by Stasia Black
Oh yeah. My blood heats. I feel the beginning of the rush I’ve been seeking all night.
I roll my torso once, twice, then I pull myself back up toward him in a dramatic whip so that my fake hair flies and a little bit of the lightheaded feeling comes back.
It only feeds my high. I grab Mr. Nice Guy’s face and kiss the fuck out of him. I don’t bother with the tentative, questioning kisses. No, my tongue immediately goes for the invasion. And after one stunned second, he’s reciprocating.
His hands drop to my waist.
My waist.
He’s so fucking adorable. Even with me mauling the hell out of him, he doesn’t go for the ass grab.
Now that’s a gentleman.
I pull back from the kiss, taking his bottom lip in between my teeth in a way that elicits a low groan from him. I can feel from the tent in the front of his pants where I’m pressed fully against him that this isn’t just a one-way street of sexual interest. Good.
I give his lip another nip and then move to his ear again. “Come with me.” I have to shout to be heard over the music. I back away from him, but not before I’ve firmly grabbed his arm to pull him behind me through the crowd.
An upbeat song with a techno beat blasts through the speakers and the crowd is going nuts. The hour has grown later and later. Bodies grind against one another. The raw sexual energy charges the floor. Instead of it making me squeamish, I absorb it. This club isn’t one of those super classy joints. I picked it for its mix of grunginess, clientele, and secluded corners. Finding all those alcoves earlier was just a bonus. Even more dark little spots than I thought.
Which is exactly where I drag Mr. Nice Guy. Except that as I’m heading to one of the alcoves, I spot something even better. Along the back wall there’s a small hallway that leads not to the bathrooms, but just to a couple closed doors—probably some offices or the janitorial closet.
Absolutely perfect. Private enough for what I need, but still public enough that I can feel safe. Still, I don’t lead him down into the shadowed depths of the hallway just yet.
My shoulders are still moving to the music when I slam Mr. Nice Guy against the wall right where we are and press my entire body against him. My lips are immediately on his as I push my pelvis up and into his groin and give several swiveling hip rolls against him. I feel the rumble of his groan through his chest even though I can’t hear much because of the noise in the club. He tastes like stale cigarettes but I don’t care. Kissing isn’t especially about enjoyment for me anymore. It’s about getting where I need to go. Establishing an order to things.
My hand snakes down the front of his stomach and I reach for his crotch. I squeeze unashamedly when I get to his dick. He’s nice and hard. I can’t feel too much about the size of him through his jeans, but he’s definitely not a shrinking violet. Always nice, though I’m not actually picky. It’s not about that for me.
His body jolts a little when I make contact, but he doesn’t pull away. With all signals go, I slip my hand down the top of his pants. He shudders when I make skin-to-skin contact and his breath hitches while he kisses me. I don’t bat an eyelash.
I suck his tongue further into my mouth as my hand closes around him. I wasn’t wrong. He’s got a fair size to him. Aw, a sweet guy with a good package. Jackpot. I wrap my fingers around his girth and grip him firmly, then rub up and down. He leans more heavily into me, pushing himself into my palm.
I roll my eyes. Slow down, buddy. There’s only one driver on this train and it ain’t you. He’ll learn quick enough.
I brace my arm against his chest and press him back firmly against the wall. He allows it for a few moments but then his hips are thrusting forward again into my hand. I shake my head and pull firmly away from his body. His face goes all desperate and his questing lips try to follow me, as do his hips.
I just wave my finger in his face. Ah ah ah. Nope.
“My way or the highway,” I shout in his ear.
In the dim lights from the dance floor I can see the disappointment coloring his face. But that’s all it is. Disappointment, not anger.
Which is all the confirmation I need to take his hand and draw him further down the hallway to the darkest corner at the very back. There I push them to the floor, reach into my bra for a small foil packet, and then sit down on top of his thighs.
In the dimmest light of an exit sign, I can see his eyes are wide as proverbial saucers. He swallows hard, watching every move I make.
The music is only slightly muted back here, but I don’t bother saying anything. His dick is still out from a moment ago, so I rip the packet with my teeth and don’t waste any time rolling the rubber down over his length.
His hands jump to my hips as I reposition myself to hover over him. I pause there for a moment, about to double check he’s cool with all this. He’s just staring at me all shocked looking. I’m the last person to want to take advantage of anyone if they’re on the fence at all—
But then his hands on my hips grip tighter like he’s trying to drag me down onto his cock. Alrighty, I’ll take that as a confirmation.
I smack both of his hands away hard, though. “I run the show, remember?”
He jerks back in surprise and that’s when I sink down on him.
His hands immediately try to come back to my hips but I grab them mid-air and reposition them, pinning one against the ground and lifting the other to my breast. His cock twitches inside me as his thumb braises my nipple.
Finally. The rest of the tension twisted tight in the core of my body starts to unwind at the sight of this fucker held down underneath me. I squeeze my hips tighter around him, pinning him in place.
Then I fucking ride him. His dick isn’t that big after all. Apparently he’s more of a show-er than a grower. But whatever. When I lean forward and grind my pelvis against him, my clit rubs at a good enough angle.
“That’s right, you dirty fucker.” I glare down at him. “You just lay there and take it like the dirty fucking bitch bastard you are.”
I slam down on him and it feels good. Not great. But good enough.
That desperate sensation starts to spark low in my belly. I throw my head back and ride him with more fury. It’s been too long. God, way too long since I’ve been able to feel this.
I thrust down on him especially hard, grinding my ass to his pelvis back and forth. I writhe back and forth before lifting off and slamming back down again.
“God. Fuck. That. Yes. Right there.” Yeaaaaaaaah. Fuck, this is nothing like when I use toys at home. Those just can’t do it for me anymore.
I look down at the man below me. Even with the little bit of light from the hallway, I can see the awed expression on his face. How I am blowing his mind. I’m just some stranger who came up to him and now I’m dominating the fuck out of his dick, his pleasure, his fucking world.
I lift my hand to my mouth and bite down on the side of my palm to muffle the high-pitched whine of pleasure that I can’t hold in. Damn, this is what I’ve needed. Not wanted. Needed. The knot has been winding tighter and tighter inside me, fear and panic threatening to choke me every time I leave my house. I need control.
So I take him faster, land harder, but it’s not enough. I need more. I need fucking more.
“You fucking bastard.” I slap him hard across the face but never for a moment stop riding him. I tighten my inner walls and feel him swelling inside me.
His hand clamps down on my breast, so hard I bet it will bruise. I slap him again and I’m closer than ever to the edge. Oh Christ oh Christ, almost there. The noises coming from my throat are uncontrollable and I lift my hand to stifle myself again. I can’t be too loud in spite of the cacophony of the club. A scream of pleasure will pierce through even that noise.
But oh God, I’m on the edge. Riding that fucking edge.
He starts thrusting harder into me from below.
What. The. Fuck??? Red rage flashes through my pleasure. Hasn’t he learned his goddamned lesson by no
w? I say how. I say when.
Why do guys always fucking assume they can just take over? What the hell is wrong with them? Even Mr. Supposed Nice Guy? Fucking piece of shit.
I drop even further away from the edge, and when he grabs my hip like he’s going to flip me over—like he thinks he’s going to be the one thrusting into me, I just fucking lose it.
I use one of the tricks I learned in self-defense to heft all my weight up into my chest and shoulders to keep him pinned in place. He lands back where he was with an oof that I can feel more than hear.
He got dislodged during this process, so I grab his dick, shove him back inside me and pump up and down even more furiously.
I glare at him and don’t bother hiding my wrath. This is rage-fucking now.
Bastard must have a death wish. He obviously has no idea where my head’s at, because he grabs my thighs again. His fingers knead my flesh. I don’t knock his hands away this time. His eyes are closed, his head back thrust against the cold concrete.
He doesn’t notice me slip the knife from the garter belt tied at the very top of my thigh.
But his eyes sure as hell pop open when I lean over and hold it against his throat.
I keep pumping on him just as furiously, but my face inches toward his. “I’m on top, got it motherfucker?” I say loud enough so he’ll hear it.
He nods but just the barest bit so he doesn’t come in contact with the knife. His eyes are wide with sudden terror. What a little bitch. I don’t even have the knife right up against his throat. There’s a good half-inch of clearance. Still, it’s close enough. As long as he’s a good boy, we can both get what we want out of this exchange.
He still an iron rod inside me but he’s learned his lesson. His hands drop flat to the floor like he’s afraid to move.
A momentary pang of regret hits.
I didn’t mean to scare him. I just needed. I needed—
I move the knife a little further back from his neck, but still close enough so that if I need to, I could strike.
Then I look down at him and take in the whole tableau—him prone and at my complete mercy. A shudder goes through my body and my back arches in pleasure.
Oh God, yes, yes, right there. I grind down on him deep and rub my breasts against his chest. I lick up his neck and suck on his bottom lip, relishing in his filthy, cigarette taste. I hear his pained groan and feel the tension in his body as he struggles not to move.
Oh very, very good boy.
I have fucking mastered him. This realization plus all the stimulation finally sets me off like a rocket. I come quick and sharp and hard.
It’s gone far, far too soon for all the work I’ve done to catch it.
Mr. Nice Guy’s face scrunches in concentration and anticipation. If I was a super bitch, I’d just leave now, maybe even wave my knife at him and forbid him to get off. But in the end, even if he had a few unruly moments, he pleased me. So I continue grinding on him, clutching my walls tight around his dick.
I lean over and speak loud enough so he hears. “You’ve been such a good boy for me. You may come now.”
Almost immediately his whole body stiffens and his pelvis pushes up into me once and then twice more. His eyes open in fear right after, like I’m going to punish him for it. The rush of power the very thought shoots through my veins surprises me. I climb off him, leaving him to deal with the condom situation.
I feel shaky all over now that the adrenaline high is wearing off. The knife is still in my hand and all the sudden it’s like, what the fuck did I just do?
Did I just really think it was okay to hold a weapon against a guy’s throat? He could fucking call the cops on me. I would call the cops on me. What if anybody had stumbled on us back there and seen me? Oh my God. Holy shit.
I hold a hand to my forehead, then realize it’s the hand holding the knife and drop it back to my side.
I lift my skirt and shove the knife back into the mini-sheath in my garter. It was only supposed to be for extreme situations. If I was in danger.
I back away from the guy who is struggling to get to a sitting position and pull up his pants. He looks like he’s trying to say something, but I turn on my stiletto heel and high tail it out of there.
Chapter Two
CALLIE
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
God. What the fuck? No.
I sleepily lunge for my alarm clock and slam the snooze alarm. I’m about to let my heavy eyelids drop closed again when I glimpse the red numbers of the clock.
7:39.
SHIT. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! I almost fall off the bed, I sit up so fast. How many times did I hit the snooze button this morning. Damn it!
I scramble off the bed and trip on my dress from the night before that’s on the floor, barely catching myself on the wall. “Fuck!” I yell as I kick the stupid dress out of the way and haul ass to the bathroom.
What greets me in the mirror isn’t as disastrous as I feared it would be. Only a mini-nightmare as opposed to full on Walking Dead extra.
I tried just falling into bed when I got home last night, but within ten minutes, I was crawling out of my skin with the need to get clean. A thirty-minute shower later and I finally felt like the club was scrubbed off me. Or at least I was too exhausted to care anymore. I fell into bed without even brushing my hair.
Yeah. It shows. I’ve got a serious case of bed head going on. Even without the oh-so-sexy mattress/pillow styling I’m rocking, the image looking back at me is strange. I went in for a makeover midsummer. Gone are the long natural blonde locks I’ve sported my whole life. For the first time, I started coloring my hair—a nice but unspectacular auburn shade. I also cut it to just below shoulder-length. My natural wave gives it some body, but I don’t do anything else to it except let it air dry most of the time.
Since it’s flat on one side and poofy on the other today, I brush the front and pin it back with some bobby pins. A quick glance with a side mirror shows my solution fixed the poof situation. I brush my teeth quickly, one eye on the clock the whole time. Shit, shit, shit.
I’m going to be late.
I’m never late. My boss, Marcy, gets pissed whenever anyone on her team comes in even a couple minutes after eight. The thought has me jogging back to my room and grabbing the first outfit I see in my closet, some pants and a simple blouse. I don’t have time for anything complicated today. Like something with buttons. I don’t have time for fucking buttons today. I barely give myself time to pee.
Marcy gives people who are late the glare. The I’m-dissappointed-in-you-and-don’t-think-I’ll-forget-this-when-quarterly-review-time-comes-around glare. Plus all week that team member gets assigned the shitty tasks like debugging everyone else’s code.
I slip on my fancy ballet flats and then I race to the kitchen to grab a breakfast bar. I snag one and also a banana. I swing around to scurry from the kitchen and—
“Fuck!” I look down to see what my hip banged into—and then my throat closes up.
Charlie’s highchair.
All the air is knocked out of my lungs. Everything else disappears. Needing to rush to get to work. Marcy being pissed if I’m late. Everything that went down last night.
Charlie.
Charlie.
Charlie.
My head drops backward so that I’m looking up at the ceiling. I give myself a moment, just this one single solitary moment to feel it. The absolute gaping hole in my heart. Where is he this morning? Is that woman who is pretending to be his mother treating him right? I don’t even let myself count to ten. Ten is too much. I’ll be paralyzed if I let myself get all the way to ten.
I bring my head back down and start moving again. I realize belatedly that I’ve been squeezing the banana so hard it’s gone squishy in the middle. I’ll have to eat it fast or it’ll bruise. Guess it’ll be breakfast instead of part of lunch. I grab my purse that’s by the door and then I’m out.
I hurry to the light rail
station, checking my phone for the time as I go. Seven fifty-one. I should be freaking out about how late I’m going to be. No way morning transit is going to get me there in nine minutes, in addition to walking the three blocks to the CubeThink building.
Fuck it.
Stressing about it won’t change anything. I keep my steps hurried, but I don’t jog. No point in showing up with sweat stains only to save a minute or two. The shit will hit the fan with Marcy either way. Besides, my head is too full of Charlie.
My baby boy. While I don’t let myself linger on the feelings of self-pity that could overwhelm me and keep me in bed for weeks on end, thinking about Charlie himself is what keeps me going.
And I get to see him today. Every Friday, I get supervised visitation. That thought brings a smile to my face even as I weave in and out of several homeless men yelling at morning commuters for change. I slip onto the light rail just before the doors close and breathe out, heart racing from my frantic race here.
I lean against one of the poles to steady myself as the train rattles forward. The car is packed just like it is every weekday morning.
The visits with Charlie might be in the most unnatural setting possible—a fancy child psychologist’s office with someone watching my every move and noting every word that comes out of my mouth—but I still get to see my baby. Even if it’s only for two hours. Once a week.
My hands go white-knuckled around the pole.
Oh hell, calm down. This is more than I got in the beginning. I just have to remember that. Right after they took him away, I didn’t see him at all for six weeks.
Even then, the only reason I got supervised visits was because I went along with the bullshit court order to get outpatient substance abuse treatment, along with taking parenting classes. Fucking parenting classes. I think that one pissed me off even more than having to be in outpatient rehab for the drug problem that I didn’t have.
My new lawyer was busy sending off the paperwork to get the initial sample retested and asking for a new drug test that was far more reliable, a follicle hair test proving not only had I not been on drugs the day of the hearing, but I hadn’t even been in the vicinity of people doing drugs for the last six months. Still, I’d see my son a lot faster if I did all the other bullshit in the meantime.