by Eris Adderly
The feel of her bare cheeks on the seat of the truck warned her how deep she was in this whole thing now. Complicit. That was the word.
She started squinting at street signs, slowing down and trying to remember the series of turns the map had promised would lead her further back into the neighborhood. She could have pulled over and looked at her phone, but then she might just freak out, turn around, and go home.
Clearwater Drive. That was it. She made a left.
Christina snorted over the steering wheel. What if she’d worn all these revealing clothes, and then Bill just wanted to read again or play chess or something. Every encounter so far had been more sedate than the last. Maybe he was going to help her prepare her taxes this time.
No. Not after that invitation. The heat of him at her back …
She shuddered and almost drove past the mailbox with the right address on it.
A concrete driveway led from the street to the front of the house, and Christina’s belly tightened as she guided the Bronco to park behind his truck. She was here. Really here. Bill Marshall’s house.
There were lights behind some of the window coverings. She stared at them like if she did it hard enough, she’d see right through to his living room, to Bill, right into his head and his thoughts. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
You gonna sit in his driveway all night?
She took in and let out a breath. Scooped up the tiny purse she’d brought. Stepped out into a gamble the size of nightmares.
Or dreams. Dirty ones.
His porch light showed her a brick ranch that might’ve been built in the early 60s. A tall pair of elms leafed out over the yard. Just as her first sandal came up on the front porch step, the door swung open.
The motion caught her off guard and Christina’s weight shifted onto her back foot. Bill stood there, edge of the door in hand. She’d never seen him in anything other than his work clothes, but now he wore jeans and a navy blue tee-shirt. Fabric snugged around his chest and shoulders in a way that made her swallow to wet her throat.
“Hi,” she said, the picture of eloquence.
Her boss did his own eye-fucking, gaze sweeping her from nose to knees and back again. His mouth quirked up in some distracted half a smile and he made a chuff of disbelief.
“You are trying to kill me with this getup,” he said. “Jesus.”
Her head ducked for an embarrassed second, but he was opening the door wider. Nerves seized her chest. Just another point of no return on this road. How many could there be?
She stepped over the threshold. Managed not to trip this time. He shut the door behind them and took up the hand that wasn’t holding her purse. Their eyes met.
“Three hours,” he said, a warning from under raised brows. Last chance.
Her teeth pulled at her lower lip. She rattled him a tiny nod and received a more deliberate one in return.
“All right,” said Bill.
There was a heartbeat in which she recognized a living room behind him, and then the wood of the front door was flattening her shoulder blades. All she could see was Bill, crowding her back, his hand releasing hers to slide up her arm.
Christina had time to draw a shaking breath. Both his hands now were skimming her shoulders, her neck. Thumbs came to her temples, palms cradled her face. There was nowhere to look but right at him, inches away.
His belt pressed into her belly. Brown eyes searched her features as though he was looking for the best way to carve Christina up and eat her. Her chest rose and fell.
Bill leaned in, mouth stopping a wish short of hers. Hovering. His breath fell, warm and promising rebellion.
We aren’t …
He sheared away from disaster and pressed his lips just above hers, just to the right of her nose.
We aren’t supposed to …
It was a kiss, and he ducked around to place another like it on the left side.
Bill pulled away just enough that her eyes could focus, and brought a thumb to trace her lower lip. Descended on her again.
“Bill.” She was breathless when he missed her lips by an eyelash, landing instead on her chin. “What are you doing?”
Her boss damn near growled and checked her body against the door again, somewhere between aggression and frustration.
“Not kissin’ you on the mouth.”
Instead he was at her temple, her ear, her jaw. Lips, teeth, and tongue. A hand stole to the small of her back and clutched her to him at the hip.
“Fffuck.” Christina’s eyes rolled back.
Her purse clattered to the tile.
The onslaught was too overwhelming for her to pay attention to her arms coming up to circle Bill Marshall for the first time. He was lapping at the hollow of her throat, dragging his teeth behind her ear. Another hand cupped and pushed her breast high, then rose with hooked fingers to drag the straps of her top and bra down her shoulder. More kisses fell there, delirium spiraling.
She clutched at the back of his neck. An erection ground between them. Her knee slid along denim, and a rough hand caught it up, dragging it higher, a first taste at spreading her open.
Christina rolled her hips, shameless, and curved her spine to push the well of her cleavage into the path of his attention, but Bill had no patience.
He pulled her away from the door and, somewhere amid the violence of his claiming mouth, began to walk them backward.
After maybe half a dozen steps where she tried not to tangle her feet with his, tried not to stumble while squeezing hands possessed and a hot mouth destroyed her equilibrium, Bill met some barrier and stopped. Slid out from in front of her, leaving Christina wobbling to stay upright.
She was staring down a length of awful floral upholstery. The padded arm of a couch was at her knees and fingers splayed over her back.
“Now.”
One molten word at her ear and instant compliance. She bent forward, palms tufting into cushion, firm sofa arm bolstering her hips. Pussy throbbing.
Damn, right to it this time.
Not one single part of her was complaining.
He was back there where she couldn’t see, but right away there were things to feel. Her skirt flipped over her ass. Air brushed her cheeks.
“Fuck me,” said Bill. Fingers traced her thong down her crack, slipped over her covered mound.
She relaxed forward, accepting his touch, folding her arms under the side of her face atop the cushion. In a minute, she’d be full of dick, and Christina was ready.
Until she heard a twinned thud, muffled on the carpet behind her.
Palms cupped her ass. Squeezed and spread. Cotton-covered pussy was warm. Too warm. The second her eyes snapped open in realization, his mouth was on her.
Fabric in the way and everything, nose and chin burrowed. A brief clamp of teeth made her gasp. She should have saved it for when he closed his mouth over her lips and sucked.
Damp material clung between her legs, and a tongue wriggled it between every crevice. Somewhere in the background of sensation, he slipped her sandals off, fingers trailing her calves and ankles on the way.
When her hips began tilting, searching for more, he was already peeling her panties down her legs. Looping them over one foot, and then the other. Gripping hands on the backs of her thighs were Christina’s only warning.
Bill’s tongue lapped straight up her center, splitting her lips and rasping her clit in one long pass.
“Uhmyghod.” Her groan slurred into upholstery.
Asshole Bill Marshall knelt behind Christina and ate her pussy.
Sweet fuck, did he eat it. Like there was an expiration date of tomorrow tattooed in her crack. His tongue was everywhere: circling her clit, squirming into her hole. The arm of the couch held her up and open for him to suck at her cunt with hot, sloppy kisses.
Her toes were barely keeping contact with the floor, and then there were fingers. First one, testing the perimeter, stroking the silk of her opening while she panted. Then a se
cond, pairing, slipping through cream. Penetrating.
“Mmyeah.”
Her face was sideways, probably drooling into his couch. Bill fucked the two fingers in and out of her at a slow churn. Brought his mouth back to her clit and latched on, pulling in a rhythmic suckle.
“Bill, ffuck!”
On and on it went, until the pace of her breath had dried out her throat. What felt like a thumb replaced the work of his mouth. Pressure found her little bundle of nerves and rolled, manipulating blood flow. Christina groaned and humped at padded wood.
Then something wet and agile darted between her cheeks. Kissed up against her pucker.
“Nngh!”
So fucking wrong, and oh god, so good. Filthy and somehow humiliating, he worked her like the basest of machines. Everything wet, stimulation escalating from too many places at once. He forced the wriggling muscle past her tight little ring.
“Bill!”
And that was how Christina came: her boss’s tongue violating her asshole, his fingers squelching into her pussy, and one insistent thumb owning her clit.
She squealed and bucked. Her knees bent. and her feet pointed up at the ceiling. He rode along, following her body with mouth and hands so there was no escape. Every clutch and pulse poured out at last around the man who’d been upending her world for at least a month and a half.
Now he’s upending you over his couch.
Christina worked at slowing her breath as she came down. Pins and needles prickled her toes, and Bill took his fingers back, tongue dipping with slow care to lap at swollen pink, to make sure he’d tasted every last flutter and jerk.
When there were no more, the heat of his face withdrew. A part of her still capable of higher thought pointed out how it might be more dignified if her ass wasn’t in the air, but the rest of her was sure her bones were made of overcooked pasta. She let her grip uncurl from patterned fabric.
There were footsteps and Bill’s jeans came into her line of sight, just at the knee. A quiet chuckle drifted down, and fingers combed the mess of her hair back from her face.
“You don’t have to stay like that,” he said.
She twisted her spine so she could find his face above her. His features were soft, as though he’d found her there sleeping and needed to convince her to move somewhere less awkward.
Like a bed?
Bill smiled. Not a half-smirk. Not a twitch that might be confused for a grimace. Smiled. Eyes, too. “I’ll be right back.” And he moved off down a hallway.
Christina groaned at the ache in her hips from the arm of the sofa and pushed herself up on her palms. Slid back to sit on her now bare heels. The sound of running water came from somewhere deeper in the house.
The left side of her top and bra straps still hung around her upper arm. She righted them, but wasn’t sure why. Her panties could be anywhere.
So that’s what it’s like. Wobbly legs helped her stand. That’s what it’s like when Bill makes me come.
She collapsed onto the couch, hands upturned on her lap. Her thighs still closed together around a faint buzz. Dazed and floating, she swiveled her head to take in the room. Where had those lamps come from? This sofa. An old lady garage sale?
Fuck furniture, Dodd! You just came all over Bill Marshall’s face!
Christina found herself wearing a stupid grin. The boss had been holding out on her.
The boss was shirtless, appearing again at the end of the hall. Her throat went drier than it already was.
An undershirt the day she’d taken his cock in her mouth was one thing. A suggestion, though it had been more than enough to fuel her fantasy life. This was reality. This was planes of muscle, a dusting of hair she might reach out and touch.
Dear god, she wanted to touch.
And their three hours had only started.
Bill scrubbed a washcloth over his face and under his arms in a quick recon. His shirt was on the bathroom floor.
Did you fucking hear her? Did you?
Those noises had been insane.
He tucked a hand into his pants and shifted a half-hard cock up into the waistband of his boxers. Leaned on his palms on the edge of the vanity and blew out a slow breath in front of the mirror.
Making Christina Lee Dodd come was impossible fantasy stuff. If someone had told him two months ago he’d be burying his face in her pussy? That she’d yell out his name, and not in a What are you doing? Get the fuck off me! way, but in an Oh god! I’m coming! way? Bill would have either laughed or decked them. Possibly called them a perv for saying creepy shit like that to a stranger.
There were things he still wanted tonight, but god damn. He’d already accomplished the most rewarding, without a doubt.
On the way back out through his bedroom, he swung by the nightstand and fished out a condom. Stuffed it down into his back pocket. How much further they’d go depended on her, but Bill would be ready.
By the time he got back, she’d collected herself enough to sit, face flushed, and to stare at him with some expression he couldn’t read. Bill returned the favor, steps halted while he still processed what had happened on that same couch only minutes before.
He blinked to shake off the awkward tension. Pushed a hand back through his hair. “You, uh … you want some water?”
She nodded at him, her eyes not leaving his, and Bill made a silent, internal fist pump at what he hoped was an orgasm coma keeping her from actual words.
Unless you did something wrong you’re too stupid to notice.
He went to the fridge for a bottle of water, and brought it to her, arm outstretched. She took it, unscrewed the lid, and gulped down an impressive amount before sighing.
“Thank you,” she said, and then held up the bottle, offering.
Bill took it and downed another third of the thing. Set it aside on the coffee table.
She looked vulnerable, sitting there now, watching him like a prey animal, as though he might change tactics and do something horrible.
Sit down, asshole, you’re freaking her out.
He sank to the couch beside her. “Are you okay?”
Her brows came up and she gave him a deliberate circular nod, paired with wide eyes. “Yyyeah.”
Bill thawed; she was more than okay. He took up her hand. Squeezed it and kissed her knuckles in some weird old-timey gesture he hadn’t planned. But Christina probably hadn’t planned it either when her fingers slipped from his and came to touch the side of his face.
There was nothing left in the world for him but those blue eyes. It wasn’t awkward or weird. It was an event horizon, and he was gone.
He leaned first, but she followed, giving him her throat. Dear god, did he just want to stop playing around and kiss her, but they had an agreement. And Bill was not about to break trust with Christina. Not ever, if he could help it.
He tasted her skin again, warm and good-smelling, and she hummed under the work of his mouth. Her first hand had fallen, but the other drifted to the back of his neck, approving, pressing him to continue.
It was her weight that tipped forward first, shifting the balance until he braced himself on a hand. A heartbeat later, he got the picture and lay back on the couch, Christina following him down. Her hips settled between his legs, and Bill groaned at her weight. There was no way he was hiding his erection.
He got greedy again, and his palms slid down her back to find her ass and take handfuls. She hissed and ground, and Bill wanted to skip ahead twenty steps.
But there was so much he’d miss along the way.
They were shameless, there in his living room. Humping like two much younger people whose parents had left for the weekend and no one was going to catch them.
The soft flesh of her backside pillowed under his grip. He hooked his fingers under, where ass met thigh, and lifted, spread her. The skirt she wore had ridden up so his touch met bare skin. Then he ventured to her center and found her panties still gone.
“Fffuck, Christina.”
She arched, pushing herself into his touch. “Mmm, yeah.”
His fingers found wet again, and Bill was going to die. He wanted everything, all at once.
The smooth skin of her shoulders rode up and down in his line of sight and he jumped tracks. He already had the narrow straps of her top down when she pushed herself up on her arms. Sat back on her heels.
Even as she slid out of reach, Christina was crossing her arms, lifting her shirt up and overhead. She dropped it to the floor and he only had a breath or two to gape at her in a black bra, before she had a wrist behind her back, undoing the clasp.
And then there she was, nude from the waist up. In his goddamn house, too beautiful for anything around her.
Something important sizzled between them, some fierce acknowledgment of mutuality. He only had to begin lifting his arms for her to sink back down, bare chest laying over his. There were pieces of his psyche urging him to be romantic, but Bill was high as a kite on this woman, and the rest of him ran roughshod.
He groped her like a beast. Pushed his cock up against her mound, bit at her neck. She rose up again, just far enough to hoist herself higher over his body, demanding the attention she wanted.
God, she fucking wants you. Christina wants you.
Bill took palmfuls of her tits. Pushed them together and imagined his dick sliding there. Found tight little nipples and tugged, eating the hiss she made like dessert.
She must have seen his focus shift, because she dropped down on cue, letting her breast fall to his mouth. Her fingers threaded behind his head to curl in his hair, and Bill thought he could die just fine, smothered like this.
Somewhere in the suckling, the nuzzling, fingertips traced his jawline.
“Bill.”
“Mm?” He was hardly coherent.
“Can you …” Neither was she, from the sound of it. He left off to find her eyes, and the want there squeezed at his chest. “Be on top?”
God in heaven.
He wasted no time. In a jockeying of limbs over upholstery, Christina was there, looking up at him, thighs split around his hips while he wondered what kind of price life was going to make him pay for all this. She was Persephone to his Hades, sunshine all spread out and he wanted to do dark, horrible things.