she said. “Cook’s habit. You’d really be helping me out. If they stay here, I’ll eat them all.”
“I’m not seeing a problem,” he said gruffly.
Her eyebrows lifted. “No? Well, I’ll owe you one if you take half of them.”
“How many is half?”
“Five.”
“Jesus,” he said as the thought of coming home to takeout and those desserts flashed in his mind.
She correctly read his tone. “I’ll pack them in a cooler tote for you,” she said, and hurried through the door.
He left his shirt loose to hide the monstrous erection that wouldn’t be fading between now and the subway, and followed her into the kitchen. She’d extracted a soft-sided cooler from somewhere and stacked five ramekins in it, with an additional container of raspberries and another of whipped cream tucked down the side. She tossed an ice pack on top and zipped it closed. “Your dessert, kind sir,” she said, and offered it to him with a flourish.
He ignored the cooler and backed her into the counter, hoisted her up, and shoved both hands through her hair. A muffled squeak escaped her lips before he kissed her, hard and hungry and impatient. She met him kiss for kiss, wrapping her legs around his hips. The cooler bumped against his back when she fisted her hands in his shirt. He ground against her, made her cling to him for support.
“What was that for?” she asked when he let her up for air.
“You owed me one for eating your desserts.”
“I certainly did,” she murmured.
***
He texted her from the subway. First time in my life I’ve left a date with a hard-on and a cooler full of dessert.
Think of the dessert as a displacement activity. Like chewing gum to keep from smoking. :)
The next day he gave it a shot. He wasn’t used to delaying gratification at all, much less with something almost as luscious as sex, but rather than getting off in the shower, he waited. After a bolted dinner of a gyro and fries, he reheated one of ramekins Sarah sent home with him. The scent of chocolate quickly filled his small apartment, or maybe that was the smell of desire, deferred. He tapped the hot, melting dessert onto a plate and added a dollop of whipped cream and a few raspberries, then sat down at his tiny table and took the first bite. The scent of warm chocolate filled his nose as the taste spread over his tongue. He consciously slowed his pace, spacing out each bite, memories of Sarah melding with the rich flavor, settling into his body and his brain.
He had to win at least one of their bets before he could call this off. Pride demanded it, not to mention a primitive desire to call the shots with Sarah for once. So he rinsed out the ramekin and the plate, then changed into his basketball clothes. A good, clean, hard pickup game was exactly what he needed right now, and would let him ignore the truth: slowing down and focusing on the rich dessert satisfied just enough of the desire to give him the strength to hold out. But now he could go back to business as usual. Continuing his deceleration into the slow lane would mean feeling what he wasn’t ready to feel, not for Sarah, not for anyone.
***
Taking their texts from simple date-and-time setups to sexting was a mistake. One dirty text opened the door for others, arriving at the most inopportune times: when he was eating, finishing paperwork after a shift. His phone, resting on the desk beside him, buzzed innocuously enough. He lifted it and saw a text fading from his notifications screen.
Can’t stop thinking about that kiss. I hope you win next time. You can be as rough as you like. I dish it out. I can take it.
His eyes closed, because the possibilities would blind him if he didn’t. Is this you helping me?
The response came almost immediately. Maybe.
Not. Helping.
Sorry. :(
Hot as hell. Not helpful. But definitely hot as hell.
Would you be rough? Just curious.
The woman took no prisoners and showed no mercy. He was composing a reply when another bubble appear
ed in his text stream.
I’ve wanted to take care of myself so badly, but I haven’t. You?
“LT?”
The voice was still down the hall, not in the shift lieutenant’s office, so he ignored it for more pressing matters. I’ve got a life-threatening case of blue balls, and you’re going to pay for it.
Looking forward to it. Assuming you hold out.
The strangled sound in his throat cut off abruptly when knuckles rapped on the door frame to the duty office.
“LT, got a minute? I was reviewing protocol for . . . You okay?”
He exhaled slowly, carefully typed I’m at work into his phone, reread it to make sure he hadn’t typed I’m going to fuck you until you beg for mercy, sent the text, then put the phone facedown on the desk. “I’m fine. What’s up, Casey?”
After Casey left, he looked at his phone again.
I’m sorry. I’ll stop.
With a red-faced smiley.
Followed by a picture of the bowl of whipped cream. He couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud. Win or lose, this was the purest fun he’d had in a long, long time.
***
Tim hadn’t expected Sarah to make the challenge fun, a little lighthearted, a little sweet teasing to go with the heated chemistry between them. At some level this wasn’t about beating her anymore. He wanted to prove to himself that there was nothing wrong with the way he lived his life, that he could jump in and out of the fast lane and slow down long enough to savor the build of desire and anticipation. So he went through his day, going from call to call, coaching Casey in the moments in between, all the while aware of the heated rush of blood in his groin. Until the moments when the job went from routine to borderline out of control, when he snapped back into the present.
