by Julie Olivia
She tugs me down the tunnel. I just like watching her walk down it, her denim jacket engulfing the top part of her figure, only to taper down to her skirt and long legs peeking out underneath.
She stops, looking at graffiti next to the stairs.
My hand strokes up her spine of its own accord, gliding past the valley of her lower back, up between her shoulders and to her neck. Her breathing is heavy, shaky, and followed by the littlest of light, airy whimpers as I trace my fingers against her. I take a step forward, pressing the front of me against her back and burying my nose in her neck. She tilts her head to expose more of her, and I plant one kiss after another, lingering a second longer than the one before, trying to savor her soft skin, her intoxicating rose scent.
She turns us both until she’s the one guiding my back against the wall.
“What are you doing there?” I tease. My fingers run the length of her arm, from the tops of her shoulders down to her wrists.
“Anything to keep my eyes on you,” she says.
I laugh, shifting her jacket aside to kiss the top of her exposed shoulder.
“Don’t trust me?” I growl.
There’s a beat of silence.
“I trust you too much, Owen.”
A confession—one I don’t take lightly.
“Let’s go,” I say, planting a soft kiss on her mouth, gripping her chin.
There’s little said as we climb the stairs, stealing kiss after kiss with each step. At the top, the turnstiles are under construction. Fran shimmies through the opening in one and I follow, taking the opportunity of being behind her to admire her ass as it bounces out from the narrow passage. At least…I think I follow.
Halfway through my own attempt at squeezing by, I realize I’m stunted by the one thing I thought would never betray me—at least not in this way.
“Uh…Fran?” I ask, coughing out a laugh.
“Hm?” she asks, turning back to look at me still poised halfway in and halfway out. “What?” She narrows her eyes with a slight shrug. “Come on, just slide through.”
“I…can’t,” I say slowly, the words struggling to come out because it’s hard to admit why…it’s hard.
“Why?” she asks, her voice so innocent compared to the situation at hand.
“I’m a bit too…well…you’re very sexy.”
Fran’s eyes widen as she scans me from my head to my abs and stops right where the turnstile has caught at the edge of my curved pants—too hard and unmoving to let me by.
“Oh my god, Owen.” Her hand bolts to her mouth, a suppressed giggle. “Are you literally cock-blocked?”
“That’s not funny,” I say, though the joke is not completely lost on me. “Say something unsexy.”
Fran cocks her head to the side, the slowest and most agonizing of smiles creeping onto her face. I know the moment it happens that demanding she act unsexy was the wrong request. She’s too stubborn for her own good—for my own good.
“You mean I shouldn’t do…this?” Her fingers slip into her jacket, slowly shifting it down over her shoulder, stopping right at the crook of her elbow. “Or…” Her own hand goes to caress her full breast, cupping it underneath as I just did minutes ago, her thumb twirling over the peak, nipples hardening through the fabric within seconds.
Jesus Christ.
“Fran…” I warn, though my warning only serves as fodder. She bites her plump bottom lip as she pinches herself through the shirt. Her other nipple, untouched up until now, buds to the surface as well.
I shift against the turnstile, but I’m more stuck than I was before.
“Wow, this really is sad,” Fran says, her bottom lip pouting out. She’s the picturesque vision of a pin-up model, blonde bangs wisping across her forehead, denim jacket slack against her arms, and lips red and ripe as apples.
“You’re really gonna get it once I’m out,” I growl.
“Am I? You can’t even reach me.”
Fran steps forward, a foot from where I stand, continuing to play with herself in the most deliriously wonderful way.
God. Damn. It.
To the side, we see that the voyeuristic man from the train apparently took our same exit.
That does the trick.
I squeeze, pressing into the turnstile. The creepiness of that man is apparently the information my cock needs to lessen the blood flow, or at least shift it from my dick back up to my head to think logically.
“Come on, you crazy,” I mutter to Fran, throwing an arm around her as she giggles beside me. I roll my eyes, pinching at her side. It only makes her hip grind into mine.
A breath of fresh air rolls over us as we reach the street level once more. I wrap my arm tighter around Fran and we cross the street. She takes my hand. The change in scenery as we walk feels trivial. I’m not even looking around anymore or trying to be a decent tour guide, and Fran isn’t asking. Normally she is focused on the sights, the sounds, and yet even she looks straight ahead; the only sign of her being aware of anything is the soft stroke of her thumb against mine. It feels like we’re just passing the time until the inevitable, and we reach it faster than I thought we would.
Fran’s apartment is in front of us in what feels like the next breath of air, and yet once we stand in front of her stoop, all the air hisses away. She puts one boot out, examining it—or at least pretending to—before tilting her head toward me and asking the one question I never imagined I’d hear from those red lips: “Do you want to come up to my flat?”
Every muscle in me constricts, from my neck to my arms and down to my hands, which look so big compared to her tiny ones as she draws circles on my palms.
I release them to grip her waist, drawing her close to me as she peers through her thick lashes, pursing her lips to the side in her customary, brazen way.
“For the record, I don’t normally ask people up,” she says.
“I don’t care.”
She breathes out, eyes passing over me in a rush with a small, gentle smile rising up her cheeks, leaving all the mouthy parts of her behind in a gust of wind. “Why are you such a good guy?”
The thought of all the illegal shit I’m doing behind closed doors passes over me, Ryan’s damn project and all the projects we’ve done in the past. I can recite the mantra that my unethical deeds are for a good cause all day long, that I’m doing it to take down an evil corporation, but the fact of the matter is I’m invading someone else’s secret files. I’m a thief, stealing information that doesn’t belong to me for what I perceive to be the greater good. But, is it?
“What if I’m not the good guy?” I ask, planting circles on her sides with my thumbs, a moment passing between us like ships passing in a slow tide.
Her fingers stroke my collar, and the look of innocence and awe is gone in a flash.
“Good,” she says. “Then show me how bad of a guy you are, Elijah Owen.”
16 Francesca
I would have let Elijah Owen take me in that train, and I wouldn’t have felt even the least bit bad about it…okay, maybe I would have a little bit. What can I say? It’s hard to break the chains of English prep school. But I think it’s the English schoolgirl sexual suppression that places me where I am right now: in my hallway with Owen already exploring every single bit of me like a pirate plundering for treasure.
The knobs from the mailboxes prod through my denim jacket as Owen corners me in the mailroom—his knob poking me too. We just barely made it through the main lobby before we were on each other like two cats in heat, sexed up but also as if our fighting shenanigans over the past few weeks had bubbled over into hot steam. I can barely feel the knobs through the denim’s thick material, but they snag at my pockets as Owen’s hand delves around the edge of my shoulders, tugging the outerwear down to my crooked elbows. His other hand grips the base of my head, tilting it to provide enough exposure to let him caress the curve of my neck with his mouth.
His kisses are rough but soft, nipping at me but leaving behind a sma
ll prayer every time he lifts his lips to explore the next part of me. I wind my own hand through his thick locks, grinding my fingers through, letting them flow through the hair I’ve imagined touching for the past few minutes, hours, days, and weeks.
Our breathing is already heavy, like the room’s large supply of air isn’t enough to provide clarity in our minds. My head races through clouds of nothing but future imagery only to be interrupted by the current state of desire: Owen’s fingers trailing down my arm, his thumb following in a delayed motion as if trying to savor every exposed surface of me.
I push him away, trying to adjust our positions so that he’s the one cornered against the wall, but Owen only pushes back more forcefully, domineering enough to hold me in place so he can continue his exploration of me. His pushes are never enough to truly bruise me, only enough to spur me to try again in hopes of getting another pushback.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say through muffled breaths against his jacket. Owen stops mid-kiss to focus his gaze down on me, both hands running up my shoulders and neck to grip the sides of my face, the edges of his fingers caressing my jaw and a thumb resting on my pulse. There’s no way he can’t feel my anxiety, my urge to have him continue, but it’s hard to concentrate when his eyes—the deep browns, pupils so full—are busy looking at me. They bounce between each of my own, as if he wants to say something, but the heavy breaths extended between our open mouths refuse to serve up any words. I shove my mouth against his, and any conversation meant to be had is lost.
Up the stairs we ascend, my boots fumbling over each one from the mailroom, trying blindly to find the next incline but so distracted by the way his mouth devours me, opening my lips with his tongue, each of ours dancing across the other’s, licking, sucking, and biting, that I can’t concentrate.
I tug at his bottom lip until he groans, fisting a hand into my hair, tugging my head back so I’m under his control, the relief of finally being his washing over me. When I try another step and nearly tumble, he bypasses the whole situation by digging both palms under my ass and lifting me up, allowing me to wrap my legs around his torso. Our mouths part only enough for him to let out a small chuckle. The deep, throaty sound of it—his amusement, his enjoyment—makes my gut clench more and the growing wetness between my thighs take hold. We go down the hall—though it’s more like tromping as he carries me in his arms—and he steals kiss after kiss from my open lips, palming my ass as he holds me tighter against him and my heels grind into his backside.
“Left, left,” I hiss against his lips as he turns and presses me against the wall next to my apartment door. With my back supported, Owen is able to release one hand from my leg and place it directly over my chest. My breaths increase against his lips, sharply inhaling and releasing, moaning before I even realize the noise is coming from my mouth. His hand snakes under my shirt’s neckline and bypasses my lacy bra to my breast. I arch into him, whimpering as his thumb strokes against my raised peaks, sending shivers from the nerve endings and radiating out like spiderwebs toward my chest and spine.
“Wait, wait,” I say, rushed and breathy, hoping he understood the words and cringing as I notice I’m clearly incapable of saying any word without repeating it a second time. It’s the urgency of it all—the struggle to get out words I wish didn’t need to be said. I just want to continue our moment without these useless interruptions, little hassles like getting into my flat.
Owen’s lips pull away from mine, and it feels like a magnet breaking from its mate. I feel empty, pointless, and longing for them once more.
“What, what?” he mimics, his mouth split into the biggest grin I’ve seen from him. He’s giddy; I can feel it in the way he pinches my tights between his fingers, the way his hand, though mostly paused against my breast, still slightly rotates, as if just traveling in slow motion, waiting to be pushed back into normal speed.
“Let me get my keys.”
“You do that,” he says. “And don’t mind me.” With a devilish smile, he leans his head down, nosing his way into my shirt and slowly, agonizingly taking my nipple into his mouth. The roll of his tongue against me, the sheer gentle nature of it followed by the forceful suck and tug sends my head reeling back. I hit the wall with a loud THUD! and Owen instantly pulls away, hand reaching toward the back of my head where it hit the wall.
He laughs. “Oh my god, Fran.” His voice is so kind, caring. His eyebrows tug in the center and he plants a warm kiss on my forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back to glance into my eyes. “You alright?”
“Shut up and go back to that other thing,” I demand, pointing to my now exposed breast, on full display for the entire hallway.
Owen’s eyebrows waggle at me as he dips his mouth back down, encircling my nipple with his tongue and mumbling a deep, intoxicating “Yes ma’am” before devouring it once more. My breath hitches at every slide of his tongue, but I only close my eyes and allow myself a few seconds to enjoy it before whipping them open and trying my best to concentrate for five freaking seconds on getting my keys out and making sure we’re in my room so he can do much more than this.
I dig through my purse next to my hip, finding the keys and thanking the apartment gods that my building is so empty at this hour. Either my neighbors are still out on the town themselves or they’re already in bed, and they’re likely bothered by the egregious moans and groans from their new hallmate already bringing a man back home after only a month or so of residency. The thrill of it, of my neighbors hearing me be so delightfully devoured by Owen gets my knees a bit weak, but I push through. The new neighbor should probably be considerate.
“Okay, one moment, please,” I say, shifting in Owen’s arms as he gently lowers my feet to the ground. I go to adjust my shirt, to tuck my breast back into its rightful place in my bra, but Owen’s large hand jolts out, cupping it for coverage, and I realize he found its rightful place just fine.
I key us in and lock the door behind me, bolting both locks and turning back around to find Owen’s eyes perusing every surface in my apartment. I hoped it would be presentable. I hadn’t exactly planned on him coming back tonight, but I think I also knew he might, which is why the blankets are folded on the couch and the kitchen is spotless.
I hear a harsh meow coming from the window, a tone saying, And where have you been? Leia’s ginger fur ripples as she jumps down and pads over to greet me. She rubs against my leg and halts for a moment when Owen’s eyes find her. Generally, she would run, so it’s surprising when she tiptoes over to him, rubs his leg with a quick mew, and then toddles off elsewhere, probably under the couch, as is her normal route with strangers.
“She seems nice,” Owen says after a moment. “Is that Leia?”
“Yeah. It’s funny she came out and said hi. She normally hates men.”
He chuckles, low and curt. “So do you.”
“Funny.”
“I like this place,” he says, walking a few steps into my kitchen, fingers twiddling through the leaves of the hanging plant over my sink. “It’s very you.”
“How so?” I ask, following behind him, trailing my hands over his chest, wanting—no, needing to feel his touch once more.
“It feels like home,” Owen says. Before I can ask what that means, he twists, hoisting me up on the island counter. My small bowl of fruit is knocked to the side, and I use my free hand to push it until it lands in the sink to allow us the entirety of the countertop, which is solely dominated by my bum.
Owen’s hands are already trailing up my sides to find the top of my tights and begin curling them down. They don’t come easy.
“Jesus, what are these things made of?” he asks after a moment. “Glue?”
I lean forward, reaching around him to the opposite counter and digging for my kitchen scissors. I lean back, pulling out the fabric and cutting until a rip in them shows. They were cheap bodega tights anyway, something to keep my legs from freezing in this new autumn weather. I can get new tights; I can’t get
a new night with Owen.
“I can buy new ones,” I say at his raised eyebrows and shocked laugh. At my blessing, he digs his fingers into the new exposure bit my bit until both hands grip at either side and, with a loud rip, they pull apart, exposing the interior of my thighs and the bareness of my underwear.
“There we are,” Owen muses, taking my hips and sliding me forward, closer to him, ass precariously balanced on the edge as he lowers himself down to kiss the outside of my underwear. One hand slides up my hip bone, to my stomach, then stops between my breasts as he pushes me down to lie back. I oblige, my heavy breathing getting more shallow with each second that passes. I can feel his breath on me, startled by the sudden kisses that start at the outside of my knee and find their way up to the crease between my pubic area and my inner thigh.
His tongue licks its way into my underwear, parting my folds as his index finger shoves the fabric to the side. The instant his tongue hits my center, my spine melts into the countertop. The want of this moment takes over as he explores me, licking and sucking at my sensitivity. His hand finds its way to my breast where he caresses it, stroking me as my breaths get shorter and shorter and my orgasm grows nearer and nearer.
“Elijah,” I murmur breathlessly, unsure why his first name was the one I found, but the calling of it seems to spur him on as he licks more, devours me wholly. Nerves burst like fireworks up to my hip bones and out to my stomach. In what feels like an instant, the sensation spreads across every muscle, over my thighs, my calves, and out to my toes, and the most delicious orgasm takes all of me without any warning.
“Oh god,” I say, digging the palms of my hands into his long, now messy hair. His tongue still licks feverishly against me as I push him by the shoulders. “Owen, I just—”
“Oh, I know,” he says, a smirk on his face as he breaks away from me before digging his hands under my ass and lifting me up. “Where’s your bed, sweetheart?”
