by Flite, Nora
“Shit.” She drags my head down again, kisses me again, and then jumps up into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist. I didn’t expect it, but I still catch her easily. “You fuck me wherever’s going to get you inside me faster.”
God. I’m not sure what I expected from her, but I know it wasn’t this. She’s no shrinking violet, withdrawing from my hard hands. I figured she’d be scared, or at the very least hesitant. Sure, she put on a good show back at the club, but it’s easy to change your mind once the rubber hits the road.
Or, you know, once the rubber hits my dick. I do have some, don’t I? Yeah... A box in the kitchen cabinet, I remember. I steer her that way. “Kitchen cabinet it is, then,” I tell her, and she bites my lip. Hard.
“Minx,” I say. “God, you are...” I trail off. I honestly don’t know what to say to her right now. Mostly because every bit of blood I own is fighting for space inside my dick and not one drop has stayed behind in my brain.
She grins. “Unexpected? Well...” There’s a hesitation as I plop her ass on the kitchen counter and rummage in the towel drawer for the extra box of condoms. She seems to lose her train of thought at that. “Cain...you keep condoms in the kitchen?”
“Never know when they might come in handy.” I rip one off the strip with my teeth and hold it, grinning around it. She takes it and whaps me in the nose with it.
“I’m putting this on you,” she tells me.
“How are you going to put it on me when I’m fucking your ass from behind?”
An eyebrow moves up. “You can fuck me from behind, but you’re not fucking my ass.”
It isn’t actually what I meant, but it’s good to know she has lines and is willing to draw them. I lean forward. “Maybe not tonight...” Then I bite her earlobe.
“God, get on with it.”
I’m not sure I want to get on with it. Maybe I just want to take my time, put my hands all over her. I push between her thighs where they’re splayed open, her knees bent, feet dangling off the edge of the cabinet. She’s wearing a skirt, which is handy; it’s shoved up to the tops of her thighs, already out of the way, and her panties show, a wink of pink as she shifts. She’s hot and wet against my stomach; I can feel it right through her panties, my shirt. Kissing her, I start to pull at the buttons on her top.
She reaches for the hem of my shirt and peels it up. Her fingernails scrape over my skin as the shirt rises, and I shudder a little, an involuntary noise coming out of me, like a growl. She chuckles, drags the shirt over my head, and gives it a random toss over her shoulder.
“You look good, Cain.”
I drag the sides of her unbuttoned blouse open and look down at her breasts, swelling out of the cups of an orchid-colored silk bra. Her skin is pale and flawless, especially in contrast to mine—darker, scarred, my left forearm inked to the wrist. “So do you, Jess.”
“I don’t think I said you could call me Jess.”
“I don’t think I need your permission.” I grab the little plastic fastener between her breasts and pop it just right. The mounds fall forward and down, no longer propped up by the bra. They’re big and round and warm and alive, and I like them so much better like this. Free. Naked. And out there where I can taste them.
She jumps when my teeth close on her nipple. I’m not biting that hard—it’s not like I’m going to draw blood or anything—but she’s so revved right now I bet she would’ve done the same thing if I’d just touched her. I press a little harder just to see what happens. Her hands grab at my hair as if to pull me back, and then stop. Ah, good. She likes this.
With one hand, I lift the breast I’m biting, feeling the heavy softness against my palm. What is it about a woman’s tits that can make my brain scramble? Or, for that matter, a woman’s anything. Her mouth, her eyes, the curve of her neck, the rich, musky smell of her cunt. I want all of it. Every inch. Under my hands, my tongue. Surrounding my dick.
I rock forward in the space between her thighs, rubbing my erection against the wet heat of her ruined panties. She’s grabbing at me again, pulling me closer, scraping down my back with her nails. It hurts; I love it. Her fingers find the back of my waistband and track forward, stopping at the fly.
While she’s dealing with that, I take more of her breast into my mouth and reach between her legs with my free hand. Those panties don’t necessarily have to go, but they’re definitely in the way at the moment. I push them aside, and my fingers find the heat and the slickness hidden behind them. There’s hair on her pussy—I like that—and my fingers slide against her inner lips until they slip right into her, deep.
She gasps, arching her back and looking down. I push harder. Inside she’s tight and hot and so wet I feel like she might drag my whole hand inside her with that shaking, grasping cunt. God, I want my dick inside her. Now.
She’s gotten distracted, though, and hasn’t finished undoing my pants. Reluctantly I let go of her breast and reach down to take care of that little detail myself. Even I have issues, though, and my fingers fumble on the zipper.
I can only get my pants down past my hips, but it’s enough, and when my cock springs free it makes a light slapping sound against her belly. She reaches down and grabs it. Nails again, biting into the delicate skin. It’s my turn to gasp, then growl, then bite my lip. Then bite her lip. She chuckles.
“Too much for you, big boy?” Her fist closes tight around my engorged shaft, her thumb sliding over the glans, where pre-come has already made it slick and ready. I can smell the deep musk of her arousal, the tangier scent of my own.
“Too much for you?” I ask as she strokes down my cock, fingers bumping over the big veins.
“I don’t think so.”
I know damn well I’ve got more than most guys can even hope for, and she’s going to feel it. I want to challenge her smugness, her little acts of aggression. “You sure about that?”
Nothing I say seems to faze her though. Reaching back, she squeezes my balls, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from unloading all over her. That’s not the goal here. “You ready for that condom?”
Right. The condom. She took it; what did she do with it? But I hear the foil tear open, and a moment later the ring of the condom touches the over-sensitized skin of my glans. She sets it on just right, rolls it down, and then moves my cock toward her pussy.
I stop her with one hand. “I think I said I was going to fuck you from behind.”
Her eyes gleam. She’s so ready. “You do whatever you want, Cain.”
“Damn fucking straight I will.” I step back, grab her by the waist, and put her down on her belly on the counter. And take her.
God fucking damn. Jesus Christ, she’s so hot. Wet, slick, and tight as the fist she had around me just a few seconds ago. That cunt squeezes any harder on me and I might not be able to get my dick back out at all. But I shove into her hard, feeling the full depth of her. She lets out a sharp cry than warbles into a long moan.
Yeah, that sounds about right. I grab her hips and lean over her.
“You’re going to feel this,” I tell her. “You’re going to taste my come. You’re going to feel my cock in the back of your throat. You’re still going to feel my dick tomorrow.”
She grates out a groan, then, “Shut up and fuck me, you asshole.”
I clench my teeth in a grin. Guess I should do what the lady says. I pound her, watching the soft bounce of her ass, the straining of her thighs. Her toes barely touch the floor, and she’s having a hard time keeping herself grounded. That’s fine. She doesn’t need to be grounded. Doesn’t need control. The tight, sucking, slapping sound of our bodies meshing and meeting each other fills the room, and a violent heat pounds up my dick, into the small of my back, up my spine.
Her hands open and close like claws on the Formica counter. She’s managed to chip a nail. I like a woman who puts good, hard sex ahead of a perfect manicure.
I fuck her ruthlessly. Her body arches, her forehead pressing against the counter. I reach f
orward and grab her hair, jerking her head back, and she lurches up, supporting herself on her hands as I drag her torso toward me. My pace is so fast I wonder how much longer I can keep it up. I’m starting to feel the burn, both from fucking her and from the leftover strain of the fight. My knees ache.
Whatever. Pain just makes it sweeter.
She makes another sweet, strained sound, and I slide my free hand under her hips. My fingers grope and finally find her clit, swollen and slick, just above the thrusting thickness of my cock. I rub her in a circle, then back...
She loses her fucking mind. “God, God, God...” Like prayer is going to help. I just grin and keep thrusting, keep circling. She might be sore in the morning, but I doubt she’ll care. She’s bucking and thrashing so hard I can’t quite hold on to the fire pounding up my back, and suddenly I’m fucking myself into her harder than ever while my balls pull up and shoot about a week’s worth of come. I can feel the orgasm throbbing through my hips, my thighs, and my back, between my legs. For a second I think I might pass out, and then I realize I stopped breathing. I start up again. Breathing is important.
She’s digging her nails fruitlessly into the counter and gradually easing down from the climax. I look down and see my thumbs digging hard into her ass cheeks, the flesh gone white around them. Carefully I loosen my grip. I stroke her skin gently and then run my thumb lightly over the tight pink pucker of her asshole.
“I told you—” she starts, and I cut her off with a chuckle.
“Just mapping the territory.” I’m impressed she can even form words at this point. Hell, I’m surprised I can.
She lays her head down on the counter. “God.”
“You okay?”
I’m answered with a laugh. “You could say that, yeah.” She wiggles her ass in my face. “Let me up.”
I ease back, making sure she’s secure before I pull my weight completely away from her. She slides down and turns around. We’re quite the pair—her with her shirt off, breasts bare, bra hanging down her back, me with my pants dangling somewhere between my hips and my knees. Not very dignified. I drag at a couple belt loops until my cock is at least partially covered. No point zipping anything up. I’m too fucking tired, anyway.
She slips down neatly and lands on her feet, turning to face me almost like it’s a dance move. Nothing in her face indicates she regrets anything we just did. I reach up and run a thumb across her cheek. She’s beautiful—oval face, gorgeous skin, a round, high forehead. I’m not sure she even wears makeup, and her hair is rarely done up in any elaborate way—it just falls from a straight part down on either side of her face, framing blue eyes and the sweet, soft curve of her mouth. I lean forward to taste that curve again.
As my tongue touches her lower lip, I realize I want this again. I could carry her into the bedroom and work her over one more time, right now. That hardly ever happens to me. Usually I’m one and done, but this woman is more than I hoped and more than I ever expected.
Her hand comes up and catches mine, draws it against her face. Carefully she breaks the kiss.
“I should go home,” she says.
“Stay,” I offer.
Her eyes widen a bit with a sort of shocked humor. “No way. Cain the Flame never lets girls sleep over.”
“How would you know that?” She’s right though. I do have a bit of a reputation in that area. Not necessarily a good one.
She shrugs. “I hear things.”
“I see.” I take in her bare breasts again, gently devouring them with my eyes, then grasp the sides of her bra and carefully pull it back into place, snapping the clasp. “Will you be safe if you go back home?”
“What? You mean my father?” She scoffs. “How is he going to know where I was?”
“You know it wouldn’t exactly make him happy to know you just did the nasty with me.”
“I know.” She actually turns a bit serious. “Yeah, I know that. Which is why I’m going to go home.” She strokes a hand down my chest. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“This doesn’t happen to me very often.”
“What? Getting fucked over a kitchen counter?”
“Getting fucked at all. Pop is, shall we say, not much in favor of my stepping out and about.”
“Unsurprising.” I wonder at her near-virginal tightness combined with her eagerness. This was by no means her first time, I could tell, but for someone who doesn’t indulge often, she’s hella enthusiastic. Or maybe that’s why she’s enthusiastic. “Especially since you’re hot as fuck in bed.”
She laughs. “How would you know? We never made it to the bed.”
“Okay, then you’re hot as fuck over a kitchen counter.” I’m reluctant to move away from her, reluctant to let her go. “Look...you sure you don’t want to stay the night?”
“I’m sure.” She pushes me, both hands right in the middle of my chest. “I really do need to go. This has been nice—more than nice—but I don’t want Pop getting any ideas about removing all your intestines and making some kind of macramé basket out of them.”
I wince at the image. She doesn’t mince words a bit, does she? “Yeah, I can’t imagine that would be pleasant.”
“So...we can’t do this again, all right?”
It’s not all right. Usually I’m the one gently pushing away the girl, giving her some goddamn excuse why I can’t see her again. “Give me your number.”
“Nope.” Stepping away from me, she starts scanning the room for her shirt. Finds it, slips it back on, and sorts out the buttons. “I’m going home.” She pauses then, giving me a cursory look. “You might want to slap a couple Band-Aids on.”
The smile I give her this time is wry. I could use a few Band-Aids, that’s for sure. “All right.”
With one more smile, she blows me a kiss then heads out the door.
#
I have a real problem with the sun when it comes pounding in through the curtains in my bedroom. Another seventeen hours of sleep would be helpful, but I’m not going to get it. Not even another two hours. I sit up and stare at the opposite wall.
The events of yesterday roll through my head. The fight, the fuck-up, Jessica Spada with her legs splayed open on my kitchen counter. Frowning, I rub my arm. I’m sore. My dick is trying to convince me I shortchanged it last night by not giving it enough of a release. I tell it to shut up and head for the shower. I have a bad feeling about today. It’s one of those feelings you have when you’re damn sure your luck has just taken a drastic turn for the worse.
Sure enough, when I get out of the shower there’s a message in the voice mail on my cell. “McAllister, you’re in deep shit. I want you here today at ten to talk about why you fucked up yesterday.”
Spada doesn’t even bother to identify himself. No niceties, no, “Hi, Cain, how’s the body holding up?” Because he doesn’t care. As long as I’m flinging myself out there, making him money, he doesn’t give a shit what kind of condition I’m in. That’s just a straight-up fact.
So I make sure the buttons on my shirt are straight, comb my hair back so it’s not sticking out anywhere, and head for the Spada residence.
It’s not far, but in reality it’s a world away. Gated neighborhood, multimillion-dollar homes with big, manicured lawns that offer a middle finger to the current California drought conditions. Standing in front of the mansion’s wide front doors, I wonder if I’ll walk back out again. It’s a legitimate question.
One of Spada’s lickspittles—Nick, I think it is—meets me at the door and gives me one of those grand half-bowing gestures to welcome me inside. I don’t like the look he’s giving me. It’s got too much smirk in it, and I kind of want to slap it off his face. That’s not going to get me anywhere though.
“Mr. Spada is expecting you,” Nick says, waving toward the hallway that I know leads to Spada’s office.
“So I assumed.” My tone is dry. Nick’s responding look is disapproving. Too bad. I might only have a couple hours
left on Earth, so I might as well enjoy them. And if that involves giving Nick shit, then so be it. He’ll have to deal.
I freeze in the doorway to the office. Phil Spada’s there, but he’s not alone. Jessica is bent over next to his desk, pointing to something in a ledger. The curves of her ass are all too visible under the soft cotton of the dress she’s wearing. My dick springs to immediate attention, remembering what that ass looks like. What it feels like.
I clench my teeth and school my expression, determined not to do or say anything that could give Spada any idea what I did to his daughter last night. So much for rubbing his nose in it, which is what part of me wants to do. Hell, that’s the main reason I took her home in the first place. Another other part of me, though—a part that wasn’t making itself known last night—wants to protect Jess. And that’s the part that’s winning.
I must make some kind of a noise, or move just the right way, because suddenly both Spadas look right at me. The father’s face clicks immediately into an emotionless mask. Jessica maintains a careful, disinterested coolness. Perfect. “Well,” she says to her father, “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“Thanks, honey.” He reaches up to her, and she takes his hand, lets her fingers trace across his palm as she moves away. It’s a loving gesture, and she gives him a gentle smile. He returns the smile, fatherly. I fight to keep from grimacing at the saccharine nature of it. But as Jess turns toward the door where I’m standing, her eyes catch mine for a split second, and I see in them what she really feels for her father. It’s not pretty.
When she’s gone, and the door has clicked shut behind her, Phil Spada makes a wide gesture toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Cain.”
I swing a leg over the back of the chair and settle into it, nonchalant. Like I don’t give a shit what he says to me. I just look Spada right in the eye and let him think whatever he thinks about me.
Spada’s eyes narrow slightly. I don’t think he’s happy that I’m not cowering in front of him, begging for my life. Fuck that. I don’t beg anybody for anything. Besides, I think, my mouth twisting a bit, I fucked your daughter. And she loved it.
