by Eris Adderly
“Uh, five thirtyyy … three?” Christina’s nerves were right back to frayed, and heading toward a complete snap in half. This had nothing to do with what time of day it was.
“In the bathroom,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The sounds of his words, low and clipped, got to her ears before her brain processed meaning. When it did, she hissed at him, eyes darting around as though the walls had ears. “What? Right now?”
“Right now.”
The man was serious as a heart attack and closing the distance. He had a hand on her upper back. Had the bathroom door open. He was herding her, closing them into the smaller space, her steps dumb and faltering at the complete lack of precedent for what she ought to be doing.
Her stupor wore off when he locked the door.
Fuck. Fuck.
“Give me your underwear.”
How could he be so quiet and have her heart racing at the same time? No matter how much he said he was going to inflate her paycheck, this was not an even exchange. Asshole Bill had all the power.
“Come on.” His fingers twitched in an impatient gesture to mimic his words.
Some force outside reason had her bending at the waist, reaching beneath her skirt. She slid a nude pair of bikini panties, as boring as the yellow ones he’d cut off her last week, down her legs and over one pointed foot after the other. The flats she wore caught at the elastic, some last inanimate protest at whatever she was about to allow.
He took the wad of fabric and stuffed it in his pocket without ceremony.
Christina couldn’t get a handle on this guy. He didn’t do anything creepy-cliché with her panties, like smell them. He didn’t have any smirking words to humiliate her with for handing them over. What was his game?
“Put your knee up on the sink.”
Put … my knee?
She looked down at herself and scrunched up her face. Her left hip was already leaning against the edge of the porcelain, and she lifted her foot, not sure how this was going to—
“No, turn around.”
Oh. Duh.
The level of surreality had opened the doors on her brain like a canary cage. Everything useful had flown for freedom and left her with a pile of feathers.
She turned, parallels to last Thursday not lost on her, and lifted her right leg so the bent knee rested on the cool white edge of the sink. She ended up like an awkward stork and had to put a hand on the wall to keep herself upright.
Look at you, spreading right out for him, just like that.
But heaping shame on herself was not going to counter the hands lifting her skirt, tucking the hem in the back into the waistband. Open air brushed bare cheeks and thighs now. Bare everything.
Christina was too afraid to look back there. Too afraid to see what his face looked like. With no preamble, there was a hand between her legs. Fingers massaging her pussy and, because she could get no breaks in life, whatsoever, smearing wetness.
How. How?
Here they were again, an impossible scenario repeating itself like those stories that would surface every now and then of some guy who’d been struck by lightning a half a dozen times. How was she not in a complete drought state down there? Her body had no shame at all.
And there was nothing demure or subtle about how the position spread her for his access. Cool air lapped its way up her furrow, along between her cheeks. Slick parts of her separated, and her scent drifted in the little room.
She inhaled with a sharp sound when two fingers squirmed for entry, and bit her lip to cut off the noise. “What about Travis?” she said.
“Then be quiet.”
The fingers were gone and then he was handing her something small and square.
“Open this.”
Really, now he has a condom?
It wasn’t as though either of them had planned the first encounter, she could admit that much. Then again, it hadn’t stopped them. Christina frowned as she took the packet, the sound of a zipper descending behind her as she tore the foil.
She held the thing up by the rim and he took it. Delicate rolling latex noises accompanied the rush of blood in her ears.
A denim-clad leg shuffled up against hers and a steadying hand flattened at her lower back. The man was not wordy at all. He only seemed to talk when he needed, and what was there to say right now? There was the head, aiming, lining up, warm erection nudging into her body with that slightly uncanny texture that came with condom-covered flesh.
A solid push, a partial withdrawal, and then another push and he was there, hips on her ass again. And then he was fucking her.
Fucking her.
Fucking.
She bounced on the filling cock, grateful in that moment the bathroom had nothing in the way of a mirror. She couldn’t watch Bill Marshall plowing her on the edge of the sink like a lot lizard. Couldn’t watch his hand on her hip for leverage while he stretched her pussy with his girth.
The thought pushed a squeak out of her.
“Shh!” He punctuated his command for silence with a sharp thrust, and she had to clench her jaw not to yelp.
But her noises weren’t coming from pain, and she scrunched her eyes shut. He wasn’t going at any sort of wild speed, but he wasn’t moving patiently through long, slow strokes like last week. This was a dick that had a job to do and—
Oh!
She dropped her head below the line of her bracing arm on the wall. Her breathing deepened and the way in and out of her body became smoother still for him as she leaked arousal.
What was this? The thrill of getting caught? Travis was right on the other side of the wall, at the front counter, but nothing was keeping him there. It sure as fuck wasn’t Asshole Bill himself. The man had a sort of Don Draper thing going on at certain angles, maybe, but as soon as he opened his mouth, his personality killed any shot he had at being attracti—
“I said be quiet.”
Before it even dawned on her she’d been making more noise, he was stuffing something soft and plentiful past her parted lips. When his left hand came around, rough, to cover her mouth, her eyes went wide again.
Her breath started in and out of her nose at a furious pace as her wadded panties subdued her tongue and soaked up against her palate. The fingers of his right hand were wedging between the thigh and calf of her bent leg, making room. In a single concerted hoist, he had her knee over his forearm, her pussy splayed even further, and he began to go at her with a will.
The gag came as an unlikely blessing. Bill Marshall took what he’d paid for, and Christina started filling the damp cloth full of an ugly song. It was a grunted, percussive melody that shouldn’t be.
The tiny, cheap little bathroom contained her secret sin. Saliva dampened the fingers clamping around her mouth, which couldn’t stay shut as he filled her, again and again. Her boss’s pounding cock felt good.
Dammit, dammit, why did it have to feel good?
His back covered hers and hot breath came at her ear. The snap of his hips became erratic and he started holding his depth each time he bottomed out. With a controlled grunt that cut off into nothing halfway through, he planted himself to the hilt. Hot, hard dick pulsed and jerked.
He kept them sealed together as though the rest of his orgasm depended on it. The tip of him pushed on her at the very back, unrelenting until she almost bit him in discomfort, but then he was pulling away. Exhaling. Dropping her knee.
Christina hop-stumbled to a stand and pulled the sodden panties out of her mouth. She turned to face him, skirt falling into place as he buried the condom in the trash under a pile of crumpled paper towels.
Her first urge was to wipe up, but some weird shyness made her avoid that in front of Bill.
Why? He’s seen everything else.
She eyed her underwear. They were half wet from spit, but it wasn’t like she had pockets to smuggle them out of there. She made a face and stepped back into them, pulling the clingy fabric up to cool against her skin.
Bill stuck his head out th
e door first, and then held it open for her with a splayed palm. She sidled past him, the hum of incompletion still rampant between her thighs. When the difference in air quality hit her, Christina turned right back to the scene of the crime.
The little aerosol air freshener never knew what hit it.
Great, now it smells like pine trees and sex in there.
“Now what time does it say?”
She blinked and looked at the clock. “Five forty-five?”
“All right,” he said, flatline as ever. “That was twelve minutes.”
Twelve minutes? It had felt like a day and a half! And what did that mean anyway?
Her face must have been a mess of confusion because he answered her silent questions as he tucked in the rest of his shirt.
“I never said the whole hour would happen all at one time.”
“Bill!” She jumped when Travis called from the front. “You back there?”
“Yeah.”
He left her standing agog as he shouldered through the door to the front.
What in the ever-loving fuck had she gotten herself into? Was it too late to back out now? What would he do if she did? Let her go?
I need this job. I neeeed this job.
She needed a fucking straight-jacket. That’s what she needed.
Fuck.
✪
For all of Wednesday and Thursday, Bill had left her alone, and whether that had been a relief or even more nerve-wracking, Christina still couldn’t say.
Rather than try to analyze it, or any of her other problems, she lay on her side in bed, every last thing taken care of for the night—supper, shower, laundry put away—and escaped into the world of trashy romance novels.
She didn’t even bother with the modern ones. Those were too close to real life, and Christina Lee Dodd had put up with just about enough of that. The light of her phone, the only one in her bedroom now, was a tiny bright window, six inches from her face, into another time, another world.
She was a fly on the wall as some luckless widow had ended up on a pirate ship, and now the captain—naturally, it was never a deckhand, was it?—and the quartermaster were subjecting her to Very Bad Things. It was ridiculous, of course. Totally implausible that a woman could forgive behavior like that, but she knew she’d read on with rapt attention to see just how these fool characters came together in the end.
Those were her favorites, she found. The stories where the heroine hated her love interest at the beginning. It was oh-so-satisfying to read, but that shit didn’t happen in real life. Personalities in Assholedom tended to remain in Assholedom. It was Newton’s little known First Law of Fuckboys; she was pretty sure of that.
Dear god, this widow was going to let both of these pirates do her at the same time. Christina read the scene way too fast, her mouth open by the time she got to the end of it. She went back and read it again, trying to slow down, to really picture everything. To just give in that way, to shit that was wrong wrong wrong … what in the hell could that even be like?
She stared at the screen at the end of her second read-through. Her first step back into reality was the awareness of her nipples, tight and tingling, just above the edge of her sheets.
Well? Fuck it.
The phone went face-down on her nightstand and Christina straightened onto her back. Her hand slipped under the covers to confirm … Yup. Wet. A complete mess. What was one more trip to wash her hands before she fell asleep?
She disappeared into the cabin of a ship as her fingers played. She wasn’t naked in her bed in East Texas, but wearing layers of long skirts some scoundrels had to push up, a bodice her breasts had to heave over at all the scandalous attention hundreds of years ago.
But it was just one pirate her mind conjured, not two, to bend her over. To take what he wanted. Her fingers plunged as she saw compass and charts flung aside, along with the fastenings of breeches and her objections. When he pushed her down, she wanted to squeal.
“I said be quiet.”
One good throb out of nowhere, and Christina almost came, but that voice had been no pirate captain.
No. No, no, no, you are not thinking of that right now.
She made a face and found that sweet spot again, fixing the eighteenth century knave in her head, the swinging oil lamp overhead as his cock found her …
But the fucking ship was gone and it was porcelain under her knee.
Goddamnit.
There were panties in her mouth and a rough hand stifling her noises.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
One leg was hooked over that muscular forearm and he was filling her full of cock in that bathroom. Her fingers flew, horrified, angry. Greedy.
Hot breath and male grunts of effort were in her ear.
“You let me have this ass, you can go home.”
“Fuck!”
She came, pissed off at generally everybody, clit throbbing without shame at a real life clusterfuck of a situation. The walls of her pussy clutched at nothing, milking a cock that wasn’t there. A specific cock that had no business showing up in her fantasy world.
Her heart rate slowed after, and Christina worked on the motivation to go wash up.
He was not doing this to her. This was a practical arrangement. He busted a nut, and now she had money to take care of her issues.
She shut off the tap in the bathroom and dried her hands on a towel.
Twelve minutes.
He was going to split the hour up however he wanted? Pull her into the back half whenever he felt like it? Push her skirt up and take her panties and say all of half a sentence while he spread her out and—
And how long could this shit last? If this was the level of stupidity to which it had escalated in less than a week? She couldn’t even run from it into her books?
Fuck Bill Marshall. Why had she thought she could handle something like this? He knew what he was doing and she clearly didn’t.
Sleep was the only escape left for tonight. Come Sunday, when she had to work again?
God only knew.
Seven-thirty in the fucking morning, he had a toothbrush in his mouth and a problem on his hands. Bill spat the rest of the toothpaste into the sink, gulped and swished some water, and spat again.
He had just gotten his standard morning hardon to go away, and now here it was again, tenting his shorts and bumping into the vanity like a blindfolded guy on a porn set.
His deodorant was in the drawer beneath the sink, and he fished it out, determined to keep his focus on getting ready for work. He still needed to put gas in the truck on his way down there.
But you felt her, right? Pussy wet for you right when you bent her over?
Bill slammed the drawer shut with a growl. His prick was jumping up and down, asking him to remember her body’s responses. The feel, the smell of her.
It was too goddamned early for this.
He rubbed at his jaw in the mirror, assessing the level of stubble. Christina wouldn’t be in today or tomorrow. He could probably skip it.
You’re shaving for her now? Gimme a break.
But he wasn’t the only one shaving. Totally bare under those panties—he’d wanted to bury his face in it. Both times, too, which meant that was just the way she kept it. God damn, Christina Lee Dodd had been walking around the Haul Ash this whole time hiding a shaved pussy under her jeans. Standing right next to him at the counter with it.
He had a handful and was tugging through his boxers.
Both times. He’d had sex with Christina twice, now.
And was she fucking with him? First the yellow underwear and then that tight yellow shirt?
She can’t know. You’re being paranoid.
It didn’t matter what color her panties were, though, when they were in her mouth.
His dick was out through his fly now, and he’d given up the idea he could avoid jerking off. He didn’t want to think about how many times he’d done it since their first encounter last Friday.
It was surreal. She’d just put her knee up on the sink. Just let him … let him fuck her. Right there, with Travis in the other room. She’d let him gag her, for fuck’s sakes. Didn’t even fight it.
His cock swelled under the pull of his fist.
He’d been waiting for her to tap out, to say, ‘You know what, I can’t do this,’ and she never did. It was like he was playing a game of chicken with himself to see at what point he would just stop and admit he was being a creep.
And all those little whimpers as he’d rooted up into that tight body, her panties muffling the sound … What would those mewling noises feel like if they came from around his cock?
“Rrrggh!”
He was splattering an orgasm down the front of the vanity. Over his pumping knuckles. Breath hissed in and out through his teeth.
Shit. Here was another mess to clean up before he could leave.
Bill ran the water again and got himself straightened back out, obsession relieved again for at least a few more hours. The mirrored medicine cabinet gave up a nicotine patch to his rummagings, and he slapped it high on his left arm, damn sure he was going to need it today.
Back in the bedroom, he found and pulled on a clean undershirt. Started digging in his dresser for socks.
Today was Friday. He wouldn’t have to see her again until Sunday.
Good. You need to calm down.
He was going to have to find things to do outside when she was there. Maybe try to clean up the shop, like he’d been talking about and never getting around to.
He didn’t know if he could trust himself not to just hover around the front office and stare at her. Or do something reckless now that their bargain had him high on possibilities. Just what he needed, Jonah or Travis to come walking in from the back right when he’s copping a feel.
That would be a bad move, dude.
Work boots laced, he headed to the kitchen to scoop up his keys from the counter.
There was no way he’d keep any sort of order around there if those two guys figured out he was banging Christina. As soon as one sideways look happened, one smart-ass comment … And if either of them said one word to her … He let go the fist he was making.