Othello Station

by Rachael Wade

  Time is of the essence. Experience is everything.

  My hand throbs, alerting me to its tenderness. It’s still sore. I need to go easy on it. I release the water glass, leaving it in the sink. Time to let go and chill out. I step away from the sink, turning to find Mira standing there in the bathroom doorway. Her hair is wet but combed, and holy fuck, she’s wearing lace. White lace. And this isn’t the granny kind. It’s classic and sensual, accentuating every curve of her body. It’s a short little nightgown dress thing that hits at the top of her thighs, revealing every delectable inch of her legs. Her tits are playing peek-a-boo, but still sheathed in modest display. She stands there, playing nervously with the hem, tugging on the lace edge.

  “What’s this?” I ask quietly. I don’t take my eyes off her.

  “What does it look like?” Maybe I’m imagining things, but I could have sworn I heard her stutter slightly. She’s trying damn hard to hold my gaze, making a real effort, but as the seconds pass, she seems to lose her backbone. Her eyes drop to her feet and she continues to fiddle with the hem of the nightgown. Dress. Torture device.

  Whatever the fuck she’s wearing.

  “You’re…wow.”

  “Do you like it?” She rolls her ankle a little and runs her hand up her arm to her shoulder in a subtle attempt to cover herself. She just thinks it’s subtle. It’s damn obvious. But I won’t say anything. I’m thinking through every move before I make it, because this moment is crucial. I don’t want to scare her off. Not when she’s offering herself to me like this.

  I suck in some air, inhaling sharply through my teeth. Then I move toward her, deliberately but with an easy stride, as if I need to approach a frightened animal. “That would be an understatement. You’re gorgeous, Mira.” Her shoulders visibly tense as I close in on her, bringing my hand up to gently graze one of the white straps along her shoulder. “Do you want me to touch you?”

  “Please.” Her lashes sweep down, then back up. “I don’t want you to stop this time.”

  I align my feet with hers and lightly grip her shoulders. Something shimmers in her dark irises, and at first it sets me on edge. Terrifies me. There’s weight in this—a responsibility I really don’t want. But in that flicker, beneath all she’s saying with those eyes, I see the pain. She’s putting all of it on the line. She knows I can hurt her. The second this is over, I can dispose of her, just as I’ve done all the women who came before her. I have the power here, and she knows it.

  Yet I’m the one who feels zero control.

  Her mouth inches up slowly, reaching for mine, and I beat her to it, dipping down to make contact first. My thumb slips underneath the strap of her nightgown and trails along her collarbone, moving north to graze the slope of her neck. My tongue slips into her mouth and she ignites, reaching on her tip-toes to wrap her arms around my neck. Her body fits against mine, curling into me, seeking every part of me out. She touches my chest, the scruff of my neck, my abdomen. Everything and anything she can get a hold of, she does.

  Her eagerness and desire to please me only makes this whole damn thing harder. Much harder. Because I want to grab her face. I want to tear that pretty white lace from her body and pound her into next Sunday. I’d give just about anything right now to let that rubberband snap. But the way she’s touching me, the way she radiates with pure, undiluted desperation, slows me down. This isn’t all about me or what I want. It’s about this angel in my hands, pressing her body against mine in blatant sacrifice.

  “Don’t treat me differently,” she whispers against my mouth, in between heated breaths. “Please don’t do that.”

  My lips part, ready with a response. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. The mere thought of what I’m about to say twists my stomach into knots. So I sear her with my gaze instead and grasp her by the back of the neck, jerking her forward, eliciting a little yelp from her throat. My hand brushes roughly down her nightgown and dips into her matching lace panties, seeking out that perfect, soft spot.

  Her eyes close with a whimper the second I touch down. My free hand slides down her back to grab her ass, and I push us backward, making an instinctual move for the bed. I continue to stroke her as I lower us both to the mattress. She surrenders completely, letting me guide her body beneath mine. I slide on top of her and nudge her legs open with my knee, dropping my mouth to bite along her collarbone. I sting her skin, bite by bite, running my tongue along the flesh before releasing it from my teeth.

  Her hand flies up to grab my shoulder. She’s already so close, so wet. I pause, ceasing the strokes, waiting for her wild eyes to roll up and beg me. Not even a second passes and they do, searching for mine. But she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask, just tells me everything she needs to say with her hazy gaze.

  “You like?” I pump my fingers once, then twice.

  “Feel like I’m going to rip in half.”

  “You might. But I’ve got you.” I immediately plunge my fingers inside of her, as deeply as I can, and her back bows. Her head snaps against the pillow and her hips begin to move, matching the rhythm of my strokes. I deliver a few more measured pumps, then abruptly withdraw to climb fully on top of her. I lift my thumb to her lips and shove it in her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. “Bite, Mira.” She obeys my command, and I give her a second to release some of the tension before removing my thumb. I’m going to need both hands for this.

  I grasp the nightgown’s hem and shove it up her body, exposing her torso and the bottom of her breasts, then peel her panties down her legs. My initial instinct is to flip her over; I dive into my pocket to search for a rubber. But this view is pretty fucking phenomenal. And all I really want is to watch her watch me as I make her come. It’s more than a desire. It’s a flat-out need. So I dismiss my usual routine and keep her there beneath me, tits exposed, pussy ready.

  My fingers make quick work of my fly, and I ignore another instinct—the one to drive into her the second my cock is free. I grip myself and press the tip to her clit, then resume the same strokes, replacing my fingers with the real deal. The sudden friction and heat of my dick makes her squirm beneath me. This is the very best kind of torture. I join her on the edge, knowing I won’t last long, either. Not when I finally have this girl in my hands. Not after imagining the way she tastes or what it would feel like to have some control over her body. Now that it’s actually happening, all of my energy bubbles to the surface. It’s overwhelming and demanding, seizing every ounce of my concentration or ability to focus on anything other than this girl, spread out before me. Mira’s skin. Mira’s taste. Mira’s eyes.

  Mira everything.

  I flick the tip of my cock against her, over and over again, back and forth until she’s coming loudly beneath me. It’s then, as she’s riding the waves of pleasure, that I tear open a rubber and sink inside her. I slide home, delving into pure, hedonistic elation. I roll her onto her side in between thrusts, hiking her knee up and pushing it down into the mattress. Her stomach is pressed flat against the sheets, and her cheek is crushed against the pillow, lashes fluttering as she watches me work her body.

  I increase the pressure, pounding harder. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Keep going?” I lick my lips.

  “You can do this all night, if you want.” She smiles, and it’s unlike any other grin I’ve seen her wear. This one is woven with freedom. Complete abandonment. She’s fucking glowing. I kiss her neck and cheek, then ready myself, bracing my palm and forearm beside her to give myself traction. I wait until she’s immersed entirely in the sensation and our new position before driving hard. As I pick up the pace, her arms float up above her head and I collect and grip her wrists, pinning them up high, over the top of the pillow.

  “Mmmm, I definitely want.” I sting her earlobe with my teeth and nestle into the crook of her neck, pressing my forehead against her skin. My fingers slip as I hold her sweaty wrists in place. I take the oppo
rtunity to flip her over onto her stomach, pulling out and re-entering her with a bang. She cries out into the pillow as I slam into her, as hard and as deeply as I can. My arms glide over hers, my palms covering her knuckles, and my body molds perfectly against hers. Our shouts ring out, filling the apartment. It’s a mind-numbingly good sound, and I want that shit on record.

  I come hard, collapsing against her on one final, heavy breath. Afraid of crushing her, I push myself off her and roll onto my back, waiting for her to follow. She doesn’t move. “Mira?”

  “Mmmm?”

  “Are you dead?”

  “Kinda. Sorta.”

  I laugh and roll my head toward her, met with her bare back and a messy head of hair. She’s still face down, mouth shoved into the pillow, and her arms are still draped high above her head. “Homicide wasn’t on my list of things to do today.”

  “Mmmmm.”

  I can’t help myself. I flip onto my side and run my hand from the back of her knee up to the curve of her ass, then over the dip of the small of her back. I rest my hot palm there, placing it flat against her skin. I move in, slowly craning my neck to bring my mouth to her ear. I brush away some hair to expose the side of her cheek. “Feeling good?”

  Dark brown eyes blink and find mine. Her head shifts and she rolls onto her side to meet me, curling her body inward and resting her hands beneath her chin. Just like an angel, kneeling to pray. Like the one in my dreams. The gentle one that turns into a dove. She’s on a pedestal in my mind, but as I stare back at her here, in the flesh, I suddenly realize she’s on the same pedestal in my reality.

  The amusement on my face hardens. I feel the smile slip away. I really can’t get rid of the dove. Now it’s manifesting itself right here, in my world.

  “I feel…new,” she says. “Brand new. Thank you.”

  “You’re thanking me for fucking you?”

  “Call it what you want.” She shrugs and exhales peacefully. “It made me feel alive again. So, yes. Thank you. For a while there, I lost myself. But now I can see the road back. Or…forward. Whatever.” She hums softly and closes her eyes, then wiggles closer to me, burrowing into my chest. My arm closes around her, welcoming her warmth.

  “The Land of the Living welcomes you back,” I say, resting my chin on top of her head, as if I know anything about that world. As I say the words and she drifts into slumber, I can’t help but wish I knew what that must feel like. To be alive again. Mira’s ignited something in me—something new and fresh and thrilling. Something sinks in me as I struggle to place the emotion. All I know is I’ve touched heaven, and all it’s done is remind me just how numb I really am.

  ***

  My eyes open. They’re met with sunlight. I squint while my head rolls to the side, searching for Mira. She should be tucked against me, naked and warm, her arms snuggled tightly against my chest while she rests in my embrace, but she’s nowhere to be found. I couldn’t have scared her off. The sex couldn’t have been that bad.

  Could it?

  I sit up on my palms, leaning back in the bed, peering around the apartment. The soft flutter of bird wings catches my attention, calling me somewhere to the left. A sliver of white pirouettes around the corner, through the bedroom and out into the kitchen.

  “Mira?” I stand, letting the blanket drop from my waist. My feet pad the bare floors as I wander over to the kitchen. My eyes land on the counter, where I nearly lost a finger. My wound isn’t sore anymore, though. The bloody knife and Carina’s stitch work are fleeting thoughts. What I’m really focused on, and all I really give a damn about in the moment, is where the bird went. Where are those blinding white wings and those dark, warm eyes? Why can’t I hear that obnoxious flapping?

  “Mira? Where are you?” I call out again, walking back into the bedroom. Nothing. She’s not in the bathroom. Either is the stupid bird. Does she have a pet dove or something? Did I miss this somehow? If she did, that would explain a lot. Like all these weird fucking dreams.

  I pause in front of the bathroom.

  Is this another dream? My eyes search for a cage, somewhere, anywhere in the apartment. My breath quickens, and suddenly my relaxed, sleepy state slips away, catapulting me into a deep, dark pool of fear. It’s an abyss, and I can see no way out.

  My feet kick into action again. “Mira, where are you? Can you hear me?” I throw my pants on and hurry for the front door, tearing down the main hallway to the stairs. She wouldn’t be hanging out with Garrett, would she? What time is it, anyway? Just as I start down the stairs, the dove’s wings flutter at the bottom of the landing. They disappear around the corner, and I jog faster down the stairs, calling Mira’s name over and over again.

  When I reach the apartment’s ground floor, I finally see it—the dove, in full glory. It’s hovering at the entrance, looking right at me. It drops gracefully to the floor, landing as lightly as one of its feathers. I crouch down and reach out. Wings flap and then poof, it’s gone, sending me scrambling. I spin around, searching, eyes roaming everywhere.

  “Grant?” A hollow echo calls from above, then calls again, an angel’s voice repeating my name. “Grant?” The angel’s wings wrap around me and my shoulders shake. “Grant!”

  I blink frantically and spring up, smacking some kind of wall. When I register where I am, my brain quits telling my lungs to panic. “What’s going on?” I scrub my hands over my face and try to focus my gaze on Mira. She’s sleepy, naked, and so, so goddamn beautiful.

  “You were having a nightmare.”

  “Was I?” She nods, and I take in the tension on her face. She’s rattled. “Are you okay?”

  “I am. But what about you? Are you okay? It must’ve been a pretty bad dream because you were really freaking out.”

  “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.” Her concerned expression ripples, a small smile bubbling through. “What’s so funny?” I frown, crossing an arm over my chest. This girl is damn good at making me feel the size of a peanut.

  “Nothing.” She attempts to stifle her amusement, but it’s an epic fail.

  “I mean it. What’s so damn funny?”

  “You’re sorry for having a bad dream. Do you always take yourself so seriously?”

  “Why shouldn’t I take myself seriously? I scared you. So yeah, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re just so…” She waves a hand in the air and looks to the ceiling.

  “So, what?”

  “High strung.”

  “You’re pretty high strung yourself.”

  “No, I’m just…you make me nervous.”

  “There’s no reason to feel nervous around me.”

  “You’re so intense. I think I’ve seen you crack a smile like, twice since I met you.”

  “Life is intense. I just have that resting bitch-face thing, or whatever they call it. The male version. I can’t help my face.”

  Mira suddenly flings back, falling into the sheets, roaring in raspy, tired laughter. I sit there dumbfounded, still wondering what in the fuck is so damn funny. “Oh my God,” she covers her mouth, gasping for air. This girl is having a grand old time.

  “Mira. Will you quit?”

  She pulls herself back up to a sitting position and slides one bare, silky leg over my lap, turning to face me. I let her straddle me, immediately planting my hands on her hips. She’s so uninhibited, so bold, sitting on me like this, completely exposed and lit up with laughter. All I want right now is to throw her back down and drive into her, but I’m still hell bent on knowing what’s got her so worked up. I am not a funny man. I’m sure as hell not good at making women laugh. I make them come. Make their legs shake and make them beg for more. Make them smile?

  Not me. Not Ever.

  “I want you to try something,” she says, gazing down at me. She rubs a finger along my bottom lip. “Think of something really stupid. Something from your childhood. There’s got to be something you’ve done that you can find humor in, right?”

  “I find humor in lots of things.”

>   She cocks her head skeptically.

  “What about you? You turn completely psychotic the second the subject of money comes up. You’re terrible at taking compliments—or gifts, for that matter. You’re just as serious as me.” As I make the accusation, I know it’s only partially true. And it’s not entirely fair. Mira is, by far, much more carefree. But something weighs her down. There’s a shadow that looms over her ray of sunshine, and I’m not sure why it’s there or what causes it to overshadow the light; I only know it hovers.

  “We all have triggers.” Her smile falls a bit. Some of her light dims. I instantly feel like an asshole.

  I lift a hand to cup her face, smoothing a finger along her cheek. I want the light back. I’m desperate to strike the fucking match. “Tell me yours.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because things are going so well. Why spoil it?”

  “It won’t spoil anything.” I reach up and peck her chin. “Come on. Tell me.”

  She leans into the kiss but quickly turns her head to glance at the alarm clock on the floor. “What are your plans for the day?”

  “You’re looking at them.”

  “You were hoping to just be a bum in my bed all day?”

  “Sounds like a damn good plan to me. Well, and this…” I skate my hand up the curve of her hip and grope her.

  She smacks my hand but lets me squeeze her. She’s not fooling me. She loves it. “I have a job, you know! I can’t just stay in bed with you all day.”

  “You don’t need to remind me. You have ten of them, thanks to that cheap hotel of yours.”