by JD Hawkins
He pulls his lips away, stopping for a moment, and I feel like I’m hanging by a thread. He sets me on the counter and takes a half step back.
“Wait,” he says.
“What?” I gasp, half-angry with him for stopping, my hands still reaching for him.
“Maybe we shouldn’t…we’re drunk. You’re drunk. I don’t want you to—”
“Shut up, Owen.” I don’t let him finish, pulling his mouth back onto mine, holding the sides of his face tight in my palms, sucking his tongue like an ice cream cone. I move my lips to his ear and whisper, “I want you.”
Owen responds by guiding his mouth down to my neck as I throw my head back. In a low voice that sounds like a tremor he murmurs, “Then I’m gonna fuck you til you scream.” The low tone of his voice, so close to my neck that I feel it as much as I hear it, makes the tightness in my stomach shatter like glass. I gasp desperately for air as his hand reaches under my top, pinching my nipple through my bra.
“Oh yeah?” I say in a stuttering whisper. “Make me.”
Owen pulls back again, leaving me sitting on the counter, breathing heavily. I look at him, his head down, gazing at me with hard, possessive lust. The last remaining hesitation that I have about this happening disappears from my mind.
“Come,” he commands, taking my hand as I ease off the counter and then leading me to the bedroom.
I can practically hear my own heart pounding, can feel the wetness between my legs and the tingling in my scalp. I’ve never been so turned on. When we get to his room he slams the door behind us, turns around, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. My mouth goes dry with lust as he reveals inch by inch a torso that looks like it belongs in a museum. I stand there, feeling gripped by his glare, barely able to stay standing on knees that feel weak with anticipation.
“Take off those glasses,” he says.
“I can’t really see you without them.”
A dark smile flickers over his lips.
“I’ll move a little closer then,” he says, stepping towards me, his shirt loose around his shoulders now.
He reaches out, hand grazing my face, and slips my glasses off, folding them carefully before setting them on the nightstand. Then he lifts my tank top up over my head and tosses it on a chair. I reach back and undo my bra, throwing it aside and smiling shyly at him.
For a moment he just studies my body, sculpted torso rising and falling with his deepening breath.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, suddenly worried he’s having second thoughts, or that I’m not enough, not what he’s used to.
“I think I wanna tear you apart.”
He moves a hand into my hair, gathering it into a ponytail he holds tightly in his fist, pulling my head toward him. His other hand squeezes my breast, pinching and pulling my nipple, sending sweet aches through my chest.
“I think a body like yours deserves to be fucked real good,” he murmurs, making my pulse race again before turning me around and pulling me up against him, one hand on my throat now, the other on my breast.
I feel his bulge on my ass and roll up on it, tracing the thickness of his cock between my cheeks. I feel his hot breath on my neck, teeth on my shoulders. Waves of shivering weakness pass through my body, muscles melting with the heat of his touch, until only his arms are holding me up. His hand traces cool fingers down my stomach, sending tingles into my very center, until they reach my swollen pussy. I reach back and undo his pants as he holds me against him, hands pinching and tracing my body.
“You’ve got the kind of pussy I could fuck for days.”
His dirty talk is making me even hotter. Breathing heavier now, my whole body shudders from the tender way his fingers move over my clit, stroking and tapping so skillfully I already feel close to coming. “Prove it,” I murmur.
“I’m gonna make you mine, Margo.”
“I had no idea you were like this,” I say, feeling more intoxicated than I have all day, mind lost somewhere beneath a sea of sensations.
Somewhere against my neck I feel the breath of Owen’s low, throaty laugh, and a second later he shoves me forward onto the soft bed.
“I’m gonna blindfold you and fuck you senseless,” he growls from behind me. “Unless you say no.”
Excitement rushes through me. “Yes.” Before I know what’s happening, something soft covers my eyes and I feel Owen tightening the fabric around my head. I lick my lips and moan my approval when I realize he’s blindfolded me with my own shirt.
“Stay there,” he says, as he moves off the bed.
I feel his hands slide down my back, strong and certain, caressing my bare skin until he reaches my waistband. I lift my hips just enough to help him tug my leggings down and off, leaving me in just my black cotton underwear. Unable to see, it’s as if I become ultra-sensitive to everything around me. Owen’s voice thudding through me like a touch, the sound of his confident steps around the room deepening the enjoyable vulnerability of my prone, almost-naked body. I squirm on the sheets, clutching at them and pressing my chest against them, desperate for any sensation, aching for Owen to come back.
I feel his weight on the bed and my heart jumps, my skin prickling with anticipation. I hear the sound of him tearing a packet open, hear his heavy, low breathing, and feel like I might turn into liquid any minute now.
“Come here,” he growls, but before I can, he pulls my hips back, bringing me onto my knees, ass in the air. I feel his fingers trace the lines of my hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He tucks them under my panties and peels them down slowly, until I’m shivering from the cool air on my wet lips, the lightness of his touch, the deep throb in my pussy. I push my face into the bed, aching for his touch again, and push my ass back. He smacks it and I groan. It feels like almost too much pain and pleasure for my body to handle.
“Again,” I pant into the sheets.
Owen does it again and I let out another muffled moan into his bed, pulling fistfuls of fabric towards me. I feel his hands stroke my ass, soothing away the sting left by his slaps. His hand moves to my pussy and he slides a finger into my wetness, moving it slowly back and forth as he bites softly at the skin of my lower back, my sides, my shoulder.
“Oh god,” I moan. I spread my knees wider and feel him slip another finger into my pussy, pumping faster and deeper until I’m letting out a series of short gasps, until I can’t take it anymore. I need him inside me. “I need you.”
He shifts behind me on the mattress and brings his cock to my ass, resting its hard thickness between my cheeks. I roll back against it, clench my cheeks around it. He presses it down against my pussy, the tip of the head splitting my wet, ready lips, opening me up just enough that I feel like I’ll explode.
“Please,” I gasp in the dark, but he still torments me.
I’m hotter than hell now, burning up with the need for release, for Owen to slam inside me and push the button he’s been teasing for so long. I push back against the tip of his cock but he just stays there, on the edge of a cliff. A torture sweeter than any other.
His hand grabs a fistful of my hair, half-pressing my face into the bed.
“Beg me for it,” he growls, and I hear the satisfied smile on his lips.
“Oh,” is all I can utter, incapable of speech, Owen’s touch making it hard to think. I’ve never talked dirty before, never wanted to beg in bed before, but I’ve never been fucked like this before, either, and I’m either too drunk or too excited to hold back now. “Fuck me, Owen. Give it to me. I need it. Give it to me, please.”
Owen lets out a deep, rough laugh, and says, “Like this?”
The fat head of his cock breaks my pussy open and I almost come right there, stopping just short as a euphoric wave breaks over me like violent water.
“Yes!” I gasp. “Fuck yes. Fuck my pussy.”
My words must act like a starting gun, because suddenly Owen drives into me, no more playing around, pounding hard and fast into my hot, tight center. I grip the bedsheets tight
er, letting him fill me, fuck me, drill into me with perfect rhythm as I pant out soft gasps and helpless moans.
“Your ass drives me crazy, Margo,” I hear him growl through gritted teeth, groaning as he grinds into me even further, even deeper, hitting a spot that’s so good, so right, so caught between ecstasy and pain that I almost see stars behind the blindfold. He smacks my ass again, bringing his fingers around my hip to press against my clit until I’m dizzy from the sensations.
I start to moan louder, wailing with every inch he gives me, moaning at the hot pulses of electricity that his fingers stroke from my clit, almost crying with the overload of pleasure, his cock almost more than my body can handle. I bury my face deeper into the bed, still blindfolded, arms stretched out forward, ass up and slamming back against Owen’s cock, against the hard muscles of his hips, against his own rhythm, both of us pushing to get his thrusts deeper and deeper.
“Your pussy’s so good,” Owen rumbles as he pulls out and flips me onto my back, his hands pushing my knees up and spreading me wide open. I feel his tongue lap at my opening, circling my clit, sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth.
“Owen!” I yelp. He sucks harder and then softer, alternating the pressure of his lips on me until I’m dragging my fingers through his hair, thrusting against his face. I’m getting close and he must sense it, because he moves away from me and slams his cock into my pussy again, reclaiming me with every hard stroke. “Fuck me,” I whimper.
“That’s a good girl,” he growls, tugging off the blindfold. I blink into the harsh light, my eyes locking on Owen’s as I wrap my legs around his waist, tilting my hips up to let him in so deep that each thrust seems to open up new valves of snapping delight, hitting new levels of pleasure.
“I’m coming,” I tell him, starting to turn my head away.
“Not yet.” He grabs my jaw and tilts my face toward him until our eyes are locked again. “Look at me when you come, Margo. Look at me. Come for me.”
His commands only heighten the sensations I’m feeling, and my mouth falls open in a helpless, high-pitched moan.
“That’s it…scream for me.”
His cock thuds and spears inside of me so hard my ears ring, until I can’t close my mouth for the squealing and panting, can’t hold the rolling ball of fire in my pussy anymore, and I feel my orgasm shatter me.
I don’t know how long I come for, but time seems to stand still as I grip Owen’s shoulders as hard as I can and ride out the bursts of pleasure, the release washing over me in waves, my body suddenly light as a feather, floating in space. I close my eyes and hear Owen let out a deep groan as his thrusts slow and deepen, and then he rolls onto the bed beside me.
For a few minutes we just lie there, and I stare at the ceiling and catch my breath as the weight of my body trickles back. I smile and groan, rubbing myself into the sheets as the last of the afterglow ebbs away.
I turn onto my side and see Owen on his back, chest rising and falling slowly, his angular profile pointed at the ceiling, lips parted. The remains of a smile on his face. I rest my hand lightly on his bicep and close my eyes.
Half-waking, soft pillow under my head and sheets wrapped around me, I feel a massive sense of relief pass through my body. Relief that none of that actually happened. That the bar, the drinks, the sex—was just some weird dream. For a few seconds I smile at how bad it would actually be—however good it might feel in my dreams—to not just irrevocably fuck up a friendship of eight years, but to ruin my career by sleeping with the guy who shares a desk space with me, a guy whose actual job it is to seduce women and then walk away and write about it. I almost smile when I think about how amazingly bad it would be.
Then I hear a male groan and feel somebody shift their weight on the bed beside me, and all that relief flushes away, replaced by a shuddering, cold dread.
I open my eyes and he’s there. Owen. Still naked, his big, muscular body face-down on the bed. It takes all my willpower to not scream, willpower I wish I’d had earlier. Owen shuffles again and I go so still I can feel my heart thumping, sirens in my head so loud I’m worried they’ll wake him up. What did we do?
Still holding my breath, I move off the bed, every rustle of fabric seeming as loud as a cymbal crash in the silence of the room. I grab my leggings and top from the floor—only because they’re there, because I’m in such a hurry to leave I would probably go naked right now—and creep toward the door as if the floor is laced with mines.
My head’s still spinning when I get outside, memories of what we’ve just done flooding back like some horror film I don’t want to watch. I walk back to Maddie’s bar to get my car while my heart sinks with every step. It’s not that I’m a prude, or a stranger to one-night stands—although to be fair, it has been awhile. And it’s definitely not that fucking Owen wasn’t incredible. Because it was, without a doubt, the best sex of my life thus far.
No. None of those things are the problem. The problem is the eight years of friendship between us, eight years that we’ve just compromised. Eight years of loyalty, of support, of having each other’s backs. Eight awesome, solid, harmonious years…all of it has come crashing down now, completely screwed up, sold for cheap. I’m in shock.
It’s not like we haven’t had close calls before. Drunken nights where we somehow ended up with only each other and a few more bottles of beer. Crashing out in each other’s dorms, sitting out on the Hollywood Hills telling each other secrets deep into the night. There have been times when Owen looked so good all I could think about was tearing his clothes off and sucking his cock. Times I’ve caught him eyeing my legs and you could see the sex fantasies playing out in his eyes. But each time we resisted, and each resistance was like a confirmation that our friendship was worth more than just a cheap fuck. Confirmation that we appreciated each other on some deeper, more important, more meaningful level. Scared that once we crossed that line we could never go back, that we’d lose so much more than we gained.
And yet here I am, getting into my car with no panties because they’re still on the floor of his apartment. Still incapable of believing it wasn’t some weird dream, unable to accept it.
Why now? Maybe it was the breakup, or the job stress, or the viral video, or maybe I’m just not used to drinking that much anymore. It doesn’t matter. Excuses don’t help. Not when you cross a line this big.
But maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe our friendship isn’t on the line, and everything between us will stay totally normal. All we have to do is act like it never happened, and if anyone can pull that off, it’s Owen and me. All I need to do is make myself forget the last few hours, forget the way his cock felt inside me, forget the way he made me look him in the eye when I came, and hope that Owen decides to do the same.
That should be easy enough. Right?
5
Owen
Something’s wrong.
Even though the girl sitting across the tapas-filled table is undeniably stunning, funny, talented, and flirty. I just can’t get into her.
The setting’s perfect too, a Spanish restaurant with the kind of low lighting and small, intimate tables that feel appropriate for whispering secrets to each other. The kind of aromatic food you can feed to each other against a backdrop of Miro and Rego paintings, while lilting Spanish guitar lingers in the background like a warm memory. Candlelit tables and waiters that know when not to interrupt. It’s perfect, and still, I can’t get into her.
She sips her wine, blue eyes, half-veiled by her luxurious, silk-blonde hair, fixed on me all the while, then licks her lips slowly when she takes the glass away from her mouth.
“The wine’s great,” she says in the kind of smoky voice that belongs in a jazz bar, adding, “you’ve got great taste.”
I shrug. “I always pick the best—no matter the cost.”
She bites her tongue gently, leans her head so her hair sways a little, and looks up at me. “Is that so?”
I give her the dimples, the squared eyes, the s
moldering stare—but I’m just going through the motions. This girl’s showing enough cleavage for an R-rating, and I’ve no doubt she knew exactly how she wanted this night to end before I even walked through the door.
“Tell me a bit more about your job. It sounds interesting…” I say, attempting to stall for time while I try to figure out why I’ve already checked my watch three times and can’t stop glancing at the exit door.
It’s the wrong question, the equivalent of cold water on the heat of her eyes. I can tell she’s one innuendo away from dragging me into the nearest decorative palm and tearing my clothes off with her teeth—and she has been since the appetizers arrived—but I’m just not into it. If I wasn’t on this date for work, I would have made an excuse to leave already.
She squints at me a little, trying to figure out whether I’m just dumb or teasing, then decides to indulge me anyway.
“Well, like I said, when I got out of Yale I freelanced for a few years before…”
I mentally switch off, more worried about the fact that I’m struggling to get into my flow than whether she’s actually into me. Ordinarily I’d be leaning over the table about now, wondering if the intimate, upscale restaurant is dark enough for me to make a move under the table. I’d have shifted my chair a little to the side, feeding her mussels with one hand while I finger-fucked her with the other.
At the very least I’d have gone to the bathroom to take down some notes on how the date’s going—that’s the whole point of this, after all—but I’m about as interested in the vlog sample I owe my boss as I am in this hot but tediously one-dimensional woman.
“...the work is challenging, but the people are really great, you know?”
It takes a split-second longer than it should for me to realize she’s finished talking. I nod and pretend I’m finishing a mouthful of food to cover my distraction before responding.
“That does sound good. You working on anything interesting at the moment? Is it a good time for architecture in general?”