Wanderlust

by A. R. Hadley

  So responsive. So easy to stimulate.

  "Cal," she moaned, writhing beneath him.

  "What?" He went in, then out, repeating the process several times, much to Annie’s dismay. "Do you want to come again?"

  Frenzied, she pulled his hair, gripping him. Endorphins seemed to be piling up inside her brain, one by one, stacking themselves, filling her mind. Could she come again after such a short time? No one had ever tried. She’d never tried.

  "Do you want to come again?" He breathed the words against her chest, pushed his nose into her breasts. "Tell me."

  "I do. I want to."

  "What? What do you want?"

  "I want to come."

  "Do you need me?"

  "God," she said, eyes opening wide, trying to shake free, trying to take his cock inside her greedy entrance with a flick of her pelvis. He held her between his arms, his weight keeping her pinned beneath him.

  "What do you need?" He went into her again a little, pressing, playfully refusing to give in, but the control he exercised to maintain the game etched fine lines of stress across his forehead. Perspiration beaded there too.

  "I need you," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "I need you to fuck me."

  In one smooth push, Cal thrust into her, smashing her backside into the bed, causing her to burst with guttural sounds he wanted to hear more of. A sob, a moan, and a scream — all rolled into one. The best sounds. The best sobs. Happy endorphin sobs. Whimpers.

  He did it again and again. Exiting her, then thrusting, rushing the full length of himself into her pussy, pounding her body into the sheets as the sweat dripped from his forehead.

  "Look at me," he said, stopping the feverish jolts, holding himself inside her with an intense pressure she’d never felt.

  She cast her eyes into his net.

  "Come, Annie. Again. For me, baby."

  She nodded, then cried. Honest-to-God cried. A tear slid down her cheek.

  Their eyes became windows, each of them peeking into the other’s soul. Peering into the panes as long as their orgasms lasted, they both finished simultaneously — for the first time together.

  Cal fell into her and slipped up beside her. She laid her head against his chest and truly sucked back the sobbing now. The real sobbing. Releasing it instead with several shaky breaths.

  The two of them sat in the silence, the silence Cal often preferred, sharing a something, sharing their everything, sharing a comfort neither knew how to orchestrate. They sucked up the comfort in the silence, against the sheets, listening to their hearts beat against each other’s chests for a few minutes of post-orgasmic bliss.

  "So, now do you want to tell me about New York?" He grinned.

  Annie smiled. He was such a fucking enigma. She smoothed her fingernails forward into his chest hair. It was soft, fluffy, juxtaposed to the strong, lean body it covered. Would she ever tire of the smell of his skin, or of the electromagnetic field on the tips of her fingers, on her palms, over the entire surface of their skin whenever they rubbed together?

  "No takers on my work," she replied.

  "None?"

  "Nope. One curator asked for my information, though."

  "They aren't ready for you yet." He traced a finger along the curve of her hip.

  "Maybe."

  "The timing has to be right."

  She propped herself up on an elbow and stroked her index finger under his chin. "You believe in that sort of thing? Timing? Fate?"

  "I don't know that I would call it fate, but yes, I believe in timing."

  She plopped back down into the crook of his neck. "Maybe they'll never be ready for me."

  "Did you not meet with anyone in Manhattan before you moved, while you were in school?"

  "No."

  The soft rush of the word told him all he needed to know… Peter.

  "I'm sorry, Annie." He needed to pull her body into him further — more, if possible — and she was already spooned against him tightly. "It is timing. It has to be right."

  "How old were you when you first moved to the city?"

  He paused, staring at the ceiling. "Twenty-two."

  "Was that ... the girl Maggie spoke of at dinner?"

  "You don't forget, do you?"

  "Was she one of your mad loves?"

  A subtle noise came from his chest. A rattle of laughter. Cynical, bitter laughter. Quiet too. Like him.

  Oh, Cal had not thought of the woman he’d once shared an apartment with in New York for so long. Was Allison maddening? Yes. A mad love? No.

  Annie picked her head up and touched his lips. Her mouth was so close to his she could’ve swallowed it. "She's not one of the two?"

  "No. She is not." He took her fingers from his lips and kissed a group of them. "I don't want to talk about her. She was venom. Lethal." He laughed again. The same way too, like it was a private joke he could only share with himself. He wasn't going to spill. And for once, she had him talking, damn it — and after sex.

  She kissed him, then bit his chin. "I don't want you to stop sharing. Tell me something else."

  He returned the kiss but not the bite. "Stop what?" He put his hand on the apex between her thighs and cupped her. "God, you're still wet." He rested a finger on her clit.

  She was wet. And he was—

  "And you are changing the subject."

  "I'm going to fuck you all night, Annie. In ways you've never been fucked before."

  She sucked in a sharp breath. He’d already accomplished that. And there was more?

  "I didn't have Carl bring you here so I could spend all night talking about myself."

  For once, Annie thought talking might be overrated...

  He spread her legs, peered at what he wanted, needed — at what he knew how to bring to the brink again and again while Annie lay there, open, vulnerable … his. She didn't know how his dick could already be hard again, but it was, his erection pressing against her hip.

  He looked into her eyes as if he wanted to consume the whole of her, limbs and all, starting with the wet area his palm covered.

  "You are beautiful,” he said, then paused. “Put your hands above your head. Good. Now, close your eyes."

  "Cal..."

  "Trust me." He kissed her cheek.

  "Do you even know how beautiful you are … here?" He barely grazed her clit with his thumb, his words and touch causing her to shake everywhere.

  He made her feel beautiful.

  Kneeling, he peered. Worshipped her pussy. And she knew because she peeked. She saw the adulation in his eyes.

  As he left the bed, she pinched them shut again.

  "Open." After swiping his belt from the floor, he held it in the air, folded, above her face. "Give me your wrists." He looped the leather around them, fastened it, tightened it, then pushed her arms overhead until her fabulous tits jutted out.

  After taking a condom from the drawer, he said, "I never want to wait ten days to be inside you again."

  Five days in London. One day in between on her period. Four days in New York.

  After rolling it on, he slid up to her entrance and nudged her clit with his dick. "Do you understand?"

  She didn't. Because it was just the summer just the summer just the summer.

  "Did you touch yourself while you were away?"

  "Yes."

  He took an inch or so of her, then slid out. "Did you like waiting?"

  She smiled, then looked away, but he pulled her chin back front and center.

  "You know, I went without for thirteen months before I met you. I can wait." She grinned. What do you think of that, you insatiable man?

  His arms extending on either side of her, he hung his head, then shook it.

  "Didn't you ever have to wait? Or do you wait for no one?"

  He smirked. "I did. I have. Not that long. Christ. But long enough.”

  Her eyes asked him questions.

  “The longest time?" he replied.

  "Yes?"
>
  "It was when I decided to train for my first marathon."

  She laughed. "A dry spell?"

  "By choice."

  "Same."

  He continued to tease her entrance with his dick, inching up her folds, torturing her. "You mean no one ate your delicious pussy? No one had their fingers inside of you? Nothing … for thirteen months?"

  "No. Only my fingers." Legs wrapped around his waist, she cradled the small of his back. She tried to pull him toward her, but he didn't budge.

  "God, Annie, no wonder you're so responsive."

  She shook her head. "No. It's you." She giggled.

  He smiled as he circled a finger around a nipple. He pinched it, and as he did, she made an explosive sound. "Did you like the biting?" He nipped her nipple with his teeth.

  "Yes." She arched, willing him to repeat the action. "Couldn't you tell?"

  "Close your eyes again."

  As she did, the weight of the bed changed. He had departed. She instinctively began to push her legs together.

  "No." Cal touched her knees. Ah. He hadn't gone far. "Keep yourself open to me, baby."

  "Don't make me wait," Annie said, pulling against the bindings, cocking open an eye, peeking.

  He pushed her knees up and out, bit her nipples, one and then the other. "No peeking. No moving."

  "Where are you going?"

  "No peeking and no more fucking questions. I'm asking the questions. I'm doing the talking."

  Whatever.

  If she were there an eternity, it wouldn't matter — she would wait.

  Strangely, she could feel her arousal increase as the seconds ticked by. It increased with the eye closing and with the belt on her wrists, the anticipation.

  God, when had she turned into a ball of horny nerves waiting to be released? When had the commands of a lover made her want to come without even a touch? And when had she ever been commanded in bed?

  Never.

  Only by him.

  Cal Prescott.

  The stranger. The chameleon. The puzzle. Her puzzle piece.

  His commands sounded like a symphony. His voice plucked all her strings perfectly.

  "What else did you do up there?" He’d returned to the bed. "Lift your head." He wrapped something soft around her eyes. A necktie or a scarf?

  "You are a wicked man."

  "You like to talk, so we’ll talk." He knotted it. "What did you do?"

  Lost my mind. Cried a river. The usual.

  "Went to a play. Met curators. Hung out with my friend." He hovered over her. She couldn't see him, but he was there. The tip of his dick taunted her entrance again. A gasp escaped her lips. "We ... talked."

  "About sex?" he asked as he slid inside without any haste, torturing her again by controlling the speed of the fucking.

  He needed to be the one to ask the questions. She could barely speak or move or fucking think.

  "Everything is not always about sex," she managed to blurt out between his soft exertions.

  "Girls talk plenty of sex."

  He entered and exited — without pressure or speed. It was slow. Easy. Annie was prepared for the other shoe to drop.

  "Tab is married."

  "So."

  "So, I don't ask about her husband’s—"

  "Dick," he said, then thumped her cervix, jolting her. "Did you talk about me?"

  Back arched, strained, fists closed over the restraint, Annie couldn’t think or breathe. "God, Cal, please."

  "Did you?" He was out again, the tip of his cock sliding over and over her swollen and achy folds.

  "Yes."

  "What did you say?"

  "You're the worst, Cal Prescott."

  He took his dick away.

  "No," she cried like a petulant child.

  He chuckled under his breath as he spread her legs and began to stroke her clit. "Calm down, baby." He touched her erect little nub as light as a feather, brushing it as if he weren't even touching it, as if he were striking the air, bringing her to the edge again.

  "Talk, Annie."

  "I told her this is sex."

  "Indeed." His clit-strumming motion increased.

  "I told her ... it's only sex."

  Cal stripped the blindfold from her face, and even though she’d only been covered a short time and the room was fairly dark, she still squinted and tried to turn from his startled gaze.

  "Say that to my face," he said, and his words felt like a slap to the face.

  His cock filled her. All. The. Way. He thrust into her to the hilt several times. She moaned and moaned and moaned.

  Then he pulled out.

  "No!"

  "Beg me."

  "Fuck you."

  "Say my name."

  "Fuck you … Cal." The syllables shook out of her mouth as he rocked her into a frenzy of not waiting ten days to be inside of you, of it’s just the summer, the summer, the summer, of it’s just sex, it's just sex, it's just sex.

  A mess was what it all was.

  The leather of the belt chafed her wrists. Her breasts bounced. Each push of him inside her a reminder of what they were, who they were.

  He slowed.

  Stopped.

  Pulled out.

  "No," she whispered, bit her lip, and yanked on the restraints.

  "Shhh." He moved his mouth to her clit, licking her. "Be still. Grab the headboard." He pushed her forward as she gripped it. "Tell me if you like this."

  Like what? She didn't think she could take much more — of any of it.

  Immediately, the soft pad of his tongue on her clit turned to teeth.

  "Fuck." She pulled the headboard away from the wall as she wailed the expletive. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  He resumed caressing her clit, gently sucking it, barely licking it.

  "Again," she moaned and tugged.

  He used his teeth, then he repeated the gentleness. Nibbling, tenderly biting, and then taking care of her body as though he were before an altar, lighting a candle, ready to pray.

  He repeated the sadistic combination — bite, nip, suck, lick, pray — until an explosion occurred. A white light of pain burst into red-hot fucking pleasure. Could she tell him how much she liked it in words? She was past words. Could she speak anything other than animal sounds? The grunting. The broken gasps. The mmms and ahs.

  He rose on his knees over her and squared her hips. "God, Annie, I've wanted you for two fucking weeks." He pushed one of her knees up and to the side, stretching her open, and then he thrust inside her.

  Eyes rolling, she yelped, alternating between watching how he fucked her and looking into his insane eyes.

  He slammed into the back of her pussy. "I could barely concentrate on work. You feel so good. I'm taking you all night." Slam. "I'll bite you." Slam. "I'll lick you. I'll make it so you can't speak unless I command you." He pushed, pushed, pushed deep inside of her. "Tomorrow morning you’ll be so sore, you won't be able to walk."

  Everything he’d said came out as a pledge while she groaned, held back sobs, her pelvis meeting his with each thrust.

  "Look at me."

  She opened her eyes. "Yes?"

  "Not yet." He slowed. "You said you had patience. You waited thirteen months." He slid out. "I let you come already. Twice." His eyes swam with contentment. He was in his prime. His element.

  "Beg me for what you say is just sex." He looked down at where they’d been joined and rolled the tip of his dick over her wet slit.

  "You're a fucker." She yanked the headboard, wrestled with the belt loop, and rocked against the steel plank of his body.

  "Beg me." He took her nipple, squeezing it between his teeth.

  Body going slack, she exhaled. "Please..."

  "Your body is mine this summer." His dick filled her pussy. "Beg," he demanded, fucking her just enough to keep her on the edge but not enough to bring her release, and then he pulled out.

  "God. Please, Cal. You know I need you. I want you. Please." She closed her eyes. Sweat glist
ened off every part of her body. Her eyes held more need than her words. Still, she spoke, she begged, she pleaded. "Please, fuck me. Please. I. Need. You."

  Pushing himself inside her again to the max, Cal sealed her body to his until it was complete. A palm on her shoulder, brushing a thumb against her clit, he listened to the sounds pour out of her voice box in broken grunts and chants and weeping.

  "Please, look at me, Annie." Each word hitched. He’d worked himself up into his own frenzy. The next four words matched his four thrusts. "It's. Not. Just. Sex." He nodded. "Yes?"

  She knew he was starting to come because his eyes became glass, his face tensed.

  "Yes," she agreed, telling the truth while practically choking on her own spit.

  It's not just sex. It's not just sex. It's not just sex. The mantra repeated inside her head until the words became her undoing. The look in his eyes as his orgasm consumed him became her undoing.

  His groaning, his unraveling — stripped her bare.

  Her entire body filled with those stupid four words, and his sounds and his skin, as she began to release.

  A third time.

  She watched his eyes glaze, his head droop, then shake. She listened to the quiet way he released his breath with each pulse of his orgasm. Her eyes never left his face.

  He unbuckled her in an instant, fell on his back and blew out an elongated, exhausted breath.

  Annie stared up at the ceiling, running her fingers over her tender wrists.

  He took her hand, palm up, and kissed the veins and red marks. "It's not just sex."

  "Then what is it?" She turned and put her ass against his pelvis. "Am I allowed to ask you questions now?"

  Cal wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her toward him. They were spooning again — cut for each other, made to fit. She smelled like home. Fields of citrus, seasons, a reason. He buried his face into the tree-lined rows of her neck.

  "I missed you too, Annie. We said no discussion of what-ifs or plans. Go to sleep. I want to hold you just like this until you fall asleep."

  She started to cry without moving. Somehow, she kept her chest from shaking. He wouldn't know she released tears. He couldn’t know. Everything they’d done had felt good and right. Fucking amazing, physically and emotionally. The biting, the nipping, the kissing, the quiet, the way he called her baby, the insistence in his words, even the sensual torturing and taunting, the delaying — she took it all for him.