Come Again

by Poppy Dunne

  I’m not going to lose control. I can’t allow myself to indulge, to forget who I am and what I’ve been through. So I begin to move inside of her, each thrust slow and deliberate. I want her to feel every inch of me, and Emma moans as I begin. Her hips thrust against mine, her eyes pleading.

  “Please. Fuck me harder. Faster,” she whispers. All of my self-control begins to dwindle—how do I resist when she offers what I want more than anything. I give in to her, thrusting harder. Fuck, she’s as smooth as silk, and so damned wet. I’ve never known a woman to want me this much.

  The idea of it nearly makes me lose my head. I ride Emma faster, so that her breasts bounce in time with my thrusts. She throws her head back, luxuriating. She’s enjoying this, and that makes me want to go wild. It makes me want to lose control…

  But I can’t.

  I trail kisses down her body, lavishing attention on her breasts as I fuck harder and harder. Emma begins to wail my name beneath me, and it’s enough to know that I’m giving her pleasure. I can’t lose myself in it, though. I can’t. I can’t…

  “Fraser, stop.”

  Instantly, every muscle in my body freezes, and I come to a rest on top of her. Emma’s watching me with an expression that implies…sadness. Disappointment? I wasn’t enough. Not even through with our first fuck, and I wasn’t enough. I want to get up, grab my socks and keys, and walk into the hallway. Then I want the elderly couple that lives next door to emerge and find me in all my naked, ineffectual glory.

  She must like a different sort of man. Fuck, I must have been so out of practice—

  “What’s going on up here?” Emma presses her hand to my forehead. “You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

  “I’m…concentrating,” I say at last, trying to get my breath. Fuck, we’re having the most awkward conversation imaginable while I’m still inside of her. Perhaps I should give up on trying to be with women and robotize myself. Android Fraser would be pleasantly detached.

  “What are you thinking about?” she coos.

  “Androids.” I am nothing if not honest. Emma bites her lip. Fuck, why don’t I just leave?

  “I just get the feeling you’re not…into this.” She says that with her eyes downcast, and instantly I understand. I’ve been such a tightass, I’m not making her feel wanted. Desirable. The apex of all my erotic imaginings. When, of course, she is all of those things in kitten heels. Very, very sexy kitten heels.

  “Emma, I’m not.” I clam up, because I do not whisper sweet nothings to women. I do not lay bare every failing that is within myself. But if I don’t want her to leave this apartment with one more awkward sex story for her two flapper-styled girlfriends I met at the Algonquin, I have to tell her the truth. “It’s hard for me to let myself go. Even when what I want, more than anything on the planet, is to satisfy you.”

  “Really?” She sounds so soft and unsure. Mixed with her fast mouth and her sharp wit, it’s an irresistible combination.

  “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted any woman.” It’s the truth. “That’s why I’m so afraid to unleash myself.”

  Emma’s legs hike up around my waist again. She kisses me, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. I respond in kind, and feel myself growing harder, if that’s even possible. With a quick slide and shift of our bodies, Emma’s on top, straddling me. She guides me into her again, easy as anything. Then, our eyes meeting, she starts to ride me. She takes me deep inside of her, her hips swiveling in the most delectable way. My breath catches as she rides harder, faster. Her tits bounce, and the springs beneath us begin to creak with our enthusiasm. It doesn’t matter. I fuck her, thrusting as hard as I can while she meets me thrust for thrust. A tight, white-hot pressure begins to build behind my eyes.

  “You’re the hottest man I’ve ever seen.” Emma breathes these words into my mouth, as she leans down to kiss me again. My hands tighten their grip on her waist. “And you’re the biggest man I’ve ever been with. Really, really huge.” She emphasizes these words with a hard thrust of her hips. I gasp; I swear, I’m seconds away from coming. But I want to hold on; I want this to last. Last forever, if possible.

  “Then this feels good?” I thrust as deep into her as I can go. Emma’s eyes squeeze shut, and she grips the couch. Clenching her teeth, a moan of pleasure emanates from her throat.

  “Better. More.”

  My heart is racing, and I reach between her legs to touch her clit. Emma bucks, calling my name. And at that moment, I don’t give a shit about what has been in my past, or what’s still following me around. There’s only tonight, and only Emma.

  Fuck caution.

  I hear Emma gasp as I sit up, bringing her legs around to straddle my waist. While she cries out in shock—and pleasure—I fuck her as hard as I can. I lay her down, her legs wrapped around me, and grind as deep into her as I can go. I’m finished thinking. I should whisper things to her as well, something like ‘you’re a goddess’ or ‘I’ve never wanted any woman like this.’ Not gorillas, though. Thank fucking God that gorillas are over and done with.

  The words fill my mouth and then evaporate, because they’re nothing compared to action. I thrust hard and fast, pumping in perfect time to Emma’s exquisite cries. That hard, white-hot pressure builds inside my head once more; only one word escapes my lips as I round the bend to my climax.

  “Emma.” I grit her name out between my teeth. It’s more than a prayer; it’s an order and a plea. Stay with me, in this moment. Never let it end.

  “Fuck me. Make me come,” she moans, her hips writhing.

  The hot, wet slap of our bodies picks up a furious pace, and I reach down to her throbbing clit one last time. She erupts in pleasure, crying out as she pulls me down on top of her. I ride her through her orgasm, listening to her heated groaning, and then the pressure inside of me builds to a shattering crescendo. I call her name as I come, and ride myself to exhaustion.

  Then we’re lying together—well, I’m lying on top of her. Again, she nuzzles against my neck. My breathing is heavy, my hair damp with sweat. Gently, I disengage from her, then lie down. We switch positions, Emma now lying on top of me, one leg hooked around mine. I can feel the frantic beat of her heart. She kisses my chin, a small, almost chaste action that’s filled with tenderness.

  I never thought I’d know that kind of tenderness again. I thought I could live without it; what a bloody fool I was.

  “That,” Emma whispers in my ear, “was…totally okay.”

  I nearly balk at her: how could the world’s finest pair of orgasms simply register as ‘okay?’ Then I hear that warm, womanly giggle, and know that she’s playing with me again. Usually, I find that sort of thing maddening. Now, it’s simply arousing.

  “Then may I suggest we attempt to soar to the heights of ‘delightfully adequate?’” I kiss her, luxuriate in the taste of her. Emma wraps herself around me completely.

  “Oh, it could take all night, but we’ll definitely try.” She kisses me back.

  Yes, I’m going to try. If this night has taught me anything, it’s that I’m going to try once more.

  11

  Emma

  Coffee and sex are the two finest pleasures in the world. And when you can have them both at the same time? Well…actually, better not, because hot coffee and thrusting, exposed bodies don’t really go together. You end up scalded and in the hospital with a segment on Sex Sent Me to the ER.

  Back to my somewhat weird point: coffee and sex go together like coffee and chocolate. Or sex and chocolate. Or chocolate-covered sex.

  Sorry, I’m just waking up from, like, three hours of sleep. It was a great night.

  When I finally open my eyes after the most athletic and fantastic sex of my life, I smell an aroma of heavenly roasted coffee beans, and know that this day is off to a wonderful start. I stretch and roll over to the now empty side of the bed. Fraser must be up and about, preparing said heavenly coffee. I luxuriate in the still-present warmth of his body, the manly soap-a
nd-cologne scent of him. After we banged on the couch, we banged on the dining room table, then in the hallway, then in the doorway to the bedroom. We finally managed a last, fantastic bout on the bed itself, which was definitely more comfortable than the floor. I guess beds are designed for that sort of thing.

  I haven’t had lovemaking that strenuous or continuous since college, and I don’t think Fraser has, either. The weirdest and most wonderful part is that I’m still ready for more. My body tingles at the thought. Maybe after a quick cup of coffee, we can try christening the hallway broom closet. I think it’s the only place in the apartment we didn’t have sex last night. The idea of Fraser’s hands on me again, his chest, his…other generous physical endowments, it all makes me kind of want to skip even coffee and get him to rejoin me in…

  “Are you still sleeping? These eggs are very precisely timed.” Fraser’s voice booms in from the kitchen, as rugged and masculine as possible when talking about breakfast.

  Right, still kind of a control freak, still a stiff. God, I think that makes him even more attractive. I roll out of bed, and find a bathrobe he’s laid out on a chair. How can someone so curmudgeonly also be so considerate? It’s a man’s bathrobe, of course, and it nearly slides off of me as I pad into the kitchen. Sure enough, the coffee is poured, there are what appear to be soft boiled eggs, and…holy shit.

  The most sugar-dusted, delicate looking almond croissants are waiting on a plate. Groaning, I plop myself down and shove one halfway into my mouth before I realize this looks kind of undignified. Fraser’s just poured a cup of coffee, and is watching my animalistic disembowelment of my croissant with a raised eyebrow.

  “Like what you see?” I ask in reply. Granted, I’ve still got a pastry between my teeth, so it sounds more like ‘lah wuh oo ee?”

  “I was right. You still have a sweet tooth.” He slides me a cup of coffee—in a perfect pristine mug, I should mention—and leans his elbows onto the breakfast counter. He appears to be fighting a smile. “Some things never change.”

  “That’s going to be the mantra of our relationship, isn’t it? ‘Some things never change.’ Emma still has a sweet tooth. Fraser still stares at wall sockets and broods. Emma is still a shark whisperer. Fraser still plays Rhapsody in Blue on his nose whistle.”

  Fraser’s mouth quirks. “Come again? Did you say relationship?”

  The delightfully airy pastry goes heavy and soggy in my mouth—and not just because that’s what pastries naturally do when you eat them. My cheeks flush, and my heart rate skyrockets. Shit. I came on too strong, and now he’ll think I’m clingy. I mean, who wouldn’t cling after seven rounds of great sex? I don’t even mean physically, I’m talking emotionally. Oh God. I haven’t said anything. I need to say something. I…

  “Um, did you say relationship? Jinx!”

  That. Is. What. I. Just. Said. I. Should. Not. Breed.

  Fraser watches me with that aloof, unimpressed calm of his. Now we’re going to eat breakfast in awkward silence, and I’m going to get dressed and leave, and we are going to have the most awkward Christmas party exchanges ever. Something to the tune of ‘remember that time we had sex, here’s a new picture frame for your family.’ Maybe I should just spit and run right now. Maybe—

  Then Fraser closes his eyes and laughs. A full-throated, unafraid, downright delighted sound. It’s free and easy, and smothered under layers of deep, masculine pleasure. Gooey, syrupy, masculine…I need to keep eating.

  “I’ll tell you something,” Fraser says once he gets himself back under control. He saunters around the corner of the counter: see, folks, sauntering. Jesus, it’s hot. I swallow my bite of croissant as he lifts my chin, bringing his lips tantalizingly close to mine. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  All other thoughts flee my mind—coffee, sugar, jinxes—as he kisses me. The first is a quick brush of lips, and a surprised grunt from Fraser. “You taste like sugar,” he says appreciatively. He claims my mouth in a deeper, fuller kiss, which might in part be to get the sugar off, but hey. It turns me on, so it stays.

  And he likes it. He likes ‘it,’ the word relationship, all of it. Me. Don’t tell anyone, but I can be a little haphazard when it comes to relationships. It’s like those kids who are always awkward at dance class: no matter what I do, or who I study, I keep tripping on other people’s toes or falling over into a pile of tulle and taffeta.

  Not that I wear tulle on my dates. Much.

  But with Fraser, it feels so effortless. It’s like I finally found the clumsy, studly, perfect man to dance the naked mambo with. And the naked mambo is my favorite dance.

  In fact, I pull him against me and hook my legs around his waist—being up on a barstool puts me on perfect eye level with him. Fraser’s hands slide underneath the front of my robe, cupping my breasts. My nipples are pert and at attention, sir. Who needs coffee when you can wake up like this?

  And then my phone, which I left on the coffee table, starts blaring. ‘Hey, kiddo, remember me? This is your last warning that if you’re asleep or dancing to the radio or hopefully entwined in something sexy and indecent, you have fifteen minutes to get your butt to work.’

  That’s the recording I put on my phone of me telling myself to get into gear: the ‘last warning’ sort of thing.

  Fuck. I am supposed to be at work. It is more than fifteen minutes away.

  I leap off of Fraser and his growing erection (my precious) and slide down the hallway to the bedroom, where I all but hop into my clothes. Looks like it’s a Risky Business kind of morning, save the ol’ time rock n’ roll and the fact that Tom Cruise never got lucky enough to hook up with Fraser Drake. Regret that all your life, Tom.

  “I assume breakfast is off?” Fraser leans ruggedly in the doorway—how do you lean like a manly man? However you can do it, this guy does it. I shimmy into my dress and slip on my shoes. Yep, I’m doing the walk of shame. Hopefully no one will notice.

  Except Casey. I’m about to get the girlfriend grilling of all time, and I can’t wait.

  “Can I make it up to you?” I maybe wiggle my ass just a little bit to tempt him. I am only human, after all, and so is he. Fraser’s eyes track to my posterior. He looks very happy to see it.

  “Dinner, tonight?”

  “We can start there.” Now I’m all dressed, and slide into the bathroom where I gargle with some of his mouthwash and clean myself up as best I can. He watches me the whole time, looking more and more amused with every minute. I’m adorable, what can I say? Once I’m ready to rock, I grab him around the neck and give one long, lasting last kiss. And I do it very well, because it’s a further three minutes before I can disentangle myself. I am so late.

  I am so happy.

  “I’ll pick you up after work.” Fraser takes my hand as I’m hiking my purse onto my shoulder.

  “If you can take me home first to change, that’d be amazing.”

  “Is every outfit you own this enticing?”

  “I have an Avengers tee shirt I can pull on.”

  “My arousal knows no limits.”

  And then I’m out the door and into an Uber. Fraser offered to drive me, but I know he’s got work to do of his own. Plus, now I get to sit in a back seat and gaze stupidly out at the LA skyline with the morning sun rising behind it. Sit back, relax, and think about last night.

  The driver asks what’s wrong when I start panting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. And maybe drool a little.

  Of course, it’s not all free and easy. When I finally make it to work, Casey’s waiting at our shared workspace with wide eyes and pursed lips.

  “Girl, you are forty-five minutes late,” she whispers when I plop down in my chair. “And you are dressed exactly like last night.” I pick up the manuscript I’ve been reading and give it five seconds for her to figure it out. “And my Spidey sense tells me you got some action.”

  “It was the first three Die Hard movies level of action, only without Alan Rickman, Jeremy Irons, or stepping on glass in bare
feet,” I tell her, my voice pitched low and knowledgeable. That’s right, I compare sex to 80s and 90s action extravaganzas, though I leave out the last two movies in the series. Those can suck it.

  Casey whistles. “You must teach me your ways.”

  “It’s simple. You need to wait seventeen years for the kid you hated in high school to grow into a comely, well-seasoned sexbag. Then, proceed to hump the sexbag’s brains out.”

  Casey nods. “So one day Melanie Winters might finally turn around and realize I’ve been waiting for her the whole time?”

  “You never know, kid. You never know.” We giggle at that, and I’m about to get back to reading, when my phone buzzes. I pick it up, and at once I hear a sultry, seductive man’s voice in my ear. Unfortunately, it’s not the voice I want more than any other.

  “Emma. You just get to your desk?” Gavin sounds as easy and smooth as always.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Traffic.” I lick my lips and cringe at Casey. Maybe that’ll be good enough?

  “Care to join me in my office for a second?” He’s all smiles and ease, but it’s definitely not an invitation I can turn down. I hang up, make the ‘please shoot me’ sign at Casey, and she obliges by holding up an invisible gun and mouthing ‘pop.’ So close, but no go. I head in to Gavin’s office, attempting not to wobble or yawn. Three hours of sleep is not enough for the working woman, folks.

  He looks up from his computer when I enter, and flashes that breathtaking smile. In the early morning, with the sun slanting in from the windows in his corner office, he’s lit up to look like the god of sex. And normally I’d be all weak-kneed and quivering, but now I can only imagine Fraser. Fraser sternly pouring coffee, Fraser glowering at a cocktail. Fraser’s eyes, lighting up with an intense spark, as he pins me down and rides me to the point of—

  “Waaaah.” That is my opening line to Gavin. He takes it in stride.