by Jana Aston
Holy. Hell.
I drop my chest to the bed because I can’t possibly hold myself up. He laughs and oh, sweet Jesus, his scruff-covered chin is rubbing directly against my clit and I might die. He’s fucking me with his tongue while his chin bangs my clit and that’s it, I’m dead. I’m nothing but heat and pressure and pulsations and it’s all in one spot. Every nerve ending in my body right now has relocated between my thighs, I’m certain of it. I could slam my hand in a door and feel nothing except the pleasure between my legs because there’s no room to feel anything else.
I should be thinking things right now, like how his nose is literally pressed against my asshole in this position, but fuck, he’s so into it I don’t care. Or about how I’m so wet his face must be covered with me, but again, I don’t care. The sum total of things I care about is the orgasm building inside of me. The feel of his lips when he sucks on my clit. The rimming of his tongue around my entrance. The brush of his scratchy jaw in my most delicate of places. The swipe of his tongue between my pussy and asshole. The nip of his teeth on my—oh, my God. That’s it, right there. Right there. I’m shaking and making weird noises and I think there might be tears coming out of my eyes. I’m glad I’m face down on the bed because I’m so light-headed I think I might black out. That felt like pleasure detonating inside of me. Like an orgasm bomb.
He pinches my ass as he stands and just like that I’m ignited and needy all over again. Sated, yet horny. Hmm, that would be such a good name for a band. Or a sex toy shop. Then he tells me to move to the center of the bed so I do, crawling forward a few lengths before turning onto my back to watch him.
He’s sliding his underwear past his knees, and when he stands his cock stands with him. Erect and bobbing for attention. Penises are sorta ridiculous in general, but I find his magnificent. I saw it last night in the shower—hell, I had my hands wrapped around it in the shower—but seeing it again makes me clench in need. Did I mention it’s big? It is. Big. I thought maybe I’d enlarged the memory of it through my tequila tinted glasses but no, it’s impressive.
“I like your penis,” I mention in case that scores me a point on the good side of the crazy ledger he might be keeping. One point in the fun crazy column for liking his penis. Ten points in the bad crazy column for this marriage débacle. Shit. That math is not adding up in my favor. I wonder how many points anal would be worth?
“I know.”
Fuck my life, if I sang a penis song last night he is never going to take me seriously.
“Specifically how do you know?” I turn on my side and trace my fingertip over the bedspread.
“You’ve mentioned it a few times.” He drops a hand to his length as he speaks, stroking himself with his fist. I freaking love it when men do that, as if they give no fucks that they’re pumping themselves right in front of you. He twists his wrist at the tip before sliding back to the base and he’s not gentle with his motions. “‘I like your penis,’” he begins to sing in that voice he uses that’s supposed to sound like me. My eyes widen in alarm and fly to his but he’s already laughing and shaking his head. “Just kidding.”
This guy.
He’s smiling and stroking his monster cock and giving me that look he gives me like he finds me interesting and he’s doing it all at the same time. Not for nothing, but I might have a special gift for picking near strangers to marry. Like a sixth sense. Except that I think the sixth sense is an extrasensory perception so I’m not sure I’m using that idea correctly. Or maybe I am? Whatever, you get the gist.
Vince snags the condom off the bed and rips it open with his teeth before rolling it over the length of him. My heart is pounding when he crawls over me, resting between my spread legs as he kisses me, his cock heavy against my stomach. I ache for wanting him. Wanting him inside me, stretching me, claiming me, using me for his pleasure. I roll my hips beneath him as I tug on the ends of his hair, trying to pull him closer. But then he’s easing back. Kneeling between my thighs, staring at my wet needy center.
Then he lifts one of my legs and bends it back, my bent knee resting in the crook of his elbow as he spreads me wider open.
“Where do you want it, Payton?” He slaps the tip of his cock against my mound as he asks. “You didn’t say exactly where you wanted it. Should I put it here?” He nudges against my asshole with the tip of his cock and I clench out of reflex.
“You can,” I offer.
“You think you could take me this way?” He raises a brow in challenge, the tip of him pressing just enough to feel a slight burn, but not enough to make any real progress.
“I don’t actually. You’re really big and I think we’d need more than a sample packet of lube to make that happen. But I assume you know better than I do.”
His eyes flash, twin pools of heat and desire and warning.
“I’m a traditional fucker, Payton. I like to start with pussy.” He moves the head of his cock up and I feel him parting me with the tip, pushing inside just enough for me to feel the pressure of him. The heat and weight and mass of him.
“Is that what you call what you just did with your mouth?” I challenge. “Traditional?” I wiggle my hips, trying to get more of him inside of me. I’m not sure why I’m encouraging him to hurry because a cock that size should be treated with a little respect. It’s just that I’m not the most levelheaded of girls in the best of circumstances and we’re going on twenty-four hours of foreplay. I’m ready to change my band name from Sated, Yet Horny to Flash Flooding.
He shakes his head and murmurs something about my mental health before flexing his hips on a quick thrust. I wouldn’t call it a slam so much as a perfectly-aimed nine-ball in the corner pocket. If the nine-ball was a bit too wide for the pocket but the pocket had stretching abilities and enjoyed a challenge.
I exhale and ease the bedding from my grip.
“You good?” Vince is watching me closely.
“Hmm-hmm,” I murmur and nod my head, watching him back. He really is the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I reach up and trace my fingertip over his bottom lip. I cannot believe I get to do this with him. It’s like winning the sex lottery, I think as I wiggle my hips beneath him.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans and pulls back before sinking back into me.
“Same,” I reply, tightening around him.
“Hands above your head,” he instructs as he moves my leg to his shoulder. Oh, holy Jesus, that changes things a little. I bend my other leg to brace my foot on the bed because I think I’m going to need it. And then he’s moving faster, and it’s rough and hot and deep, just like I asked for. I don’t even think about moving my hands because I need them where they’re at to keep a safe distance between my head and the headboard.
Vince pinches my nipple and I tighten so hard around the length of him we both hiss in response.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he whispers in my ear. “Tight and wet. You feel even better than I imagined you would.”
You know what turned me on the most in that sentence? The idea of him thinking about fucking me. I moan deep in my throat and rotate my hips to meet his thrusts.
“Ditto,” I whisper back.
“You’re even wetter on my dick than you were on my face.”
If I was capable of blushing, I would. I mean I am. Capable of it. But I’m already so flushed and breathless I don’t think a blush would be discernible right now.
Then he bends both of my knees to my chest, my feet resting on his shoulders, and sinks back into me.
“Oh, my God.”
“Yes,” he coaxes “Talk to me. Tell me what you like.”
“I like you,” I say because it’s really the only way to sum up my feelings. I’ve never been with anyone like him before. He’s like some magical combination of accommodating and aggressive and it’s totally my jam.
He’s so deep and the pressure is so intense. It’s building and building and I feel like I’m just a mass of particles and tension ready t
o explode. I can hear myself, his name falling from my lips in repetition, over and over. My neck arched, my fingers digging into his forearms.
It feels so good to be filled by him like this. He’s so deep it’s nearly painful, yet I don’t want him to stop. He’s hitting all the right places in this position and I’m so close that the nip of pain when he thrusts deep only serves to push me closer to where I want to go.
“You feel so good, Payton.” He’s breathing heavily and I know he’s close. I know he’s holding back for me. “I can’t wait to feel you come on my cock. Fuck, you’re so slick and hot, you feel so good.”
When I come it feels like it lasts forever. I’m not even sure if it’s still Sunday. It could be sometime next week or maybe I really have time-traveled back to nineteen-twenty. I have no idea.
“Jesus Christ.” Vince slides my ankles from his shoulders until my legs are flat on the bed, spread open to accommodate him where he’s still buried inside of me.
Boring missionary style, if you will. And I’m not even helping because I’m boneless and sated and in no control of my limbs.
Then he kisses me and it’s not boring at all. His forearms are braced beside my head, holding some of his weight off of me. His hands are cupped under my head, and he kisses me like he means it. Like he’s not just fucking some random wife he picked up last night. He pumps into me several more times until he finds his own orgasm and he’s beautiful when he does. God help me, he’s so beautiful I am ruined for ever watching another man come.
When he’s done, after he’s pulled out of me and gotten off the bed to dispose of the condom, he comes back. He comes back and he pulls me on top of him so that my head is resting on his chest, his fingers wrapping around a lock of my hair. “I like it wavy,” he says, running his fingers through the tangled mess.
If he hadn’t already ruined me with the two most perfect orgasms of my life, this moment would have done the trick all on its own. This simple moment of intimacy, the feel of his bare chest under my cheek, his heartbeat in my ear, the gentle caress of his fingers.
Sex is weird. Why did I think this was a good idea? Would it have killed me to think something all the way through for once? Before diving in headfirst and making it worse?
Is it better to have fucked and lost than never to have fucked at all?
Not fucked is the answer here.
Not fucked, because I’d have been better off not knowing how good we were together. It’d make what comes next so much easier to handle.
Right on cue, he ruins it. Exactly like I knew he would.
“We need to talk about last night.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sometimes fate does me a solid. Like right now, because my phone has chosen this exact moment to sound an alarm. Why I’ve got an alarm set for Sunday afternoon, I’ve no idea, but my phone is annoyingly chiming from the kitchen all the same.
See? Fate.
I slide out of Vince’s embrace with a, “Hold on,” then slip my t-shirt over my head as I dash into the other room to grab it because there is nothing more agitating than the alarm tone on a phone. Then I see what the alarm was for.
Life coaching. I’ve got a life coaching appointment in fifteen minutes. Fine, it’s Meghan’s life coaching session if you want to be bogged down by the tiny details, but I think we can all agree that I could really use some guidance. Honestly there’s probably not a person in the greater Las Vegas metropolitan area who needs it more than me.
Why on earth did I set an alarm only giving me a fifteen-minute warning? Obviously I assumed I was going to be dressed at one forty-five in the afternoon or I’d have set the alarm to go off earlier. Crap, I don’t have much time. And if I miss this appointment I won’t know when the next appointment is because it’s not like I can reschedule. That settles it, I really have to go.
“I have a thing!” I announce as I run back into my bedroom. “An appointment. I’m sorry, I’ve got to run. I’m so late!” I slide my underpants up my legs in what must be the least sexy exit in the history of fleeing the consummation of a marriage ever to have occurred. This is followed by the classic hop-hop-hop to get my yoga pants pulled over my ass.
So sexy.
I’m sure I already ruined any fantasy Vince could possibly have had about marrying a sex vixen when I told him I drank Gatorade in the shower, so no point dwelling on it now anyway.
Vince pulls himself to sitting in the bed with a huff and a sigh and is now rubbing his temples with his fingers. Fucking drama llama. I snap my bra up from the floor but decide I don’t have time to deal with it so I just loop it over my arm and then swipe all the things spread across my dresser back into my tiny clutch. Minus the condoms and lube because I’ve learned my tiny purse lesson and I won’t be needing those.
I stuff my feet into the first pair of flip flops I come across then whirl back towards Vince, bra in one hand, clutch in the other. “We will talk”—I point the bra hand at him before realizing it’s my bra hand—“later,” I add once I’ve tucked the bra hand to my chest.
Vince leans back against my headboard, watching me. He’s not attempted to interrupt my blathering, just watched quietly as I moved through the room like a whirlwind on my way out the door. I’m not sure what he’s thinking because he’s not saying anything and he’s got a really great resting neutral face. A resting neutral face is when you are unable to guess what that person is thinking because they’re not giving you any obvious facial cues and you are not a mind reader.
I know, I know. I could… ask. I could ask him what he’s thinking. Talk to him. Behave like the adult my driver’s license claims me to be. I just need a second to think and I’ve got this appointment and—I’m a jerk.
A jerk with twelve minutes to crash another life coaching session.
In case you’re wondering, I do manage to put my bra on in the car. It’s a pretty magical feat that requires a whole lot of fidgeting, some extraordinary stretching and a long red light, but it’s on. I make it to Grind Me with two minutes to spare, throw my car into park and run inside. In my yoga pants, t-shirt, flip flops and my clutch from last night.
I’m such a hot mess.
Carol the life coach is already at a table with a cup of something in front of her. Meghan has a drink in hand and is just about to sit down.
Okay, play this cool. I stroll up to the counter like I’m not in a hurry and order an iced coffee. Then I change it to just a regular ole cup of hot coffee because that’s faster and I don’t want to miss the first few minutes of Meghan’s meeting waiting on a barista. I do stop long enough to add cream and sweetener because I can’t talk myself into drinking black coffee no matter how much of a hurry I’m in.
Then I slip into an empty table next to Carol and Meghan. That’s when I realize I’ve forgotten my headphones. I’ve also forgotten to grab a stack of napkins, so I can’t pretend to be an artist crafting the next great American novel on coffee shop napkins because I’m too precious or pretentious to type. I don’t have a pen in this handbag anyway, so I’ve failed on all counts. Which leaves me with… being a weirdo in a coffee shop.
You know those people? The ones who sit in coffee shops and drink coffee? Alone. Without a laptop, a book, a newspaper, a notebook, or headphones? Everyone knows those people are weird, just sitting there drinking their coffee in a coffee shop. Hey, I appreciate the irony too, but I’m not in charge of what’s considered weird. I’m not the weird police. Thankfully I have my phone with me so I can pretend I’m texting. It’s still weird but I’ll have to make do.
Or.
Or I could leave. Go home. Leave Meghan to have her life coaching session in the privacy of a half-filled coffee shop. Talk to Vince. Sort out how one goes about annulling a marriage. It can’t be that hard, right? It wasn’t that hard to get married last night, I can promise you that. There wasn’t even a line at the marriage bureau office. Just us and we breezed in and out, easy-peasy. Might have been because they were closing in five minutes
and wanted to get rid of us, but it was easy nonetheless.
Looking back, you’d have thought we’d have come to our senses during the cab ride to get the marriage license, but alas, we did not. My memory of that ride is nothing but a blur of back-seat groping I haven’t seen the likes of since high school. I think it was me doing most of the groping because I have a memory of Vince whispering, “Patience, sweets,” in my ear.
He’s so damn cute.
If I can use cute as a word to describe the sexiest, most virile man I’ve ever been in the back seat of a car with.
Anyway.
I should probably skip this life coaching thing and go find Vince. He’s probably still getting dressed or rifling through my stuff. I’m not even mad if he is because I’d be looking through his stuff if he’d left me alone in his place.
I wonder if there’s an annulment bureau office? Maybe this will be easy? Maybe we just go down to the annulment bureau office and sign an annulment license and voilà, it’s undone? Then he’ll realize I’m not completely nuts and really sort of fun and charming in my own way. He’ll ask me to dinner and we’ll live happily ever after.
There’s probably a line at the annulment bureau office though. A long annoying line that will give him too much time to think about the fact that he’s only known me a day and I’ve already caused him nothing but chaos. Chaos and orgasms. And I’m the one who’s had the majority of the orgasms, so I’m not sure that’s a selling point unless he’s got a thing for giving more than he receives. I should try to woo him a little before we dissolve this marriage though, or he might think an annulment is a hard breakup when really we’re just getting started because we have so much potential together.
Right?
Otherwise what was the point of all of this? It’s not random. It cannot be random that I’d see him and feel things and then bam, I walk into Double Diamonds with Lydia and there he is. All that energy and lust between us cannot be random biology. That’s fate. Or the universe recognizing two souls meant to unite, blah, blah, blah.