The List (The List #1)

by Tawna Fenske

  “You want to feel me inside you?”

  “Yes.”

  The word comes out strangled, which probably belies just how badly I want that. Urgently. I can feel my whole body clenching with the thought of having him again.

  “Not yet,” he murmurs against my throat. He kisses me there, feathery, light brushes of his lips all the way from the nape of my neck to my ear. He lets go of my hair, and I hate to admit I’m disappointed. But then he grabs the hem of my top and pulls it up and over my head. My hair tangles on a button, and I realize even that sensation turns me on.

  He tosses the top aside and reaches for me again. I’m still wearing my bra and pleased to recall I wore my prettiest set. Yellow satin and lace, with bikini panties that feel silky to the touch. My sisters would approve.

  For crying out loud, stop thinking about your sisters.

  My skirt is still hiked up around my hips, and I hope he’s enjoying the view as much as I’m enjoying everything he’s done to me so far.

  Simon leans down again and plants a light kiss in the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He kisses his way across my shoulder and down, landing a slow, feathery trail down my spine.

  When he gets to my ass, I shiver. He kisses the spot where he delivered the spatula blow moments before, then takes his time getting to the other side. By the time he’s kissed both cheeks thoroughly, I’m practically dripping with need. I don’t know if he’s done this a million times before or what, but the man certainly knows how to tease every last nerve. How to alternate between whisper-soft caresses that leave my flesh humming and firm, stinging smacks that make my blood fizz with delight.

  “What do you think?” he muses. “Should we take off these panties?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He laughs and slides his fingers into the waistband. “So polite.”

  He takes his time pulling them down my thighs, and I move one knee, then the other, so he can tug them off over my ankles. It occurs to me that I still have my shoes on, and I wonder if I look like a porn star. I kinda feel like one, and I like that. I like it a lot.

  With my panties gone and my skirt hiked up over my hips, I feel exposed. I’m leaning with my elbows on my kitchen counter wearing just my bra and skirt and a pair of high-heeled shoes I practiced in all weekend so I wouldn’t look like a hack. If I’m going to be the brazen vixen who fulfills all her sexual fantasies, I damn sure want to look the part.

  Simon’s palm skims my left ass cheek again, and I know what’s coming. My skin prickles with anticipation. I hold my breath, waiting for it.

  But the smack lands on my right cheek instead, harder this time. I gasp as my flesh sings, a high, sharp pitch that rings in my ears. Every nerve in my lower half is on fire, and I’m still reeling from it when he smacks me again. It’s the left cheek this time, closer to my tailbone, and I realize he’s taking great care not to strike the same spot twice in rapid succession.

  “Simon, please,” I beg, not entirely sure what I’m asking for. Another smack? His fist in my hair again?

  No, that’s not it. And he seems to know it.

  “You want my cock inside you?”

  I nod, too mind-whacked to form words. But he wants more.

  “Say it,” he says.

  I crane my neck and throw an insolent look over my shoulder. “Simon says fuck me.”

  The smack lands hard on my right cheek, just like I hoped it would. I cry out, more pleasure than pain, though I’m realizing what a delicious combination the two can be.

  I also realize Simon’s poised to grant my wish, since I caught a glimpse of a condom in his hand when I turned to look. Sure enough, he plants his palms on my ass and pushes me forward, spreading me open as he does.

  “So fucking beautiful,” he grinds out as his dick glides against my slippery folds. “And so goddamn wet.”

  I am wet. I’ve never been this wet before, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out if he doesn’t slide inside me right here, right now.

  Sensing my need, he grabs a fistful of my hair again and gives a light tug. I feel my back arching and my ass tipping up to give him the perfect angle. He takes it.

  In one easy stroke, he buries himself to the hilt. I cry out, filled to my breaking point with pleasure. He’s still tugging my hair, but I feel his grip loosen as he leans down to whisper in my ear. “How do you want it?” he murmurs. “Slow and deep, or hard and fast?”

  “Yes, to all of it,” I pant, feeling like a kid in a candy shop. I want everything. Gummy bears and chocolate nibs and salt licorice and Simon pounding into me over and over again until I come my brains out.

  He laughs, and for a second I think he’s read my thoughts. But he’s read my eagerness instead, and he seems happy to indulge me. He sets the spatula down on the counter and grabs my hips with both hands. “Very well.”

  He starts out slow, letting me feel the full length of him sliding all the way in, then back out again until he’s almost pulled out completely. The walls of my sex clutch him with greedy need as he pushes in again, impossibly deep this time. I groan and grip the edge of the counter with one hand, slipping my fingers between my legs.

  “That’s it,” he urges. “Touch your clit.”

  I hardly need permission, but I’m thrilled to know he wants me to. That it might actually turn him on. I had a boyfriend once who felt threatened by it. Who thought it was some sort of threat to his manhood if I touched myself in bed.

  But Simon knows how female anatomy works. Good God, does he ever.

  I can feel the orgasm building inside me. The bone-deep kind, the kind that goes on for endless, breathless seconds and leaves you feeling the aftershocks days later. I cry out when the first wave hits me.

  Smack!

  It’s my left cheek this time, and he smacked it with an open palm. It stings like holy hell, but oh-my-fucking-God the pleasure. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, raw and throbbing with every nerve in my body screaming.

  I’m still coming, harder than I’ve ever come in my life, and this time I feel his palm land hard on my right cheek. The smack of skin on skin sends another blast of pleasure through me, and I cry out again.

  “Cassie,” he groans, and I realize he’s close, too. As I ride every last wave of this orgasm, it dawns on me that I’m not the only one feeling out of control here. He moans in my ear, and I can feel his cock pulsing inside me as he thrusts into me again and again.

  My skin is still humming when he goes still. Slowly, he slides his hand off my ass. He pulls out of me, and I straighten up and turn around. He kisses me on the mouth, surprisingly tender after the paddling he just gave my backside.

  As he slips into the bathroom to get rid of the condom, I tug my skirt down and glance around for my top. Simon comes back from the bathroom and flashes me a grin that’s almost sheepish.

  “You okay?”

  Something twists in my heart at the thought that he’s concerned with my well-being. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t want me to call the cops, but I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

  “I’m great.” I’m trying for upbeat and cool, but I sound a little breathless. I hop off the barstool and smooth the front of my skirt with my palms. Where did my shirt go?

  “Here.” He finds it under my dining room table and hands it to me, and I pull it on. Why does getting dressed after sex always feel more intimate than getting undressed before it?

  Simon pulls on his boxer briefs and jeans, but leaves his shirt off. I’m fully dressed again, and I pat my hair down and meet his gaze. He smiles and steps forward to take me into his arms. I hug back, surprised by how familiar this feels. Even more familiar than having him inside me. My whole body is purring, and I think I could die right now and be happy.

  “That was incredible,” he murmurs into my hair.

  “Unreal,” I agree.

  “Was it what you thought it would be?”

  I smile at the sweetness of the question. He’s not fishing for an ego stroke the
way some guys would be. He really wants to know how the reality matched my fantasy. “Kinda,” I reply. “I like the contrast of pleasure and pain. I don’t think I would have been into it if you’d just paddled me raw without all those soothing little touches.”

  “Good. I’m glad you liked it.” He draws back a little to look at me. “You still up for this? The rest of The List, I mean?”

  I nod, grateful he’s checking in with me. That he thinks to make sure my brain is on the same page as the rest of my body. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m having fun.”

  “Fun,” he repeats. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  “Me, too.”

  He pulls me in for another hug, and I slide my arms around his waist once more. As I tighten my hold on him, I remind myself to keep a firm grip on my heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon

  I don’t call Cassie the next day. Or the day after that.

  It’s not that I don’t want to. Frankly, I want to call her so badly I have to kick my own ass to keep myself from dialing her number.

  Which is a problem, in my mind. We established the boundaries pretty clearly. This is about sex and nothing more. We both get to scratch an itch without any attachments being formed.

  So, I’m doing my part to make sure that happens.

  That doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t leap into my throat when I see her number pop up on my phone around ten on Sunday morning.

  “Hey there,” she says, sending a jolt of dopamine from my brain through my body. “Hadn’t heard from you for a couple days, so I wanted to make sure you’re still on board for helping me with The List.”

  Her tone is breezy and casual, and I can’t tell if she genuinely doesn’t care or if she’s playing that card so I don’t think she’s desperate or too available. I know the latter isn’t true, since Cassie Michaels is a far, far cry from desperate.

  That leaves me to assume she might not care, which makes me feel shittier than it ought to.

  As far as her list goes, a cock is a cock. Whether it’s mine or someone else’s, she’ll have no trouble crossing off the rest of the items.

  My brain flashes on the image of Cassie with someone else. Screaming his name as he performs the Post Hole Digger, whatever the hell that is. I picture the bliss-dazed look on her face as another woman grazes those beautiful breasts with soft fingertips as they lean close and share a kiss.

  I suddenly feel hollow and angry and jealous and I don’t know why, but I do know one thing. I need to see Cassie again.

  “Sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I tell her as I settle back onto my black leather sofa. “I’m definitely still in. If you want me, I mean.”

  “I want you.”

  I can hear the smile in her voice, and it reroutes all the blood in my brain straight to my groin. “Well okay, then,” I say. “What’s next?”

  Cassie clears her throat, all business now. “I was doing a little research for item number three.”

  “Number three?”

  “The pokey wheelie thing,” she says. “The Wartenberg wheel? I found a ton of them for sale online.”

  Her focus on this device is charming to me. There’s something oddly sweet about Cassie’s interest in it. The fact that it stems from her own science background, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s eager to follow through with something she admits she wrote down on a drunken whim. In any case, I love the idea of her browsing sex toys on Amazon.

  “Did you find something you like?” I stroke a hand over the arm of my sofa and wonder what it would be like to have her sitting here next to me. Would it feel natural to put my hand on her knee, to have her tuck her feet up under her and lean in close?

  I like that mental picture a lot more than I wish I did.

  “That’s the thing,” she says. “There are some Wartenberg wheels that have seven rows of pins, and some with three, and some that have just one. And some that advertise really sharp pins, and some that boast about the quantity of pins. How do I know what I need?”

  “That depends,” I say. “Are you planning to get off with it or use it for neurological testing?”

  She laughs, and I picture her there on the sofa thumbing through her laptop. “That’s what’s weird. I’m finding some of them listed under ‘medical supplies,’ and some listed under ‘novelty and more.’”

  “Hang on, let me look.” I grab my iPad off the coffee table and pull up Amazon, joining her in the online quest for the perfect sex toy. I type in the keywords and find myself staring at a veritable cornucopia of sharp little pinwheels. “Wow. This is impressive. Did you notice they’ve got some categorized under ‘tools and home improvement,’ subcategory ‘hole punches’?”

  “Good Lord,” Cassie says. “Let’s hope no one gets mixed up and sends their third grader to class with one of these in the school supplies box.”

  I chuckle and continue flipping through reviews on one of the more popular implements. Something tickles my big toe, and I glance down to see a daddy longlegs spider scuttle across the Italian marble floor.

  “Aaaarrh!” I bellow, jerking my feet up onto the couch. “Holy shit!”

  “Simon? Are you okay?”

  “Fuck!” I yelp, but the spider is gone. Jesus.

  “What is it? What’s wrong? Simon—”

  “I’m fine, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I just saw a spider.”

  She’s quiet a moment. “A spider?”

  “Yes, a spider. A daddy longlegs.”

  “You know they can’t bite, right?” She sounds amused, but at least she’s not laughing at me.

  “I hate spiders, okay? I’ll get the gardener to call an exterminator—”

  “You have a gardener?”

  Crap. A guy who works in a computer store wouldn’t have a gardener, would he? It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her right then. To explain about the career, the finances, the magazine articles that have made me unexpectedly famous in certain circles. The whole mess.

  But that’s been the catalyst for screwing up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m not ready to sabotage what I’ve got going with Cassie right now.

  “I’m joking about the gardener,” I mutter. “I’ll pick up a can of bug spray at Home Depot.” I drop back onto the sofa and pick up the iPad again, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “So back to the Wartenberg wheel. Are you looking at this one with the three rows of spikes?”

  “Hang on, what’s the item number?”

  I rattle it off, then wait for her to pull it up so we’re looking at the same page. I lean back against the sofa and wish she were here next to me, her hair brushing my arm as she leans over my lap to peer at the screen.

  “Okay, I found it,” she says.

  “Check out the second review down. The one titled, ‘You get what you pay for.’ See it?”

  “Yeah.” She snorts. “He’s questioning whether it’s really stainless steel and suggesting you not use an autoclave to sterilize it.”

  “Think that’s a medical professional or someone who’s really dedicated to cleanliness when it comes to sex toys?”

  “If it’s the latter, I can’t imagine having sex with that guy,” she says. “He’d be checking the pillowcases for hair samples and whipping out the antibacterial spray every five minutes.”

  I laugh, enjoying the easy banter with her as I scroll through more reviews on the device. “Here’s one titled, ‘Great product!’” I read. “It says, ‘everybody needs at least one.’ Think that’s someone who’s using it as a sex toy or a neurological device?”

  “Sex toy,” Cassie decides. She’s quiet for a moment, and I picture her scrolling down the same page. I can’t decide if this is flirtation, a mild form of phone sex, or just a fun conversation. Either way, I’m enjoying myself.

  “Here’s another review,” she says. “It’s titled. ‘Problem screw.’”

  “Sounds unfortunate.”

  “Right, but the review says, ‘Screw fell out after
first use, but easy to repair. Just watch out for the screw.’ Think that’s a sex toy user or a medical user?”

  “Medical,” I decide. “Wouldn’t they make a screw joke otherwise?”

  “Good point,” she says. “How about ‘best value for the money’?”

  “Sex toy. I can appreciate budget-conscious kink.” I don’t say anything else, hopeful that solidifies her belief I’m just an average Joe with a less-than-impressive bank account. I keep scrolling, enjoying the easy banter between us.

  “How about this one that says, ‘Broke five minutes after using.’”

  “Tough call,” she says. “Maybe medical use on that one. Then again, I could see the sex toy user being the one to apply a little too much pressure.”

  “You notice some of the ‘also purchased’ items at the bottom?” I ask. “Looks like polypropylene rope, leather floggers, and coconut oil are popular accompaniments.”

  “So is a UV sanitizing wand and this really expensive eye cream.”

  “For people who squeeze their eyes shut during kinky sex, but don’t want wrinkles?” I suggest.

  She bursts out laughing, and I realize this is becoming my favorite sound in the world. Even more than the sound of Cassie screaming my name when she comes.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “There’s a pretty good adult store a few blocks from your apartment. How about I swing by and grab a Wartenberg wheel that we know is meant for our intended purposes.”

  “You mean right now?”

  “Sure,” I say, then realize I’m being a presumptuous asshole. “If you’re free, I mean.”

  She hesitates a few beats, and I’m opening my mouth to suggest another day when she replies. “I can’t do it tonight,” she says. “I have to go to a baby shower for my sister’s best friend.”

  “A baby shower?”

  There’s something hilarious about the idea of Cassie chatting me up about kink while she’s getting ready for a baby shower, but I realize she’s not laughing.

  “Yeah,” she says. “It’s this ‘all-white’ themed shower my sister’s been planning for months. Apparently white symbolizes goodness, innocence, and purity.”

  The glum note is unmistakable in Cassie’s voice, and I’m not sure how to respond to that. “You have to go?”