by Shen, L. J.
There’s a sense of urgency in shoving my cock into any one of her holes—I’m entirely unpicky as to which one—and with any other fling, I’d probably give my partner a nudge by now, waking her up and letting her know that I am ready, but not with Reggie. She deserves better.
Instead, I take a seat at the edge of the bed, watching her snoring softly. She’s a sleep-talker, which I find extremely annoying, bordering on creepy.
Well, found. Past tense. Because when Reggie does it, it is quite adorable.
“I...hmm…” She wrestles the neatly pressed sheets of my bed, eyes closed, “ton chien a fait pipi sur moi.”
Your dog just peed on me.
“Non, cela n’a pas de noix en elle.”
No, this doesn’t have nuts in it.
She thrashes, shaking her head, muttering her father’s name, and I slip into bed and spoon her from behind, pressing my lips to her hair. I repeat—I am spooning this girl whom I’ve yet to have sex with. Shoot me. Take my man card. What’s wrong with me?
I fall asleep without realizing that I do, and wake up some hours later in the dead of the night. The only light illuminating the furniture in the room sifts through the medieval stained-glass windows, scattering prisms of color across the sheets. Something hot and wet is ascending my body. It tugs at my cock, making it stir alive, and is now making its way up toward my chest.
“Reggie?” I ask groggily, popping one eye open. She’s straddling me, bracketing my waist with her thighs, stark naked, her poem-worthy tits bouncing to the speed of her breath.
“It’s payback time,” she says.
She sounds like a sexy, hoarse terminator.
Any other time, I’d call the police and tie her to the bedpost until they arrive.
But I’m starting to begrudgingly understand that this woman can literally do whatever she wants and I’d still indulge her.
“Specify.” I stretch my arms, about to grab her ass and hoist her to sit on my face, before finding out that Reggie tied me to the bedposts while I was asleep.
Back. The. Fuck. Up.
I tug at my wrists, squinting up to my right side to see what she’s used. My shoelaces. I don’t have the heart to tell her they cost more than her entire attire, so I angle my face back to her, slapping on a nonchalant expression. Upon further tugging, I gather she hasn’t done a fine job restraining me at all, but I’d hate to burst her little bubble.
“It is now time for you to pleasure me,” Reggie says in her weird English accent again. I suppose she’s shooting for something posh and regal, but in practice, she sounds like a drunk cockney who is trying to slur her way into a sentence.
Still, I find her brand of crazy annoyingly sexy.
“Hop on,” I challenge her, flashing a wolfish smile she spots even in poor lighting. Her eyes zing in the darkness, and she scoots up in record time, resting her pussy on my face. I nuzzle it with my nose, licking the length of her slit, half-asleep and fully-aroused. She tastes beautiful. Sweet and fresh.
“God,” I groan, clasping my mouth over her clit and sucking it. She leans forward and balances against the wall, moaning loudly. “Can you be any more perfect?”
“Faster.” She ignores my compliment, riding my face shamelessly. I can’t help but let a chuckle escape me. What am I going to do with this little hellion?
Marry her, a deranged voice inside me suggests. Your sister’s reaction alone would be worth the headache of getting the thing annulled afterwards.
I continue licking and sucking, and she continues moaning and asking for more, more, more. It takes herculean power for me not to tug the flimsy shoelaces away, grab her ass, and grind her all over my face to deepen the friction, to drive my tongue deeper into her pussy.
I continue penetrating her with my tongue, until finally, she grabs my hair, yanks it really hard, and screams, “I’m coming!” loud enough for people in Brussels to hear. The declaration is followed by quivering thighs that press against my ears, threatening to smash them into dust, and a moan so beautiful, it would give The Cure a run for their money.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” she drawls the word, dragging it out. “I’ve never come so hard in my life.”
My cock, which has been sitting this one out, letting my mouth work its magic, reminds me that it is still here and waiting, and I decide to serve Reggie with an unexpected, albeit pleasant, surprise. I jerk my hands free of my shoelaces with embarrassing ease, grab Reggie by the arse, and flip her over on her stomach.
She lets out a surprised squeak—not a protesting one, I assume—and wiggles her arse in the air, writhing and ready for more.
I shove two pillows under her hips, then frantically open my nightstand drawer, in search of a condom, while kicking my sweatpants down.
“That was so hot,” Reggie slurs. “You might be the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Whether she is drunk on endorphins or just had the misfortune of not meeting too many men in her lifetime is beside the point. I’m not about to dispute her assessment.
I sheath myself, pin her down by pressing my palm to her lower back, and shove into her from behind, watching her neck extend in pleasure, eyes closed, mouth open in ecstasy.
“Yes!”
I thrust deeper.
“Holy shit!”
And deeper—holy shit indeed, she is tighter than a cigarette filter, for God’s sake.
“Dude, I’m so happy I wasn’t there in 1776 when we fought the Brits. I would surrender my own mother for a tumble with you.” She laughs throatily, and my cock swells inside her.
I thrust again, wrapping her satin hair in my fist. She is warm and sweet and sleek and everything I love in a woman.
And she’s a history buff, like yours truly.
Or maybe she just knows her dates really well. But something tells me we are compatible in more ways than we should be, considering how we come from such different walks of life.
I decide to test that theory while simultaneously ruining her uterus, and her, for all other men.
“And I’d surrender to you like Lord Cornwallis in New York, guaranteeing your independence,” I murmur into the shell of her ear, nibbling it tauntingly.
“You mean in Yorktown, Virginia,” she moans, yet I can see from the way her head is angled that she is frowning at my calculated mistake.
“West Virginia or just Virginia?” I shoot back.
“Jesus, man, that happened before the Civil War.” Her pussy clenches around my cock punishingly, milking my cum out of it. My whole body is humming with the need to come inside her. Bareback with this girl would be like getting all my Christmas presents at once. Hell, maybe it will be my Christmas present this year.
“Marry me,” I blurt, feeling my balls tightening.
What. In. The. Actual. F. Did. I. Just. Say?
Before hearing her answer, I flip her over so she is on her back, throw her legs over my shoulders, and enter her so deep I’m surprised I’m not poking any internal organs. She fists my sheets and screams in pleasure, throwing her head back.
“Oh my God, Ho!”
“Reggie.” I’m quivering. We need stage names for sex, I swear, because Reggie and Ho sounds like the name of the worst morning show nobody wants to watch.
“I’m close.”
“How close?” I’m about to find my release, and coming together would be divine.
“Closer than the British Empire was to world domination circa 1921.”
Bullocks. That’s very close.
We both shudder and moan our releases at the same time, and I collapse over her tiny body, framing it, coating it with my own sweat. We become an entangled heap of limbs and damp flesh, the sweet-salty scent of sex wafting in the air, like a lazy cloud above us.
Our hearts beat to the same rhythm.
My lips are in her hair, and I’ve never touched anything softer.
I realize I want this woman in my bed tomorrow, and the day after that, the week that follows, the month, the year…
Not just for two weeks. Even a month won’t do. It makes no sense, and yet, it makes perfect sense, especially when I take into consideration my sister’s ridiculous fortune teller visit and my sudden belief in things like fate and kismet.
“Ho?” Reggie rasps quietly, her voice a little strained, probably because I’m applying my full weight on her.
“Yes?”
“Two things. One, you need to get off of me before I become cartoonishly flat, like pita bread.”
I roll over, taking her with me and pressing her to my chest, peppering her face with kisses.
“Done. Second?”
“About your question.”
“Which one?”
“The marry me one.”
Ugh. Things said during sex should never be taken seriously. She literally told me she was going to turn against her own country to get dicked by me.
“Yes?” I can hear my voice growing cold. It was obviously a figure of speech. Why bring it up?
“Were you serious?”
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. Well then. Evidently, it wasn’t a figure of speech. Depending on Reggie’s answer.
“I mean, no, I wasn’t.” I chuckle, then clear my throat. “I don’t know,” I say finally.
Smooth, Horace. Very bloody smooth.
“Can I think about it?” She has the audacity to ask, sucking her lower lip into her mouth and nibbling on it.
Like this is serious.
Like this is real.
Like I’d ever…
“Naturally,” I hear the deranged, barely-patient smile in my voice.
She nods into our embrace. I find the shell of her ear and whisper into it, “I’ll get you, eventually, little Reggie. The sun never sets on the British Empire.”
* * *
We go through three more rounds of sex that night.
The only reason we stop is because I’m quite sure one of us is going to catch fire if we continue all the thrusting and grinding.
It is four o’clock in the morning when we decide to give our genitals a timeout for not controlling themselves around each other.
Reggie falls asleep in my arms, but for me, sleep never comes.
I think back to the moment that brought me here, to this off-chance meet-cute with a complete stranger from the other side of the world, and what made her slither into me, past my skin and bones and reservations, past the walls I’ve built throughout the years, with such terrifying ease.
I remember all the times women I’d been dating and seeing grilled me about my assets. My company. My estate. My vacations. It was never about what I saw, what I did. Always which hotel I stayed in, what did I buy, the underlying question hanging in the air like a sour fart: how much are you making?
Reggie ignored my obvious wealth from the get-go, other than slow-clapping at my lavish apartment and wiggling her busted toes with delight when she first stepped onto my heated bathroom tiles.
Women always try to either play hard to get or throw themselves at me, whatever tactic they think would harvest more success. Whereas Reggie simply...exists. Natural, unfiltered, and slightly unhinged. What you see is what you get with her. She doesn’t have any hidden agendas or Prada dreams.
The first time I met her, she didn't try to impress me, flirt with me, or otherwise seduce me. She stared at me in horror throughout the entire length of the time I sat at her little café, because I went on two dates, back-to-back. I knew right then and there that this girl is always going to be frank and upfront with me. Give it to me straight.
Other women asked me where I saw myself in five years.
Reggie barely asked me for permission before she sat on my face.
Her genuine and rebellious streak calls out to something primal and carnal in me.
After doing the obvious, exhausting route of an upper class son to a marquee—public school, boarding school, Oxford University, followed by a swift introduction to the wolves of Wall Street and a paid internship at one of the largest accountancy firms in London—I’ve learned from a young age to never expect the unexpected.
Twenty-four hours ago, I imagined I was going to find myself a nice, proper, knee-length dresses type of wife in the next three years.
That she and I would have two or three children.
Perhaps a well-trained, miniature dog of the fancy variety, but only if the children asked.
Wash, rinse, repeat. Our children would follow our footsteps, and nothing extraordinary or earth-shattering would ever occur.
Then Reggie came and turned my world upside down.
I don’t know if Reggie wants children.
Or to ever get married.
I also suspect she may be a cat person.
She will forever keep me on my toes.
Try to tie me to furniture, ride my face, and ask me history-buff questions while we listen to The Cure.
And...I want that.
At the very least, I don’t don’t-want that.
Reggie stirs in my arms, and I swallow hard when the realization crashes on me.
The fortune teller wasn’t that off base after all.
Bullocks.
5
Reggie
I wake up to tingles. Lots of tingles. In between my legs and also in my fingers. I moan and blink several times in the soft morning light and try to lower my arms from their odd position above my head. Except I can’t.
Several things register at the same time. I can’t move my arms because I’m tethered to the bedframe . . . with a necktie, which accounts for the tingles in my fingers since I’m securely fastened. Also, the tingles between my thighs are a result of Horace’s oral skills and the aggressive clit sucking he’s currently engaged in.
“What’re you doing?” I rasp, bucking against his mouth.
He bares his forearm across my hips to keep them planted against the mattress and unsuctions himself long enough to growl-groan, “Eating you for breakfast.”
“Well, I figured that part out,” I gasp-whimper. “Why am I tied to the bed?”
He doesn’t bother to stop tongue fucking me when he replies this time, so whatever he says is muffled unintelligibly by my very happy vagina.
I stop fighting against the tie, lie back, and enjoy being his first meal of the day. Except every time I get close to an orgasm he slows everything down just enough to keep me from going over the edge.
“Just let me come,” I gripe.
“Say yes,” he mumbles against my clit.
I don’t know what that’s going to accomplish, but I comply because there’s an orgasm barely out of reach and I want it. “Yes?” It’s more of a question than anything else, but it’s the answer he’s looking for, apparently.
He growls triumphantly and I roll my eyes, but they stay that way when it’s followed by the mother of all clit sucks, causing me to come and scream his name. Loud enough for everyone within a ten kilometer radius to hear.
My eyeballs don’t even have a chance to unroll themselves before Horace fits himself between my orgasm-weak thighs and pushes inside.
He braces his weight on one arm and grins down at me. “You.” Thrust. “Said.” Grind. “Yes.” Thrust.
“You told me to say yes, like I’m going to ask questions when I’m seconds away from coming.” I wrap my legs around his waist.
“Doesn’t matter. You still said yes.” His voice holds a so-there-neener-neener tone.
I let him enjoy his false sense of victory while he’s fucking me, because I’m nice like that.
Post-sex round five, I’m still tied to his bed as Horace dresses in a crisp suit, while staring at me. I can’t decide if it’s creepy or hot, or creepily hot. Regardless, he looks sexy as fuck, and I’m sincerely hoping he’s not batshit crazy and I haven’t inadvertently become a victim of kidnapping.
“You can’t keep me tied up all day,” I tell him. He frowns. I’m unsure how to read that expression, so I continue to make my case. “It’s Christmas Eve. I have to work this afternoon, and
tips are usually sweet during the holidays.” Or so Elodie assured me. “Also, I’ll need to use the bathroom at some point.”
“Right. Of course, darling.” Horace sits on the edge of the bed and drags a single finger along the inside of my arm, causing a shiver to trickle down my spine. He quickly loosens the tie, giving me the use of my hands again. “What time do you get off work?”
I flex my fingers as the blood flow returns with pins and needles. “Probably around five.”
“I think you should quit.” He flips up the collar of his dress shirt and slings the tie around his neck.
“I can’t quit.”
“Yes, you can.” He ties a windsor knot without the help of a mirror. It’s pretty impressive, much like the way he Houdinied his way out of last night’s restraints. “Now that we’re engaged—”
“Whoa.” I sit up, the sudden movement giving me a head rush. “Engaged?”
“You said yes,” he reminds me.
“Seriously, Ho? I was seconds away from an orgasm. You could’ve asked me for anal and I would’ve said yes.”
“Anal’s on the table?”
“No. Well, not right now. Maybe. That’s not the point. The point is, everyone knows that orgasm-related promises don’t hold water.”
His face falls. “Why don’t you want to marry me?”
“I don’t not want to marry you. I just think maybe you’re jumping the gun a little, you know? Sure, I give a mean blow job and my vagina is tighter than a clenched fist, but don’t you think one night and five rounds of sex is a little early to tell if we’re soulmates beyond our love of The Cure and history?”
“We could have a long engagement.”
I applaud his conviction. Either that or he’s delusional. I’m quite flattered by the marriage proposal, but I feel like it would be a smart idea to make sure he’s not a complete and utter nutter before I go committing myself to him for the rest of my life.
I pat his hand and give him a gentle smile. I’m hopeful my nudity helps soften the coming blow. “You said you’re here in Paris for another two weeks, right?”