by B. N. Toler
“You’re dating a former pro-potato thrower,” I played along.
She widened her eyes. “That kind of turns me on,” she said before drawing her lower lip between her teeth as she gazed at me seductively.
I smirked, not because what she’d said was necessarily that funny, but because she was trying to make me smile and forget about Henry-the-shithead. I appreciated the effort. Hell, I welcomed the distraction. “Is that so?” Taking a seat on the stool beside her, I pulled her seat toward me so she was between my legs.
She pouted her lips, her expression sultry. “Oh, yes. Definitely makes me hot.” Placing her hands on my legs, she glided them up to my thighs. My muscles tensed as I watched her, my shitty moment with Henry evaporating.
Playing along, I shook my head. “I’d always dreamed of going pro, and I would have been the best there ever was,” I rolled my arm obnoxiously, “but the dang shoulder injury cut me down in the prime of my rookie year.”
“Some dreams die…hard.” She shrugged as she slid her hand down and palmed my hard-on.
And just like that, my bad afternoon started to fade. In the moments that followed I had her pressed against the glass doors that led out to the back yard overlooking the water. We’d tipped the stool over, knocked a tiny painting off the wall as she held herself steady, while I devoured her neck and shoulders, tearing off what clothing I could. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I spun her around and hoisted her over my shoulder and carried her to my room where I could bury my frustration inside of her.
“I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.”
-Edgar Allan Poe
I gulped in air, tears stinging at my eyes, my body wrenched from the orgasm I’d just experienced. I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. This was one of those things I could never make any sense of—the urge to cry after an orgasm. What Wren had just done to me, the edge he’d slowly brought me to and sent me flying over, had been incredible. I wasn’t sad. Quite the opposite. Sometimes feeling so high and coming down from it can make a woman emotional—in a good way. In a fabulous way, actually.
We lay there for some time, skin glistened with sweat, breathless, neither of us speaking. The tension that had been coming off of him in waves had eased, but as he lay staring up at the ceiling, lazily stroking my arm, he seemed deep in thought. I didn’t ask him, even though I would have loved to have known what he was thinking at that moment, or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe he wasn’t thinking a thing, which would have bothered me considering my mind was all over the place. Had that been as amazing for him as it had been for me? I doubted it. I imagined he’d had many women, probably far more wanton and beautiful than me. I was a masochist that way. I couldn’t help but wonder about it as we lay there naked. It was a sickness, really. But I was a woman that feared being one of many; of being mediocre; not being memorable. Out of all the things I feared in my life as a single woman, it was that one that scared me the most—to be broken down to nothing more than a lay. After a few moments, he awkwardly slid his arm underneath me and pulled me to him, spooning my body to his. My heart squeezed. Maybe the act had been simple for him—done without thought—but for me, the little things meant the most. He moved me, and I didn’t just mean physically. I liked how he just…did. He didn’t ask, and he didn’t hesitate. He wanted me close to him and he made it happen. If it had been me, I would’ve thought about it, wondered if I should ask first, and made it completely awkward. And in that, he’d added a few more points to the Wren-is-awesome score sheet. When he just acted, I didn’t have a chance to think, and there was so much relief in that. The warmth of his body enraptured me, and I was incredibly grateful I was facing away from him so he couldn’t see the way my lashes fluttered from the comfort of it.
With his free hand, he stroked my arm and body, squeezing me softly from time to time, before sliding it up my belly, between my breasts to my throat. Gently, he gripped my neck. “You’re so tiny,” he murmured, his voice gravelly. “I could choke you out with one hand.”
I laughed because I knew as terrible as his words sounded, this was most likely Wren’s best pillow talk. But I loved it, because like the man, it was anything but ordinary. “I don’t doubt that you could,” I told him. And I didn’t. He could snap me like a twig if he’d wanted to, but that’s what drew me to him—that someone so powerful could be so gentle.
“Think you could choke me out?”
Twisting my neck, I looked back at him. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “It takes a lot of hand strength, doesn’t it? Not exactly my forte, remember?”
“Depends on if you’re trying to make someone pass out, or if you’re trying to strangle them.” Pulling his arm from under me, he rolled to his back. “Sit on top of me,” he ordered. “I’m going to show you some things.”
Turning, I pushed myself up and straddled him. He was massive between my thighs, my knees barely touched the mattress. Holding my hips, he shimmied, sliding me up higher, closer to his chest. Damn, he looked good lying there staring up at me—his dark eyes and beard, his hair perfectly disheveled with that just-fucked look.
Reaching up, he ran his finger down the center of my throat. “This is your trachea.” Placing his hands around my throat, he gently pressed his thumbs against it. “See how when I squeeze you there it’s harder to breathe, right?”
His grip wasn’t so strong that I couldn’t breathe, or that he was hurting me, but he was applying just enough pressure to illustrate his point. “Yes,” I wheezed a little.
“If you want to strangle someone…as in kill them…that’s where you squeeze.”
Releasing his hold, he took my hands and gently pulled me forward, placing them at the sides of his throat, positioning the heels of my hands to the side of his trachea, then he pressed my fingers against the side and back of his neck. “If you want to choke someone out, you squeeze here. This cuts off blood flow to the brain, which will make them pass out.”
I took a moment to memorize the placement of my hands, to mentally record what they felt like on his throat. It felt sensual. Sometimes it was hard not to get caught up in moments in life—to live them. That’s what we’re all told we should do…live in the moment. But the rules were different for me—I was a writer. Moments were my inspiration; they were the proverbial well from which I drew to quench my creative dehydration. It was important I recognized them; gently caught them like fireflies in my hands and cradled them safely into a glass jar, ensuring I could peek at them later and be moved by their magic. Fireflies were somehow simple and majestic all at once, just as some moments were simple yet so much more. And something inside of me knew this moment was exactly that. Me, naked, atop this beautiful and mysterious man, my hands on his throat, holding the power he gave me—firefly.
“How long does it take?” I asked.
“Depends on how hard you squeeze.” Placing his hands on my hips, his fingers firmly gripping me, he said, “Go ahead.”
I lifted my brows, surprised. “You want me to try and choke you out?”
He smirked. “I want you to see what it feels like. I’ll let you know when to let go.”
I stared down at him, hesitant. “Are you sure?”
“Go ahead.”
I shifted a little, bracing my body, my hands never leaving his neck. I halfway wondered even if I squeezed as hard as I could, would it really do anything.
“Go on, babe,” he encouraged.
I squeezed.
“Harder,” he instructed.
I obeyed.
“More,” he said.
I squeezed as hard as I could. Our gazes were locked as I held on, never letting my grip relent. My hands were already tired, and I knew if this were a legit situation where I was trying to do this, I’d fail. It was harder than it looked. His face reddened somewhat, and I wanted to let go, but his eyes said it was okay, not to stop. After a moment, he wrapped his hands around my wrists letting me know to let go.
He chuckled a little as he took a dee
p breath. “That was good.”
“Are you okay?” I asked as I brushed my hand across his cheek.
“Yeah. So that’s a cross-collar choke,” he explained, taking my hand and kissing it.
“You are a fountain of knowledge, sir,” I jested. “And pretty kinky, too.”
He gave me a wolfish grin. “Can’t say I’ve ever taught a woman to choke hold naked before.”
I gave a shrug. “Well, I certainly feel special.”
“You should.”
“What about the one from behind?” I queried. “Like the one you do with one arm, like they do in wrestling?”
“Same principle, just different method. Turn around and lie on top of me.”
Climbing off him, I turned and reverse straddled him, my sex sliding against his abdomen.
“You’re so wet, babe,” he gritted, his hands sliding down my back. His words triggered something in me causing a flutter in my belly. I loved how candid he was. Before I could respond, he ordered, “Lie back on me.”
It took me a moment to lie back and move the way he was positioning me. My body fit comfortably on top of him. My head wasn’t quite level with his, but close, and my feet were on either side of him, planted on the mattress, my sex exposed.
Tilting my chin back, he wrapped his arm around my neck, flexing it to apply pressure to the sides. “See how I use the sides of my arm, but the crook of my elbow doesn’t touch your trachea? Same thing, just a different method. This is called a rear-naked chokehold.”
I wondered if he realized how incredible this moment was, or was it just me? Here we were, naked, the sheets and covers tangled at our feet, the heady scent of sex in the air, and he was teaching me something primal as if I were a student in his course. It was all so outside the box, yet it felt so natural. It felt…good. And with that thought, something twisted inside of me. I didn’t want it to feel good because if it did, that meant I’d want more. I was getting attached, romanticizing everything. My thoughts and impressions could all be inside my head. I needed to reel it in, pronto.
“It’s all pretty fascinating,” I admitted, attempting to sound cool and casual, like him, as I shifted to slide off him.
Grabbing my hips, he halted me. “Don’t.”
My body tensed. Had I hurt him when I moved? “Did I—” My words clipped off as he slid his hands over my breasts, his thumbs flicking my nipples. It was like a switch, a quick flick, and my body reacted to him. Arching my back, I pushed my chest against his hands encouraging him to grope harder. Dropping my arms, I gripped his sides, allowing him better access. Smooth and seamless, his left hand floated down my belly until his fingers whispered over my clit, the teasing sensation causing me to arch more, desperate for his touch.
But he didn’t give. He ghosted me, torturing me with only a hint of the touch I craved from him so badly. I bucked up, but his free hand pushed me down, holding me against him.
“Please,” I whimpered, licking my lips.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice coy and low. I wanted to groan in frustration. He knew damn well what. But he was going to make me beg.
Turning my head, I pressed my forehead to his cheek, my right hand finding his as I drew my fingers through his beard, all while pushing down, attempting to make him give me more. I was more comfortable with him than I should have been. “Please, baby,” I begged in a whisper. “Please.” The author in me couldn’t find more words…or the right words. Or maybe there were too many words. Touch me, fuck me, fill me, make me come, make me feel good, make me scream. So many words, yet all I could get out was please.
Pressing his mouth to my forehead, he kissed it. Then, his voice low and deep, he said, “Put me inside you, babe.”
I was frantic to feel him, but when my hand flew at warp speed to do just as he said, he grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Slow,” he told me.
Though hot as hell, the position we were in took a little maneuvering, especially without looking. Taking him, I slid the head of his cock up and down my sex, hoping I was torturing him, too. Grabbing my hips, he yanked me down in a quick jerk, his way of demanding what he wanted.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he gritted. And I was. I was amped. Every molecule in my body was honed in on this one sweet spot, waiting for relief from the ache he’d created.
Sheathing him inside me, I moaned and he hissed as I grinded down. The motion and angle were foreign, yet it worked. It more than worked. Every inch of him, I felt slide in and out of me.
“Right there, baby?” he asked. Another thing about this man that drove me bugfuck was he always asked about me. Did I feel good? Was this good? He was a pleaser; a lover who found pleasure by giving.
“Yes. There,” I panted. “So good.”
When his hand returned between my legs and his deft fingers found my clit, I was done. When I cried out, a curse word burst from my mouth, the pleasure hitting me like a bucket of ice water, sudden and intense, and it sent him into hyper-drive. I was lost in the maddening bliss, my eyes squeezed shut, my back arching, as he bucked up and I writhed against him. When his free hand clenched my waist, he let out a roar as he pressed me down, holding me, pulsing his hips to drive himself deeper inside of me as he came.
When he stilled, his hands held me in place, keeping us connected. He wanted to stay inside me. I figured he probably did this without thought, but for me, it was another firefly. It meant something, and I made a point to capture it. Our chests heaved up and down, my head rising and falling with each breath he took as I lay atop of him. I never wanted to move from that spot. Somehow, he’d consumed all of me; he was under me, bearing my weight; inside me, for with his body he’d enraptured me mentally and physically. I felt safe with him, cocooned in that moment of intimacy. I’d written about moments like this between characters in my novels, tried to convey it in words, but I’d never quite experienced it.
“Thank you,” I managed between pants. Thanking him sounded ridiculous, but it felt right. What he’d just done to me was amazing, something I would never forget. “Thank you. Thank you,” I murmured again.
His chest rumbled as he chuckled. “You don’t have to thank me, Hannah.”
“I know.”
Wrapping his arms around me, he rolled us to our sides, attempting to keep him inside of me. Holding me close, he kissed my shoulder.
“Do you realize we just did a mini naked choke hold class, naked?”
“What?”
“That’s what that choke hold was called, a naked choke hold.”
I chuckled as I kissed his knuckle.
Wiggling back against him, I burrowed my head into his arm. His body relaxed, and after a few moments his breathing slowed as he began drifting off to sleep. As I lay there, something in my core knotted, shooting a sensation through me, making even my skin tingle with it. Panic. I was panicking. This man was my muse. Yet I wanted more. I was jealous of my characters. I wanted what they had. Want, need, feelings…I was falling for him. He could possibly be the life raft in my sinking career. But I knew with every fiber of my being, he’d also ruin me.
“In life you must be willing to risk everything
you have in order to gain everything you want.”
-a.bentley
Economics 101
It was one of several classes I’d taken in college during my brief time as a student. Ninety-eight percent of the curriculum went in one ear and out the other; it was a miracle I’d passed it. But out of all the hum-drum I remembered and committed to memory, one thing stood out.
Opportunity cost.
The loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one alternative is chosen.
I understood the concept as it applied to economics—I didn’t need to be a financial analyst to comprehend it. The term stuck with me, though, and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t until I stripped it down to bare bones—to its most basic meaning—that I realized why. It wasn’t a term exclusive to the world of economics. At least not as far as I was concern
ed. Loosely, it could be applied anywhere.
In life, we are often presented with two choices. Sometimes more than two. How often have we, or someone we’ve known, been faced with a decision between two job opportunities? Or two lovers? Or two major life-altering events, like whether or not to get married, or have children? It goes without saying that life makes us choose—you can’t always have both. But when we choose, we’re sacrificing the gain from one choice for another. Opportunity cost was a term I broke down and overanalyzed and used in many facets of my life, none of which really applied to economics.
And now, I was applying it to the dynamic between me and Wren.
I was falling for him. It hadn’t mattered how hard I’d tried to fight it…it was happening. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run; protect myself from the potential and likely heartbreak seeing this man would lead to. But I hadn’t felt so inspired in so long; he was different than anyone I’d ever known. It had been a long time since I’d admired a man outside of the ones that were either relatives or married to my friends.
And I was writing again.
Like, really writing.
Not just forcing myself to do it.
But there was a problem.
As much as I hated to admit it, Brigham’s words had gotten to me. He’d reiterated my worst fears, stroked my insecurities like they were a pet, scratching behind their ears, and he didn’t even know it. So I returned to old faithful. How did opportunity cost apply to this? Well, I was choosing to ignore what my instincts said and continued to see Wren because I needed him. I knew I wouldn’t be able to finish the book I’d started without him. My choices were either save my heart, or save my career.
I chose my career.
Salt and Vinegar
My morning had started off fantastic. There’s nothing like waking up next to a beautiful woman after an incredible night. When I cracked my eyes open, Hannah was awake and lying on her back, her head turned toward the balcony doors. She was watching the water. Always watching the water. I liked the peace it seemed to give her. I didn’t know all of the intricacies of Hannah just yet—Lord only knew it might take three lifetimes to learn them all—but I knew her mind seemed to never stop. With two exceptions. When she was staring at the river, and when she was making love. When I took her, I knew I had her…all of her. But the water…I wasn’t sure where she went then. All I knew was I could feel her calm, and that’s all that mattered.
