The droplet of tequila clinging to her lip forced its way into my mind, followed by the greatest hits of every scrap of porn I'd ever seen.
"Fuck, sweetness. I don't think you're ready for that."
And I didn't think she was. The things I wanted were wild and hedonistic. It didn't matter how many taboos we crushed; I was essentially having a threesome with Lauren and her naïveté right now, and I wasn't about to ask if I could come on her tits. I wasn't going to be the asshole who took it too far when this was already fucking phenomenal.
"Maybe I am," she said. "Maybe I want you to fuck me like I'm your dirty little slut."
Looking up from between her breasts, I stared at Lauren, uncertainty and discomfort ticking away and multiplying between us as her words spread over me, sinking into my skin and claiming space in my vocabulary. They were wrong—so much of this was wrong—and the opposite of my expectations, yet exactly what I needed, and the slight smirk pulling at her lips told me it was what she needed, too.
"You're all mine." I growled against her neck and rocked into her hard, quietly begging her to utter that raw request over and over.
"Is that what you want?" she whispered.
I groaned into her mouth, kissing and biting and murmuring that it was exactly what I wanted, that she was what I wanted. Pumping frantically as I neared the end, I laced Lauren's fingers with mine, our eyes locked, and she whispered those words again, soft and low, and nothing like the bomb she dropped earlier.
One hard thrust and we were falling from the bed, tumbling to the floor with a thud, a heap of sheets and pillows and blankets cushioning our fall. That didn't stop the lightning zipping through me, or the explosion leaving my brain blank and muscles numb, or the rolling, pulsing spasm in her center.
Breathless, I collapsed on top of her, my face buried in the crook of her neck. Everything about Lauren was orders of magnitude better than I imagined when she walked into my office earlier today, and now I knew the taste of her skin, the scent of her hair, and the beautiful obscenity of her mind. "Are you all right?"
Lauren nodded, and I estimated how long she'd let me stay this way. It was a funny thought, actually; staying rarely crossed my mind. I was usually concerned with getting off, getting up, getting out.
I pressed my lips to her pulse and rolled, slipping free from the vise grip of her heat. "Stay here. Don't move a muscle," I said.
The short trip to the bathroom was grueling. My legs barely propelled me forward, a gelatinous feeling taking up residence in my muscles. Discarding the condom and running a damp washcloth over my dick bordered on torture. The orgasm wrung me out, and I needed some down time in the form of my head on Lauren's soft belly and my fingers tracing the lines of her body, and with any luck, her hands in my hair. Boobs were also excellent pillows—hers in particular.
I found her standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing into the harbor. It was the type of image photographers and painters waited entire careers to capture, and it was here, for me. She looked over her shoulder, licked her lips, and beckoned me closer. Heat spread through me like a fever, and I was stirring to life at the sight of her lush curves bracketed by the night sky.
Maybe I didn't need that snugglenap as much as I originally thought.
"When did you start on your long," her eyes dropped to my crotch as I approached, "list of dirty things?"
"When you opened the door to the church hall. Your ass. In that skirt."
"That skirt makes me look short and boxy."
"I respectfully disagree, Miss Halsted." I swatted her ass and pressed myself against her back, bringing my arms around her waist.
Even shorter without the ass-kicking heels, Lauren's head rested low on my chest and my cock made itself comfortable against her back. Reaching between us, she gripped me, caressing lazily. "So tell me: what went on the list first?"
"An ass as fine as yours should be worshipped by taking you from behind."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Kneeling, your back against my chest, so I can hold your tits," I hissed, her fingers shifting lower, cupping my balls. "Because I've been thinking about them since yesterday. And facedown, hands tied."
"I think I like that list." Her strokes increased, and though I didn't think it was possible to come again so soon, I was teetering on the brink. Wrapping my fingers around her wrist, I stopped her movement and pressed her hand to the glass.
"Don't move," I whispered against her ear. A condom snatched from the bedside table, I was sheathed and leaning into her, her body against the window.
"Your rebound time is impressive."
I pressed my mouth to her shoulder. I didn't know whether I wanted to bite her or kiss her or just fucking howl against her skin, but I needed to be inside her. Now. Gripping Lauren's hips, I shifted her, trying to find the right angle. It was something of an engineering problem.
"I promise you, sweetness, it owes everything to you."
"I bet you say that to all the girls," she laughed.
"No other girls. You're my only girl," I said. Braced on her toes, she followed my lead, letting me cant her hips and angle her legs, but it wasn't working. There was no resolving a twelve-inch height differential when the heels were off, and the position that served me so well before was unavailable with Lauren. "Now get on your knees."
I don't know where I found the restraint to watch her dropping to the ground, but I stood there, my arms crossed over my chest and my cock twitching and pleading for her attention. It was only when she winced that I realized my mistake.
"Oh shit, no, wait, your poor knees."
"You threw me off the bed not too long ago, Matthew. And then you landed on me. I'll be fine," she said, her nails scraping my inner thighs. "Now don't leave me all alone down here."
And naturally, I complied. There was no denying the very naughty schoolteacher.
My cock molded itself into the cleft of her ass, and I savored that warm pressure before easing toward her wetness. I watched her reflection in the window, the way her eyes closed and her lips parted, and I brushed my mouth over her neck. "Tell me what you want."
Lauren's arm curled around my neck, and I waited, wanting to be inside her but wanting to her hear demanding it even more. She glanced over her shoulder, brows lifted, and I heard the questions in her eyes.
You want to play like this?
You want it fun and rough and dirty, and maybe a little dangerous?
I nodded, and a gentle kiss told her I understood, that I'd remember the rules for next time.
"Fuck me until I can't walk, I can't breathe, I can't do anything but ask for more. Fuck me until I'm yours."
Her soft delivery of coarse words made them more profound, more electric than any mid-fuck requests or screaming demands.
She shifted to her hands and knees, her backside angling toward me, and there was no waiting. My fingers gripped her hips relentlessly as she ground into me with a measured rhythm, taking me inside, and again, her tightness lit stars behind my eyelids.
Lauren set the pace, and my thoughts hovered in a hot, hazy place. My body had never performed so thoroughly, so flawlessly before this night, but I managed only grunts and gasps, echoed murmurs for more and oh, fuck, yes. And though I probably couldn't spell my own name, I knew with absolute certainty this wasn't straight-up p-in-the-v sex. This was a spiritual event, and I, for one, wouldn't have been surprised if some druids started chanting behind us.
I was ready to blow, and each of her cries and moans kicked me closer to the edge. Desperate to prolong this moment, I yanked Lauren against my chest. My arm snaked across her chest to control her rhythm with a hand locked on her shoulder. My other arm traversed her belly, my fingers spreading her folds.
"Better," I sighed, kissing the slope of Lauren's neck.
"What?" she pouted. "You didn't like that?"
Lauren dragged her teeth across my bicep, leaving stinging bites in her wake. Another reminder that she was a complete co
ntradiction—one minute it looked like she didn't know what to expect from my tongue on her clit, and the next she was biting and talking dirrrty.
Sugar and spice, all of it nice.
"I loved it," I groaned, our pace quickening. "But I was going to come all over you within thirty seconds."
She moved against me, and I pistoned up to meet her, my fingers moving fast over her clit. "Maybe I wanted you to come all over me."
I gripped her shoulders and angled her to face me. "Maybe we should combine lists and eliminate these missed opportunities."
My hand shifted from her shoulder, tracing the line of her collarbone down, down, registering the contours of her skin, and stopping between her breasts. Lacing that necklace around my fingers, I held tight, bracing her. My body was moving, thrusting, fucking pounding without my brain's involvement.
"And I wanted to enjoy your amazing body and filthy mind a little longer this time."
"The only filthy mind here is yours," she laughed, her head falling against my arm.
I wanted to laugh but my body's need to mate, to mark, closed in on me, and I lost myself there. My hold on the necklace tightened, the chain taut and tense, then snapping and pooling in my fist.
Roaring my release, my fingers scribbled over her twice before submitting to a full-body shiver that bordered on seizure.
It wasn't if there would be a next time.
It was when.
7
Lauren
Finger-combing my hair in the elevator's mirrored walls was my new reality. All things considered, it was only worse than crying in a stairwell or shopping away my feelings in that I smelled and looked like stale sex.
Oh, and I wasn't wearing any panties.
Minor details.
I clutched my shoes under my arm and balanced the handles of my tote in the crook of my elbow while thumbing mascara smudges from under my eyes. My wrinkly raincoat slipped over the sides of the tote, raspberry welts stained my neck, collarbone, and chest, and there was no mistaking it: I was embarking upon my first walk of shame.
The elevator arrived at the lobby of Matthew's building and my bare feet marched straight to the security desk. "I need a cab. Could you request one for me?"
Ignoring the guard's knowing grin as he lifted the phone, I wiggled into my shoes and winced at patches of blue and purple on my shins.
"Two or three minutes, miss," the guard announced.
I murmured my thanks and set to righting my raincoat, and dismissed the idea of asking whether Matthew welcomed many guests of the ridden-hard-and-put-up-wet variety.
This little activity was over, and Matthew's social life was none of my business.
I stepped out into the morning fog as it rolled off the harbor, the air of confidence in my steps entirely hollow. I avoided the cobblestones but memories of his hands on my waist, his arms holding me close, and his lips against mine swirled around me.
Glancing back at Matthew's building before settling into the cab, I saw the first rays of sunlight cresting the horizon. "Beacon Hill. Chestnut at River Street," I called to the cabbie.
Six feet separated Matthew's bed from the bank of windows but it had taken us hours to get there. The memories were fuzzy yet oddly vivid, not unlike riding a high-speed roller coaster and seeing specific faces in the crowd below, but I wasn't able to distinguish the second time from the third or fourth, or the quiet, close moments in between when laughed and touched and kissed.
Once we made our way to the bed, Matthew fit my body against his, my back connecting with his strong chest and his arms crisscrossed over my torso.
"Stay," he whispered into my hair. "We're not done. Not even close. Stay right here. Promise me."
My fingers reached over my shoulder and kneaded the muscles at the nape of his neck. He hid all of his tension there. "Okay."
He fell asleep quickly and I tried to follow, but my brain shot into overdrive. When the adrenaline and pheromones crashed, the reality of our wild night hit me dead center. I stared at Matthew's arms and the way they locked around me, caging me. My chest started heaving, and it wouldn't have surprised me to see my heart pounding up through layers of muscle and tissue, bursting out of my chest, sprouting legs, and scrambling out the door.
I didn't do this. I didn't have one-night stands. I didn't go home with men I barely knew. I didn't have sex, period.
Especially not that kind of sex.
Everything I said, everything I did—none of it was me, and I needed to forget the entire night. Chalk it up to a moment of weakness. A first time for everything. A lapse in otherwise spotless judgment. A wild oat, or whatever.
And handling the morning after? Oh God, help me. I didn't want to navigate any awkward discussions about our very important and very imaginary Saturday morning responsibilities, and I really didn't want to crawl around looking for my panties while he admired the handprints he left on my ass. Hollow promises to call or connect later would have only made a weird situation worse.
Breaking out from under his bear trap arms, grabbing whichever pieces of clothing I could find, and getting the hell out of there had been the only option. Writing a note crossed my mind, but with the pen poised over the page of my notebook, I couldn't find the words. Was there an apropos morning-after message?
Thanks for a fun time, but I will die of mortification if you ever make eye contact with me again.
Or something along the lines of: Sorry for leaving but I need to go burst into flame now.
Or maybe this: I'm actually off men right now, even though I spent the night all over you.
Instead, I had cast a quick glance at his place, realizing I allocated no part of last night to observing my surroundings. The Commodore wouldn't have been pleased—it was important to identify multiple escape routes upon arrival—but he wouldn't be getting wind of this.
The loft was cool and open, and surprisingly modern for a guy who spent his days restoring historic homes. His furniture was dark and angular, and everything was positioned for maximum ocean viewing. My eyes had swept over the living room and white marble kitchen, and back again, but I couldn't find any hints of Matthew. No photos or books, no magnets on the refrigerator, not even a messy dish of keys and coins. Aside from the suit coat in the hallway and black messenger bag by the door, no trace of him existed there.
And I removed every trace of me, too.
I tiptoed into my apartment and headed straight for my bedroom. I lived alone but the Beacon Hill brownstone was at least one hundred years old and I didn't need to wake the downstairs neighbors at this hour.
I was still a good girl, even with the dirty, dirty sex and…oh God, the things I did.
Who was that person? And what the hell had she said?
I stripped off my coat, dress, and what was left of my underwear, and tossed them in the dry cleaning bag. While the bath filled, I scrolled through emails and text messages about Steph and Amanda's going away party this evening to divert my mind. Analyzing last night further would only lead to stress-eating a brick of chocolate before six in the morning.
I dropped into the apartment's original claw-foot tub and, as if I didn't have enough reminders of Matthew, every inch of my body felt supremely used. My hips were dotted with fingertip bruises from his unrelenting hold. Stinging bite marks throbbed against the bath salts. Overextended abdominal muscles shrieked in protest, a reminder that I'd effectively avoided sit-ups of all manner since high school gym class. I groaned at the aching in my center from Matthew's insistent pummeling and the introduction of his fingers to my rear end.
I wasn't ready to think about that particular moment.
Okay, fine, I loved it, and much like rest of that night, I didn't know what to do with that information. I didn't want to think about the ways in which everything with Matthew was natural, if not enormously shameful. I wanted to disregard the moments when our bodies met, our eyes locked, and the electricity between us was the only thing that mattered.
But I had
real priorities—finding a facility, educating children—and I couldn't let some electricity or hormones get in the way. I didn't have time for one-night stands or boys with ridiculous policies on biting and growling.
And I didn't do this sort of thing. It was untidy and sticky and awkward, and not at all for me.
Neither were relationships. I made my choice when I joined this fellowship, and I knew I couldn't have it all right now.
I didn't know how or when, but I knew a future version of me would be able to manage my school masterfully, and I'd find the time to meet the ideal guy and build a healthy, normal relationship. It would happen when the time was right for those pieces to fall into place.
And the time just wasn't right.
8
Matthew
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 24 at 11:03 WEST
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
* * *
Kid, if you think I'm having Christmas or Thanksgiving with the tribe, you have lost your ever-loving mind. Surely, you're asking for comedic purposes only. Yep. That's what I'm going with.
* * *
And I've told you before: I can walk on lava. It's one of my superpowers. All gingers have them.
* * *
I picked up a Portuguese translation of Flowers in the Attic. I discovered two things. One, my Portuguesa is no bueno. Two, I prefer my campy novels in American. <
* * *
Keep scraping damsels-in-distress off the sidewalk, or whatever the hell you're doing.
- e
From: Matthew Walsh
To: Erin Walsh
Date: September 25 at 08:18 EDT
Subject: RE: Back from the Azores
* * *
The Walsh Brothers Page 7
