by Teagan Kade
Phoenix listens, adding what he can here and there, letting me babble on. “So you enjoyed it then?”
I reach across and punch him playfully in the arm, realizing we’re pulling up to my apartment building.
I’m flooded with a sudden nervous energy. Everything is telling me to invite him up. It would be the perfect end to the night, but instead I lean across and kiss him on the cheek, pulling back before he has a chance to take it further. “Thank you,” I tell him, the clean, menthol taste of his skin on my lips. “I had a great night.”
I can tell he’s surprised this is all he’s getting and that is somehow even more of a turn-on.
“My pleasure,” he replies smoothly, still holding the top of the steering wheel with one hand.
He watches me get out, stopping to let his window down when I lean myself against the passenger door. Hell, let him get a little glimpse of my cleavage, a small gift to take home tonight.
“It’s my day off tomorrow,” I tell him. “Come over for brunch. I’ll make something special.”
“I imagine you will,” he smiles.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
I turn and strut to the doorway, taking my time, letting my hips do the work and trying my best to figure out when that poor street urchin and this woman, this femme fatale, suddenly traded places.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PHOENIX
I arrive ten minutes early to Heather’s apartment complex, taking the stairs two at a time to reach her floor. That kiss—or peck, rather—last night barely whetted my appetite. Driving home with a second gearstick in your pants isn’t fun for anyone.
I adjust my hair and take a second to compose myself before knocking on her door. I hear footsteps, the anticipation and energy that’s pumping through me ratcheting up to new levels.
The door pulls open and she’s standing there in black jeans and a white Rolling Stones tee, the famous tongue and lips band logo barely visible it’s so worn. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, backlit into a dark umber by the morning light.
“You look incredible,” I tell her, and I mean every word.
She pinches the shirt. “This old thing? I’ve had it since I was fifteen.” She bites her lower lip, sultry eyes surveying me. “Teenage me would have gone completely crazy for you.”
I lean against the doorframe. “And adult you? What does she think?”
She taps her cheek. “She’s thinking ‘Did he come here to cook or stand outside looking pretty all day?’”
“Better invite me inside then.”
She stands aside. “Do come in.”
I step past her, taking in that woody, floral scent of hers I’ve become so familiar with. It’s the scent of the forest floor after rain, of sex in the dirt, and it’s making my cock rock hard.
Heather’s apartment is small, which I expected given this part of town. There’s a band poster or two on the walls, an old record player, a shelf made up of wooden planks and cinder blocks taking up the opposing wall. On the other there are books stacked up from the floor—cookbooks, I realize, as I get closer. Apart from that, it’s largely bare.
She whips past me towards the kitchen. “I know, I know. It’s not much, but it’s all I need.”
The kitchen’s about an eighth the size of the one back at casa de King. I pick up a random utensil from the counter, holding it up. “Will we be using this today?”
Heather laughs, taking a chalk-colored apron from the back of the pantry door and tossing me another. “Not unless you like your eggs minced.”
I place the utensil down, holding the apron out. It reads: ‘The last time I cooked hardly anyone got sick’. “Reassuring,” I muse, trying to work out how to put it on.
Heather comes around behind me, helping me put the larger loop over my head, tying the two straps behind my back. She comes around in front admiring her handiwork. “Gordy gave me this one, but I’ve got to say, it doesn’t look so bad on you.”
“I feel fucking ridiculous.”
She directs my attention to the stovetop. “Which means you’re ready. Shall we begin?”
I could stand here admiring her all day, just watch the way the sun and shadows move over her skin, lighting each perfect part of her.
It soon occurs to me Heather’s an excellent teacher. She’s calm and patient, even after my many, many attempts to crack an egg.
“It’s not a basketball,” she tells me, selecting an egg from the basket. “It needs gentle hands. “You can be gentle when you want to, can’t you?”
I maintain eye contact. “I can be whatever you want.”
I never thought frying an egg would be so difficult, but I’m not about to give up either. It takes a while, quite a few yolks, but I master it eventually, even managing to crack the egg with one hand.
Heather laughs. “The little flourish thing you’re doing with your hips there? It’s not required.”
I hump the countertop. “Don’t they say all good food should be made with love?”
She turns up the heat on the stove. “Yes, love, not the culinary version of Playboy.”
I pick up another egg, eyeballing it. “Your loss, buddy.”
Heather slides the fried eggs off, cleaning out the pan. “You ready to step it up?”
“Yes, sir, boss lady.”
She smiles at that. “How to poach an egg 101. Let’s go.”
Turns out poaching an egg is quite the task. It would be easier if Heather wasn’t so close, the sheer proximity of her body distraction enough.
“Yes, stir the water, that’s right. Let the vinegar do its work and just crack that egg right on in.”
This time I manage to get the egg in. “But it’s breaking apart.”
“Keep watching,” she tells me. “The key is to use the freshest eggs you can find.”
I look around. “I don’t see any chickens.”
“Gordy has the chickens, but right now I need you to concentrate. See?”
She’s right. The egg white is wrapping around the yolk.
The timer dings. “Now, take that slotted spoon and gently scoop it out.” She slides a plate across with sourdough toast and slices of avocado on it. “Place it right here on top.”
I use the slotted spoon, somewhat awkwardly, to scoop out the egg and do as she instructed, the spherical eggy package almost slipping off but somehow remaining in place. I take a step back with my hands raised. “Holy shit. I did it.”
She hands me a knife. “Now cut into the egg.”
I make a cut and golden yolk spills out over the avocado and toast. “My god, that is beautiful. Who needs Playboy when you’ve got this?”
Heather gives me a small clap. “Well done, chef. Well done.” She turns to me. “Hungry?”
I don’t know if it’s the elation of actually getting this down or the fact Heather’s standing there looking so picture perfect, but I cannot take a second longer without her.
I reach for her face and bring her lips to mine.
She’s tentative at first, cautious, but soon her hands find the back of my neck and she returns the kiss with equal vigor. The heat from the front of her thighs, the soft press of her breasts, a hint of salt on her lips, her tongue… I feel and taste and draw it all in until the world is lost and being with her is all that matters.
I let myself explore her mouth, the outer edge of her nose ring cold where it taps against my cheek. My fingers shift up, weave into her hair, and I know this is heading to the point of no return.
I let my lips drag across her skin, let them hover an inch from her ear while I whisper. “I want you. Now.”
She takes a short, punctuated breath before speaking. “I want you too.”
I take her hips, spinning her around so her backside’s against the counter, use my arm to slide away the plates and pans. They collect against the wall in a cacophony, but neither of us care as I take hold of Heather and lift her onto the counter so we’re eye to eye, bringing myself between
her legs and taking her mouth once more.
Even as we shed clothes, the kiss remains unbroken, deepens even, our tongues moving together in the heat and wetness there, prickly sensation filtering out through my body. My cock’s hard up against the countertop, grinding against it in urgency.
We’re both breathing hard, a labored, heaving kind of mutual breathing somewhere between exertion and excitement, a synchronous sexual frenzy I haven’t experienced in a long time.
I break away and pop the button of her jeans. She lifts her butt, helps me tug her jeans away and add them to our shirts on the floor.
Her hands press against my chest and I see the hazy want in her eyes, that glassy intoxication that preludes the act itself.
I look down, the cleft of her sex a cushion-like mound against the crotch of her panties.
I spread her legs with my hands and lower myself between them, hooking a finger into her underwear and pulling it aside, visibly shaken by the perfection of what I uncover, the plump, blush lips of her sex open, slick, and willing.
I sense her body tighten, sense the reluctance there, or is it embarrassment?
“It’s been… a long time,” she breathes, voice shallow and raspy between breaths.
I separate her with my fingers, the glossy interior I find causing my cock to twitch and lever in my pants. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about,” I tell her, lowering myself and that scent, that pull, growing stronger. “It’s perfect. You are perfect.”
I kiss her, lick her sex from tail to tip, let my tongue flatten and press against her clit until she’s mewing and moaning, reaching down to my head to draw me closer.
I let my tongue drop and dip inside her, soak up her desire and energy, lap up again to her clit. She shifts across the counter, thrusting forward against my face, legs widening and heels struggling for purchase against the cupboard doors.
“Oh,” she moans. “Oh. My. God.”
I slide a finger inside her pussy slowly, surprised at how tight she is, the way the walls of her sex pull it in.
I can’t get enough of her. I lick and suck and pull at whatever I can find, can’t control myself much longer. She starts to buck, jerking and grunting, fingers clawing into my scalp.
“Phoenix,” she breathes, the desperation clear, one heel finding its way up to the counter, leg bent there beside my ear. “Phoenix… I….”
She breathes in staccato, faster and faster.
I concentrate on her clit, letting my finger run deeper inside her, into the heated wetness of her body.
She’s close to hyperventilating, shaking, each jerk a violent bodily shift that threatens to kick me from her entirely, but I remain focused.
“Phoenix,” she groans, clear alarm there, “please… I…”
I can’t stop until she comes.
I won’t.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HEATHER
My fantasy has come to life and here it is in living, breathing Technicolor.
I can’t get enough of this friction, lost somewhere between the needy ache between my legs and way his mouth and tongue move against it.
He’s between my legs, his lips… I’ve never felt anything like this before, never even imagined it was possible to feel like this, like your skin is on fire.
I stare down in disbelief as he works at me, ravenous, his tongue once more dipping into my sex before rising, lapping at my clit until I can barely control my body any longer.
I can’t do anything but hold onto him, fingers digging into his head as I rock and grind against his face. I close my eyes and see that color, see new worlds opening up to me and a strange web of sensation fold out from somewhere between my thighs, spreading fast through my whole body until…
Oh my god.
I stop breathing and snap my thighs tight against his head, press him right into the center of me as I groan out in a single, long syllable of ecstasy. His tongue won’t stop, and it rolls on, this sensation, pulling me under and under again, over and over until I’m not even sure I’m alive.
With a final shudder, I relax, a cool release spreading through me—the aftermath of what I’m quite sure was my very first orgasm.
Phoenix rises from between my legs, lips wet. Through a haze I see him take out his wallet, remove a foil packet and rip it open with his teeth.
I reach forward and help him tug his pants down, wait until he’s sheathed his cock before I take it in hand, squeezing and pumping at it, astonished at the heat and hardness of it, the sheer length of the thing.
He reaches behind me, taking hold of my ass and drawing me to the very edge of the counter, his cock seesawing against the wet slit of my pussy, the hot shaft it pressing against my clit and sending me climbing once more.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
I reach down and help him settle into place, lift my hips and let him drive home deep in the hot, silken depths of my sex.
My head falls back, limp, eyes closed once more, my breath just broken panting I can’t seem to stop or abate.
“Oh, God,” I breathe out as he fucks me. He drives forward and back, my bra popping upwards and his lips closing over a nipple, his tongue urging it into full attention.
The sensation bounces between my erogenous zones, ping-pongs between my pussy and my clit, my nipples and mouth, that web expanding and then pulling taut, a living, breathing thing.
I find his face with my hands and bring him to my mouth, let the kiss deepen. His thumb grazes over the nipple that was just released, my breast soon filling his hand.
It’s as though our whole bodies are one with this kiss. I taste myself on him, my desire, taste the desperation there for more. Below, my thighs flex and widen. I lean forward, attempting to draw him deeper, my hands dropping to his ass and urging him on.
He threads his fingers through my hair, holding me in place while the thrusts quicken, the act a blur of energy and heat, of motion and friction.
“Oh,” I gasp again, but I’m silenced once more by his mouth before it drops, skimming across my jaw to trail down my neck and shoulder.
His voice is low when he speaks, broken from the exertion. “You feel so fucking good, baby.”
Each time he thrusts forward he adds pressure to my clit, and I know soon the climb will end and I’ll have to fall.
It’s equal parts exciting and terrifying, that nervous tug deep inside you before you jump.
Then, with one hand on my breast and the other at the back of my neck, our foreheads pressed together, he stops at the end of me, grinding deep into that wet pool of my sex, giving a single, stunted grunt before he finds his release.
I spill over in turn, shaking and flapping against him, the fall of my second orgasm plunging me into momentary darkness before I find that color once more, slowly seeking my way out until reality returns.
Phoenix draws away first, pulling the condom away and tying it off. He helps me off the counter, folds me in his arms as we drop.
There, the deed done, we try to breathe, to navigate back to the real world—together.
Together, I think. Holy shit. It happened.
There’s no regret. I only want more.
We’re slumped together on the kitchen floor, backs resting against the cabinetry. Phoenix lets his head fall back against the laminate still trying to find his breath. For a star athlete he sure looks worn out.
“Okay,” I breathe out, unsure what to say.
“Okay?” he laughs. “Usually the adjectives that follow are a bit more gushing than that.”
“No, I mean like ‘Okay, that was an orgasm.’”
He straightens up. “You’ve never had an orgasm before?”
I shake my head slowly.
“You’re not a…”
I stop him before he says it. “No, no, no. Lost that a long time ago.”
He plays with a loose strand of my hair, marveling at how it appears almost pure copper. It mingles with the dust mites in the beam of light shaf
ting from the kitchen window. “Don’t tell me you’re a redhead.”
I huff, my own breathing labored, hands splayed out on the floor. “Who knows what natural color I am. I don’t think my hair even knows these days.”
He lets the strand drop and walks his fingers down my arm to where my cherry bomb tattoo is. “Where’d the ink come from?”
I look to my arm. “I shacked up with this guy for a while. He thought he was going to be this big, famous tattoo artist.”
“He’s not?”
“He’s dead,” I reply blankly. “OD’d five years ago.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s nothing unusual given the circles I used to frequent, almost expected.”
“Did you use?”
I don’t know how we went from frantic, ass-on-counter sex to this, but I’m not ashamed of my past. “Once upon a time, but I was that anomaly who could click my fingers and give it up, no side effects, no lingering compulsion to use again. A lot of my friends weren’t so lucky.”
His fingers have continued to dance down my arm, skipped across to my side. They pause there at the vertical, two-inch scar next to my abdomen. “I take it this is from when you sold your kidney?” His fingers brush over it lightly, tender.
“Stab wound, actually.”
“Holy shit. You serious?”
“Looks worse than it was, but it still hurt like hell.”
“Ex?”
“Another girl. She thought I was intruding on her turf, was buzzed out of her mind. I’m sure you’ve got scars of your own.”
His fingers fall to the top of my thigh, the skin there still pink and blotchy. “Nothing permanent. Sorry to bring the mood down.”
I lean across to kiss him, conscious of the light stubble against my cheek, the way his cock begins to rise at my touch. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” he replies, nipping at my bottom lip.
“Guess I’ll have to prepare my famous breakfast burger for you.”