After Hours: (InterMix)

by Cara McKenna

  “Oh.”

  His palm rested on my mound, fingers impossibly cool and dry, just barely glancing my clit and the seam of my sex. I shivered, not caring if he saw. Not even caring if it prolonged the wait—all this near touching was getting me as hot as the best head I’d ever received. I could’ve come from his voice and presence and the promises his hands were making, nothing more.

  “I like this,” Kelly murmured, stroking his fingertips through the hair on my mound. Then they tightened, fisting my curls, and I choked on a moan, bucking forward.

  His free arm circled my waist, holding me in place as those fingers clutched and eased again and again. When I stilled, he released my middle. His grip on my hair tightened and held, ten times as arousing as it was painful. It opened me even wider, made me feel like a restrained animal. His other hand slipped beneath the crotch of my panties, and finally it came. The friction.

  “Oh.”

  The side of his thumb stroked my clit, the length of his fingers sliding along my lips. My spine curled in on itself, every muscle convulsing.

  “Good,” was all Kelly said, and his voice gave him away. Scratchy and shallow. His hands were perfectly poised, but that single syllable thrummed with excitement, just like every last inch of the thick cock beating against my tailbone.

  Two stiff fingers slipped forward and back along my lips, forward and back. I squirmed, wanting more—more friction, more depth, more of anything that promised violation. I shut my eyes, remembering the way his erection had taunted me that night in my bed. The way his hips had felt, pushing into me, the way he’d forced my hand around his head and bathed my palm in his come. I squeezed my inner muscles, sharpening the pleasure.

  “I know what you want,” Kelly told me again. His voice was deep once more, arousal sounding tamed. At long last he let my curls go, freeing two fingertips to gently pinch my clit, his other hand still tracing my lips, but deeper now.

  I was so wet, it was shocking. I felt shameful and proud at once, and above all, exposed. Found out. My mouth could deny my interest in Kelly all day long, but my pussy didn’t lie. He felt like more than a single person. Two hands, a hard body, a mean voice. A one-man orgy. I’d leave here limping, just as he’d promised.

  He rolled my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Pleasure gathered in steady pulsations, but the contact wouldn’t get me off. It wasn’t meant to.

  “You thinking about my cock?”

  “About your hands.”

  “What about them?”

  “It feels. So fucking good.” I nearly laughed, just from how ridiculous and overwrought I sounded, and yes, from how fucking good his hands felt.

  “I could make you come if I wanted,” he whispered. “Just like I did in your bed.”

  Yes yes yes. Now now now.

  “But you got off easy that night. Bring your legs together.”

  His hands left me, the most torturous neglect ever. I was too lust-drunk to understand his order, but then he was tugging at my panties and I caught on. I shimmied my legs close enough for him to push my underwear to my knees, then got them kicked away. Another gruff directive spread my thighs back open; so much cool air, so much shocking heat. He clasped my breast with one strong hand and the other slipped between my legs. The pad of his thumb rubbed my clit with maddening, blunt strokes, as those fingertips went right back to taunting me—promising penetration but showing no signs of delivering anytime soon.

  The sweep of his fingers, the squeeze of the palm holding my breast. The stiff length of his cock digging into my spine like a hostage-taker’s gun. And his words, his fucking words.

  “Still only thinking about my hands?”

  “Your hands. And your voice. And your dick.”

  “What about my dick?”

  “About . . . About how it’ll feel.”

  Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside me to the middle knuckle.

  I clasped his wrist. “Oh.”

  “Shhh.” He drew them out, basting my clit in the wetness, then drove back inside. Three fingers, now? Or was I just so swollen that it felt like that many? He kept them stiff and straight, and my mind wandered right where he surely wanted it, to the hard heat between his legs.

  “Now tell me what you’re thinking about.”

  “Your cock.”

  Harder and faster, his fingers plunged. Then suddenly he stopped, drew them out slowly and brought them to his mouth. He moaned as he tasted me. Tasted what he’d done to me. The next breath, he slid them back inside me, pace resumed like he’d never stopped.

  “Oh God.”

  “Say my name.”

  “Kelly.”

  “Good. You got permission to say that anytime you like. Now tell me what you want from my cock.”

  “Whatever you’ll give me.”

  Another of those nasty chuckles hummed in my ear, and his fucking fingers slowed. “Good answer, sweetheart. You want me to tell you what I plan to give you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t work that way.”

  Of course it didn’t. I want what I want, when and how I want it.

  I was left waiting for the whims of Kelly’s cock to assert themselves. Aching, I lost myself in the steady, explicit violation of his fingers, imagining watching his length sink inside me. Imagining how he’d be, when he finally lost control. I knew how he’d sound—I’d recorded every word and grunt and breath from that night in my bed and replayed it when I got myself off, a dozen times at least. But what he might look like, I could only guess. Mean, surely. Mean, but helpless. Kelly Robak, helpless from what I could make him feel. The notion was as hot as his pounding fingers.

  I shifted, needing something, anything, just the flex of my own hips to spur the desire. Kelly seemed to mistake the gesture for restlessness. The spread fingers cupping my breast crept up my neck, slid into my hair and tightened. You’re not going anywhere, his fist told me. You stay right here and you come when I make you come.

  It was the singularly most erotic touch I’d ever felt—the coldest, hottest, cruelest sensation.

  A snatch of memory visited me, of my pitching a fit when an old boyfriend had grasped my hair when I’d been giving him head. It had hurt, and worse, it’d made me feel like he’d written me into some porn scene. I’d signed up to be with a nice guy, not some porno-jack-off hair-grabber, and he’d violated my expectations. How dare he not conform to the script I’d composed when I cast him as my gentle lover? How dare he try to recast me as some slap-around slut whose hair he got to grab while he fucked my mouth? The poor thing. He’d probably just thought it’d be hot, and hoped maybe I’d be into it. Instead I’d snapped and ranted at him for five minutes. Shamed him for treating me like that.

  I could be a real control freak, with guys. With nice guys.

  Funny how with Kelly, I welcomed the dirty stuff. The degrading dynamics. I guess because he came as advertised. He couldn’t violate my expectations, when violation was basically his main selling point.

  “I know you’re getting close,” Kelly said.

  I had been. I’d distracted myself with that memory, hoping to draw things out, but I was creeping closer and closer with every push of his fingers.

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m getting close.”

  “You’ll come when I let you. When I tell you. Got that?”

  Oh fuck. “Yes,” I said, uncertain I was physically capable of keeping that promise. If I failed, would I get punished? Did I want to get punished? With no other man on earth would I want to be laid across a lap and spanked, but with Kelly . . . Shit, I had no fucking clue.

  “Stand up.”

  I obeyed on boneless legs. Kelly stood as well, yanking off his shirt, unbuckling and stripping his belt with a rough, practiced motion, opening his fly and sh
oving his jeans down his legs. I got the same non-view of his cock as I had before, obscenely stiff, straining against black cotton.

  I fidgeted with my waistband, wondering if I was supposed to be stripping, too.

  His eyes didn’t miss my silent inquiry. “Keep it on. I like skirts.”

  He sat again and patted his lap. My legs were wobbly as I returned to my position, straddling his thighs. He tugged me tight to his chest, erection hard against my ass and feeling a hundred times dirtier with his jeans gone. Cocks had always been an incidental bonus to me, something I only cared about in proportion to how much I liked the guy it was attached to. Silly when flaccid, exciting or scary or off-putting when hard. It was a man’s words or expression or caresses that dominated my masturbatory fantasies—a specific man at that, be he a crush or a celebrity or a character from a movie. I never simply fixated on a dick. They were strictly secondary to the man himself.

  Right now, though, the world spun on Kelly’s cock. The sun rose and set around it, and I wanted it like I’d never known I could want anything. Just to see it, to feel its weight against my palm, taste and smell the skin, to discover what it needed from me and do exactly that.

  Heat, I thought. This is what being in heat feels like. A need so primal and crazy-making, it leaves a bitch howling.

  “Sit up. Scoot forward a sec.”

  I did as I was told and Kelly fumbled behind my butt, adjusted the way he sat. When his hand guided me back, the other circled my waist and slipped between my thighs, and he lined his bare cock up along my wet lips. I sucked a breath, suddenly back in my bed with him, taunted by the darkest part of him, the one I seemed doomed never to set eyes on. Only now it was a hundred times hotter, and dirtier, and more dangerous.

  Hands clamped my hips, pitching me forward an inch or two, easing me back. I took their directives, bracing my hands on Kelly’s knees. Forward and back, over and over, his naked cock and my naked cunt rubbing in slick strokes.

  I moaned, arms shaking. He shushed me.

  “You come when I let you come,” he told me again.

  My body gave a pleasurable, hungry squeeze at his words, the very last scraps of my stubborn feminism abandoned.

  “You do whatever I say.” He freed a hand, put it to my ribs and gruffly arched my back against his chest. Took my earlobe between his lips, nuzzled my cheek with his nose. “You come when I say, suck my cock when I say, spread your legs the second I tell you to. Got it?”

  I managed to huff an, “Okay,” between stilted breaths.

  “You’ll get it, though. Don’t worry.” He grasped my shoulder and waist, making me arch deeper, my sex pressing against the length of his erection. He guided me to move, short motions of my hips keeping his flesh gliding along mine.

  “Fuck.” I said it without meaning to, almost a plea.

  A shhhh warmed the skin behind my ear. “You’ll get it,” he echoed. “But only if you behave, and keep that pretty mouth shut unless I’m asking you a question.”

  I held my tongue, bit my lip. My pussy actually, truly hurt; I was so close.

  Don’t come. Don’t come. I tried to watch the movie, but my eyes closed, awareness solely on the slippery strokes of his cock. I could angle my hips, maybe feel him push inside me. Feel his hands on my waist, feel his body thumping into mine as he took over the thrusting. I wanted to be held in place and fucked, just fucked. The thought made me dizzy. The thought edged me closer. And if I lost it, surely I’d have to wait even longer.

  Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come!

  A loud moan built of frustration and pain and pleasure erupted from my throat.

  Kelly froze, then his hold on me loosened. So, so lightly, his fingertips played up and down the length of my arm.

  “You remember what I told you? About being quiet?”

  I nodded wildly, crazed from the heat and sound and need stuffed inside me.

  “If you can’t keep quiet,” he said, “we’ll just have to find that mouth something useful to do.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Get up.”

  Another hot jolt, chased by a shiver of fear.

  I fumbled from Kelly’s lap, his wet cock sliding between my cheeks and embarrassing me. When I made it to my feet and turned, he was up and shedding his shorts, and finally I got to see him. All of him.

  His cock looked just as it felt: big and thick and intimidating, heavy with need, a force not to be defied.

  “On your knees.”

  I did as I was told. The carpet was soft, as soft as the eyes staring down at me were hard.

  “Get your shirt off.”

  I peeled it away, put my fingers to the clasp of my bra. He nodded and I ditched that, too. I touched my waistband, but—

  “Leave the skirt.”

  He stood before me, cock hovering between us accusingly. He fisted the root. I wanted a photo of that very sight, the only pornography I’d need for the rest of my life.

  I’d never done quite this—never gone down on a guy while he was standing. Felt like a new act entirely. All the power belonged to Kelly with his looming body, his ready cock, bossy hands, and whatever commands might fall next from his lips, dropping down, down, down from so high above me.

  “You ready for a feast, sweetheart?” He gave himself a long, tight pull, not waiting for an answer. “You gonna suck my cock? Show me whether or not you deserve to come on this later?”

  More strokes, quicker but still perfectly controlled. Already a drop glistened at his tip, growing fatter until it slipped down the cleft of his head. I could feel my own desire priming, mimicking his.

  “Open your mouth, girl.”

  I swallowed, then obeyed, shutting my eyes to temper the intensity of the moment. His finger or thumb traced my lower lip, followed by the unmistakable smooth skin of his crown. Just the smell of him made my thighs tremble, and the flavor of his sex matched it—earthy and dark. My flavor, too. The arousal I’d basted him in.

  “Wider.”

  I obeyed, and his first inch slipped between my lips.

  “Taste yourself.” That most unexpected of erotic touches again, as he slid his fingers into my hair and made a fist. As welcome now as it had been rejected with that old boyfriend. Kelly’s hips flexed, giving me more. Already my jaw ached, but it was just gas on the blaze, a spice that brought out the nuances of what he was serving me.

  “Suck.”

  I wrapped his base in my hand, held his hip with the other. I wanted to run them over his hard stomach, his thighs and his ass, the swell of muscle cresting from his ribs to his hip bones, everywhere. But I was the sex object, not him.

  “Suck. Me.” The fist in my hair tightened, forcing my mouth farther down his cock.

  I shut my eyes and closed my lips around him. Fucking big. Fucking hard, and with my mouth full, I had no choice but to breathe him in—that potent, distinctly male smell with its millions of iterations, that scent that can kill an attraction dead or make you an addict for life. And I was hooked on Kelly, instantly. His smell was as right as his voice, as hot as his body. It hit me like a shot of liquor, and all I wanted was to get wasted.

  He tasted like skin and salt and sex, sex, sex. Just right. I’d never felt this with a man, this blind, shameless need to simply have him inside me, in any way I could get him. To submit to his maleness, do his bidding, invite him to shed all civility and just be. Just be a man, in all his base, greedy, selfish glory, and let me wallow in it.

  I strained to take in the body above me, that face and those eyes. Tense muscle, flushed skin, that hard expression with those beautiful clear irises.

  “More.”

  His voice made me shiver and the hand holding his hip twitched. I took everything I could, slowly, to keep from gagging.

  “Yeah. Nice and deep . .
.” He gathered my hair in both hands, nearly tender. “I should come right now. Make you drink me down, send you to bed hungry for trying my patience.” He stroked my cheek roughly with his thumb and the caress echoed through me, potent as fingertips on my clit.

  With his hips, he showed me the rhythm he craved. He went deeper than I wanted, triggering shallow gags and making my sinuses sting. His smell seemed sharper, the deed darker, and when the reflex tears began brewing, it became tougher to breathe. But wasn’t that just so right?

  “Oh.” His hips bucked faintly with the moan. “I’ve got so much for you. So much. I wanna see it slip down your pretty chin when I fill that mouth up.”

  His words made me reel, made my legs shake like some cliché. Do it, I begged him in my mind. Exactly what you said, you filthy fucker.

  “But not yet,” he whispered, shooting down the prayer I’d beamed. “Not yet.” And he eased my mouth from his cock with that nasty hand in my hair. Even as the air quenched me, I wanted him back inside, like my sanity depended on it.

  “Stroke me. I wanna see my cock in your hand.”

  I wrapped my fingers around him, squeezing gently. Uncertain what else he might like, I kept my other hand on his thigh.

  After half a minute, he took over. “Like this.” He fisted himself, demonstrating long, tight, downward strokes, rougher than I’d dared. The other hand went to his balls, cupping first, then giving slow pulls. The latter he kept up, releasing his erection.

  “Try again.”

  I gripped his cock, mimicking what he’d shown me. On a whim, I added a second fist, stroking him from the base to the head, hand over hand over hand. His own hand froze in tandem with a grunt, telling me he approved.

  “Better,” he muttered, and let his balls go, gathering up my hair once more. “Now suck.”

  The salty tang of his excitement was strong with the first pass of my lips, fading as I found my pace.