by Elise Faber
“Slow is good sometimes,” he murmured, bending and placing his lips against my skin, dragging them up, bringing them closer and closer to the sensitive bud of my nipple. “Slow can make you feel more.” He blew lightly. “Slow can feel better.” His tongue darted out.
I gasped.
“Better, see?” he asked, cocky in every letter, and I didn’t give a damn because then, as every nerve in my body sizzled and prickled, ached and tensed, he took the bud in his mouth and suckled deeply.
My head fell back, my hips jerked up.
And that was the final movement I was capable of.
Because then he sank heavier against me, pinning me to the bed with his lower half while his hands and mouth, teeth and tongue played my body like an instrument, or maybe like a bundle of nerves, or maybe—
“Archer!” I gasped.
“Not a terrible name when you’re moaning it,” he said, releasing my nipple, brushing his beard along the underside of my breasts, dragging his mouth across my skin, lower and lower until he reached the button on my jeans.
One flick of his fingers, and it was open.
A tug, and my zipper was down.
Rough fingers reaching into the waistband of my pants, gripping the denim, my underwear, and leaning back to tug them both down at once. They caught on my ankles, and I spent the next few moments trying to kick them off while he stood up and yanked.
“Fucking skinny jeans,” I muttered.
“Worth it for the things they do to your ass,” he said.
I giggled, using one foot then the other to continue wrestling them down, and eventually, the material slid free, joining my tank top by flying over his shoulder.
And then I was naked.
The raw need in his gaze scorched me.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said, starting to climb back over me.
I put my foot up, rested it against his chest.
He wrapped his hands around my ankle, stroked up my calf, brushed past my thigh, fingers lightly massaging the underside of my ass. “What is it, beautiful?”
“Naked,” I ordered, leaving my foot in place even as my hips canted with each touch of his calloused fingertips.
“Yes,” he said, those fingers not stopping. “You’re gloriously naked.”
“And now, I want you to be naked,” I told him, slipping my leg free and sitting up, reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. “That’s how this game works.”
“Is it?” He let me tug up his shirt, took over to rip it over his head while I worked on the button of his jeans, the zipper, slipping my hand inside to touch hot, silken skin, velvet-covered steel.
“Yes,” I breathed, keeping one hand on his cock, sliding the other around to cup his ass. “Fun, naked time usually involves both parties being naked.”
“Usually,” he agreed, pulling my hands free. “But I don’t think you’d protest if I left my pants on while I fucked you.”
Oh.
Oh.
While I was processing that, processing that, no, I wouldn’t protest in whatever form he would fuck me, Archer shoved down his jeans and boxer briefs and . . . holy eight inches, Batman. He’d said he wasn’t sure he could deliver on the inches, but . . . sweet Christ, the man had a cock that was huge and beautiful and made my lips tingle, desperate to have it sliding between them.
And . . . why not?
I sat up, gripped him, and guided him into my mouth.
Chapter Five
Archer
I made some sort of garbled noise when I slid into the wet heat of this woman’s mouth.
“Baby,” I groaned, when she wrapped one hand around me, used the other to cup my balls. Pleasure coiled like a spring at the base of my spine, twisting tighter and tighter until I knew that all my talk of satisfying her would be ruined if I didn’t get my cock out of her mouth.
Summoning herculean strength, I grabbed her shoulders, set her away from me, tossed her farther up the bed.
Her tits bounced like the most erotic show I’d ever seen, her legs flying wide, giving me a glimpse of wet pink folds, and even though she ordered me to, “Grab a condom,” I knew that I had to taste the sweetness of her on my tongue. I pounced, pressing my mouth to her pussy, gliding my tongue through her, finding the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, and taking my time to learn her.
Circling, not direct pressure. Using the flat of my tongue to tease out her sensitive spots, the places that brought her the most pleasure. She squirmed and bucked, tossed her head back, and then her breath hitched.
Her lips parted.
Her thighs clenched.
I didn’t stop. I’d sell my soul, lose consciousness, limbs, force my heart to halt beating before I discontinued pleasuring this woman.
“Arch—”
She moaned, hands winding into my hair, grinding against me, and then . . . she screamed.
It was the best sound I’d ever heard, and I held on to her hips, coaxing her through the peak, down the other side, and back up again, avoiding her clit but concentrating gentle and easy strokes until her hands clenched again, until they pulled me closer, until she moaned my name.
Only when her thighs tightened around me, her pelvis bucking once again, this time, I suspected, from sensitivity rather than pleasure, I released her.
“I—” she began.
I climbed up the bed, reaching over her for a condom in the nightstand and finding her lips as I rolled it down my cock.
“Ready?” I asked, needing her to be sure.
In answer, she gripped my ass, tugged me down, and—
I pushed inside.
“Fuck,” I groaned.
“Yes,” she said, spine arching off the bed, “now.”
I took her at her word, starting to move. She was tight and hot, her thighs locked around my waist, the ultimate perfect fit that threatened to undo every part of me. That coil of my control was wound tight, wound beyond what was safe and secure, ready to spring forth at the slightest provocation. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood but didn’t stop moving. And when I found a spot that had her moaning my name, had her pussy clenching around me, I didn’t speed, didn’t slow, just kept at the rhythm that had her convulsing, curse words tumbling off her tongue, her heels digging into my ass.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” I said, or maybe begged, because the edge was right there, tantalizingly close in front of me, and I needed her to orgasm before I burst into flames.
Her voice hitched, and I knew she was close.
Thank fuck, she was close.
Reaching between us, I pressed my thumb to her clit.
And she plummeted, her orgasm washing through her, my cock squeezed tight, pulling me over the edge, sending me plummeting right along with her. Pleasure exploded at the base of my spine, blazing through me, my muscles growing taut and then slack as I collapsed, barely able to get my elbows beneath me so I didn’t crush her.
Sweat dripped between my shoulder blades, my abs burned like a motherfucker. I could even feel a foot cramp coming on.
But this had, hands down, been the best sex of my life.
I flopped to the side, chest still heaving, concrete compressing my limbs, dragging them down, making my body lax and limp. By the time I caught my breath, sleep had edged into my brain.
I should move, get up, but I’d just had an orgasm that had nearly blown my spine from my body, so instead I just soaked in the pleasure, the warm woman next to me, the relaxation creeping into me. Hell, it felt like it had been ages since I’d been able to let my guard down with a woman, since I could lie in bed and just . . . be for a couple of minutes.
She rolled to her side, curled up next to me, resting her hand on my chest.
Ice down my spine. Pleasure dissipating to smoke. The real world intruding.
Then she rested her head on my shoulder, traced light patterns over my skin. “You weren’t lying,” she murmured, the ing punctuated with a yawn. “You satisfied, and then some.”
I
chuckled, rested my hand on her hip. “Glad I lived up to the hype.”
“Uh-huh.” She nuzzled closer, went still and quiet.
A knot in my chest loosened, one I hadn’t even comprehended that I’d held on to . . . well, since May.
Not the month.
My ex-wife.
Chapter Six
Dominique
My head was spinning, my heart racing.
And not just from the orgasm . . . the orgasms.
This was . . . not a mutually enjoyable night of sex. This was more. And that was fucking dangerous. Too fucking dangerous for my blood, despite the gloriousness of this man’s cock, despite how lovely it felt to be pressed to his side, his hand draped over my hip, fingers on my ass.
Because I wanted to crawl on top of him, to wake him up, disturb the peaceful sleep he’d fallen into, and have a round two.
But . . . baggage.
I smothered a sigh, closed my heart, despite my senses—the spicy scent of him in my nose, the soft rumbles of his snore, the tingles those fingers sparked along my skin—urging me to stay a little longer.
Instead, I moved in increments. First, lifting his palm from my hip and placing it on his stomach. Which didn’t help my temptation.
The man had abs.
Just like he had a fantastic cock, a squeezable ass, bulging thighs, and biceps.
I wanted more.
And that was precisely why I had to leave.
If I wanted more and I gave into that temptation . . . well, I’d been down that road, and I knew it only led to pain, heartbreak, and tainted memories. Right now, I had two yummy orgasms, some witty banter, and a single new understanding that I liked drinking Sex on the Beach cocktails. A trifecta of good that I wasn’t going to allow to be tarnished by the rest of it.
The rest of it being . . . relationships, connections with other people, and the temptation to see this man again.
So, step two.
Slide out of bed without waking him.
Luckily, even though it had been a while since my sex life had involved anything other than my vibrator friends and me tapping away on my keyboard and pretending that orgasms weren’t all they were cracked up to be (a total lie as this man had so effortlessly demonstrated), I had been avoiding pesky links with other human beings for long enough to ensure my sneaking out skills were up to snuff.
Even when those skills involved slowly inching like an earthworm away from the man who’d given me the most incredible orgasm of my life.
Orgasms.
S.
Plural.
Stifling a groan, I searched the room for my clothes. My bra was somehow tucked half under the bed. My jeans were inside out and nearly in the front room. One boot was near a door that must either lead to his closet or bathroom. The other was propped perfectly upright next to the dresser. And my tank was . . . I tilted my head to the side because it was somehow hanging on the doorknob.
The only small victory was that my underwear was still tangled in my jeans, making it the only item of clothing I didn’t have to actively search for.
Go me!
Gathering all of these, I slipped into the front room and got dressed.
Because it was a rookie mistake to do that where the person you were trying to avoid might hear you.
Also, this just in, skinny jeans were the fucking worst.
Great for the FUPA. Excellent for my ass and calves.
Fucking horrible to try to squeeze into post-coitally in a strange apartment when I was trying to silently wrestle denim up my thighs. Eventually, though, I managed to haul them up and over my ass, to button them and yank up the zipper. Next was my bra, my tank, and my boots.
I had a moment of guilt as I walked through the door, but I shoved it away, flicked the lock on my way out, and made my way back down the stairs, fishing my keys out of my pocket as I moved across the parking lot and out onto the street. A few minutes later, I’d turned the corner, spotted my car, and was opening the door.
Then I was inside my car, cruising down the freeway to my place, the heat blasting to stave off the chill from my bare arms.
Twenty minutes after that, I was in my house, in my pajamas, and in bed.
But it took many more minutes for me to fall asleep.
And when I finally did, it was with the smell of Archer in my nose, on my skin. The taste of him on my tongue. The feel of him inside me.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck.”
As in, I was so completely, totally fucked.
I was wrestling with my jeans again, trying and searching through the fucking pockets I’d had tailored. The compartments that had held my phone and my car key but didn’t hold my wallet.
No matter how deeply I shoved my hand into that specially tailored pocket, my wallet wasn’t in there.
So . . . fuck.
I thought back to my earthworm tactics from six hours before, tried to picture Archer’s bedroom. Was it possible that I missed it having fallen on the floor? Had I lost it somewhere along the way back to my car? Did I—
The doorbell rang.
I glanced up, freezing like a deer who’d been spotted on the side of the road, eyes darting from the jeans in my hand to my computers, which I could see through the open door of my office, taking up almost one entire wall of that space. Technically, it was the bedroom next door, but I’d had the opening installed when I moved in, preferring to stumble out of bed and walk just a few paces to be able to legally (and cough, occasionally illegally) access the data my clients required.
Sometimes it was the government who sought my services.
Sometimes it was a CEO.
Sometimes it was Joe Blow.
But because I had no digital presence outside of my day and evening and sometimes middle of the night job, my clients only came to me via word of mouth. All of which meant that I didn’t have people dropping by my house at—my eyes flicked to my cell—seven in the morning.
Nope.
No fucking way.
The bell rang again.
I grabbed my phone, pulled up the doorbell camera and, “Aw hell,” I muttered when it loaded on my screen.
Archer was standing on my porch, two carafes of coffee in his hands, looking deliciously rumpled, my pussy throbbing in happy memory of his body pressed to mine, his cock driving deep.
His eyes, the color vastly diminished through my cell’s screen, flicked toward the camera. “I’m not going anywhere . . . Dominque,” he said, his voice slightly rasped and sliding over my skin like lace mixed with velvet. He rotated one hand enough for me to see the wallet gripped between the coffee cup and his thumb.
Which answered the question of why he was on my porch.
How he’d found my porch.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The noise made me jump and I watched as he bent, stared directly into the camera. “I have caffeine. And your wallet, Dominque.”
And he had my name.
The way he said my name.
Fuck. I was in so much fucking trouble.
I wasn’t going downstairs. I wasn’t. I couldn’t . . . but God how I wanted to.
He smiled, and I would swear to the computer gods that I felt it right between my legs, exactly where he’d licked me the night before. “I see how it is,” he murmured. “How about I just leave this”—he lifted the hand with the wallet—“here, and I’ll just leave?”
“Yes,” I muttered. “Just leave.”
Archer waited, eyes on the camera. “All right, Niki baby,” he said in that soft, rasping voice. “I’ll leave.”
Then he bent slowly, setting the wallet and the coffee on my doormat and backing slowly off the porch. I watched his retreat through my phone, waited several minutes after he disappeared off the screen, half-expecting him to reappear jack-in-the-box style, popping up out of nowhere and catching me unawares.
I crept downstairs and toward the door, peeked out the window, gaze searching my front yard for any traces of my bearded,
hazel-eyed orgasm machine.
But—and I certainly wasn’t disappointed—Archer wasn’t there.
My fingers flicked the lock, tugged open the wooden panel, slanting another suspicious look at my surroundings, stifling more of that not disappointment. The scent of coffee, bitter and roasted, drifted through the air, and I stepped out onto the porch, snatched the cup and my wallet, skidding back inside like a cat darting away from a potential bath, slamming the door, flicking the lock—and checking it twice, for good measure.
Then I took my coffee and my wallet up to my bedroom and crawled back under the covers.
Forget the early start I’d planned.
I was going back to sleep.
Chapter Seven
Archer
I’d probably made a mistake in not sticking around, but I’d figured that Dominque wouldn’t appreciate me pushing her further than I’d already pushed.
The selfishness in me wanted to see her again, to confirm she was as beautiful, as intoxicating to me in the light of the day as she’d been in the apartment the night before.
The rest of me already knew the answer to that.
I had a chubby from a one-sided conversation carried out via a doorbell camera.
So yeah, I already knew I had it bad.
And she’d left before the sun had risen.
She’d left approximately thirty minutes after I’d come inside her. I’d heard the door shut, its click jarring me out of the sleep I’d sunk into, the condom around my half-hard dick, my bed empty, my heart . . . sliced.
It had no right to be feeling anything, sliced open or aching or hurt because she hadn’t hung around.
It should be happy to have had some great sex, glad to have found some peace post-May, and ready to get back to my art, my job, my life that didn’t involve lusting after a woman, who clearly didn’t want anything further to do with me.
One night.
Some fun.
A great orgasm.
Done.
I glanced behind me, checking for traffic as I pulled onto the freeway, making my way back to my house. I was in the middle of a piece, was itching to get back to it, that itch in my fingertips to have it completed. I could feel the smooth wood of the paintbrush’s handle on my skin, the rough bite of the canvas, the cool stroke of the colors mixing together getting on my hands as often as the canvas.