by Selah March
"Fuck off." She kicked at him and instantly lost her balance. Every instinct begged her eyes to open, to help her re-orient herself, but they remained sealed shut.
He let her teeter for a few hideous seconds, then grabbed her hips again to steady her. "You're going to stand still now, Zoey. And in return, I'm going to distract you, and get you to relax a little bit. Okay?"
What did she have to lose, besides a little dignity? And she'd be lying—mostly to herself, since this was her dream—if she said she wasn't turned on by the way he was handling her. She bit her lip and nodded.
He dropped one hand to her ankle, then drew it upward, beneath the hem of her skirt, tracing the inside line of her calf muscle with the tips of his fingers.
"Nineteen-sixty-two saw this song climb to number eight on the charts. Here's Smokey Robinson and the Miracles with 'You've Really Got a Hold On Me'..."
"You want to know what I think?" Johnny's voice sounded almost...chatty. As if the fingers stroking the back of her knee belonged to someone else. "I think you use your brain too much."
Huh? "But...too stupid to live. That's what you—"
"I think you let your brain override your instincts, and it gets you into trouble." He used his other hand to pet her leg through her skirt, as if she were a high-strung animal he was trying to gentle. "Am I right?"
She pressed her forehead against the blackboard—which suddenly felt a lot smoother, and smelled much less of chalk dust—and thought about it. Her brain versus her instincts...her brain had told her dropping out of college two years before and leaving Ann Arbor on the back of Carl Bodnarik's motorcycle was a great idea. Her brain was all for taking low-paying, shit jobs while Carl spent the day getting stoned and watching TV in the crappy motel rooms they couldn't afford, and then sneaking away in the middle of the night when they couldn't pay their tab.
Her instincts? Not so much. And when Carl finally dumped her, leaving her high and dry in Vermont one rainy Saturday afternoon? And the motel manager used his size-forty-eight gut to back her against his office wall, breathing rancid chewing tobacco in her face as he proposed a little 'barter of goods and services' to cover the bill? It had been her instincts that told her to grab the staple-gun from his desk and swing for his jaw as hard as she could, and then run...and run...and keep on running...
Johnny's hand had reached her inner thigh. His touch felt warm and sure—steady, like he knew how to get the job done.
"Well?" he asked. He began to insinuate his fingers beneath the elastic of her underwear.
"Yeah. You're right." Her voice shook as she fought to stay still. She tried not to care too much that the crotch of her panties was already drenched, and what that might say about her. He didn't seem to mind, so why should she?
"You know what else I think?" He clutched at the scrap of fabric between her thighs and pulled, so that they inched their way down her legs. "I think you need someone to take you in hand. Give you a little guidance. Keep you..." Beneath the skirt, he slid his hand down over her bare ass, inside the cleft, hitting every nerve ending on the way to her cunt. "...centered." When he reached his destination, he paused, as if waiting for an answer.
"Y-yesssssss."
"Good. We're in agreement then."
"Please—"
"No, don't move like that. You'll fall." He dampened his fingers in her warm, wet ache, but didn't drive them home—even when she arched her back and made a helpless sound. "You need to stand still."
"I can't." She felt cool air on her ass and the backs of her legs. He'd lifted her skirt and tucked the hem into the waistband. And was that his tongue at the top of her cleft? She locked her knees to keep from crumpling into a heap at his feet. Oh God.
His breath seared her when he spoke. "You're not even trying."
"Please." She was begging. She didn't care. "Please?"
"Like that?" He slid his fingers forward till they hovered over her clit, barely touching it.
"Bastard. Son-of-a-bitch."
"Or more like that?" Direct pressure in wide circles, wet and sloppy over her sweet spot, making her hips rock and swivel all by themselves. Her fingernails scrabbled for purchase on the sticky glass of the cubicle wall.
Wait—wait…
When had it changed? When had the dream…? Oh God… "You're going to make me—"
"Come. La petit mort. Go for it." The pressure eased off, but the circles got faster, smaller, more precise. He was killing her. The way it felt—like a drug, getting into her blood—it made her want to fuck something rock-solid, again and again. Her legs went rubbery and weak.
"I'll fall!"
"Trust me."
Why? No cause to trust him. No logical reason...nothing that made sense... Behind her eyes, a red haze pulsed and wavered. She was bathing in heat, and where his fingers made contact, embers embedded themselves her in flesh and burned deep.
"Now let's go back to nineteen-fifty-nine, when the Fleetwoods had a number one hit with 'Come Softly To Me.' A little note of trivia about this recording...the owner of the record company feared DJs of the era would find its original name too suggestive. The offensive title? 'Come Softly'..."
"I can't..." She wouldn't be coming softly. Nuh-uh. She'd likely break her neck.
"Trust me," he said again, speaking against the curve of her hip, and there was something in his voice...something sweet and almost...vulnerable? She turned her head to the right, toward where he stood, just to her side. She wanted to see his expression. Needed to. Would.
She opened her eyes to tiny slits and looked down. The lights from the parking lot hit him full in the face. One corner of his mouth twitched into that half-smirk she was coming to like quite a bit. His windbreaker was gone. And there were four long scratches down the front of his tee-shirt.
What he said was, "Please?"
She came, raw and hot, like a burst of gunfire. The force of it knocked her backward off the chair. He caught her, one arm around her waist, the other hand buried in her slit, still moving against her flesh. A second later, she found herself bent facedown over his desk.
"You're coming home with me," he said, his voice rough over the clink of his belt buckle, the purr of his zipper and...was that the crinkle of a condom wrapper? "Coming home with me, and I'm going to spoil you rotten."
Zoey's heart lagged for a moment, but remarkably she wasn't surprised by his statement, or her acceptance of it. She wanted it all—Johnny spoiling her rotten with his cock buried deep inside her. There was something feral and very…right… about it.
He eased himself slowly inside, stretching her, causing maddening tingles to race up her middle and down her arms and legs. His first real thrust made her cry out and arch her back, ready to meet the next one halfway. Then they were galloping hard and every crashing blow of his body against hers sent a shock through her that made her want to laugh, cry and bite, all at the same time.
He leaned over her and whispered coarsely, "I don't know how long I can hold out, Zoey."
"Don't try." She lifted her head and nipped at his ear. "Make a little death for me, Johnny Angel."
He grunted, plainly past words, and made up for lost seconds with short, hard strokes. She turned her head, pressing her cheek against the cold surface of the desk, and caught sight of the moon riding high in the sky. For an instant, she was back in the classroom, staring at the scoop of butter stuck to the blackboard. Then John's hand slid around her hip and down her belly, and there was no heavenly body in the universe that could compete for her attention...
* * *
Zoey's clit felt like a tiny, firm cherry pulsing between his fingertips. He gave it a careful pinch. Her hips bucked twice in response.
"Fuck..." So close. Too close. He needed to think of something else, and he suspected batting line-ups wouldn't cut it. Something, though...like the ugly shock of turning the corner of the building and spying her curled up on the floor of his cubicle. At first, he'd thought she was dead. Somehow, some way, despite his
best efforts, Homme had gotten to her after all.
But then she'd moaned and muttered something, causing relief—as well as the overwhelming desire to fuck some sense into her—to flood through him. When her nipples had peaked beneath her shirt— Shit. So much for distraction…
As he ground himself into her now, the image of chocolate-covered cherries dipped in cream sharpened in his mind. So sweet...so wet and hot...and the way her ass bounced up to meet him—
"Fuck," he croaked. "I can't hold it...I'm sorry, I'm gonna—"
"Come," she said, her voice as husky as his. He used two fingers to press hard against her clit, and rubbed in a quick side-to-side motion that made her yelp. She convulsed under him, closing tight around him, and he lost it. His strokes caught the rhythm of his spasms, and he flooded her with everything he had. The force of it stunned him, twisting his muscles and tendons to the point of pain. It stole his breath, his will and—once the shudders slowed to a stop—his ability to move. He lay over her, his face buried in her soft, red hair.
"John?"
"Hmm?" He should get off her. He was probably crushing her. But what if she wanted to leave?
"We should probably...I mean...you know?" Her voice sounded tentative.
Right. The rubber he'd remembered at the last possible second wouldn't do much good if he didn't move soon. He peeled himself off her and turned away to dispose of the trash, zip his fly and fix his belt. When he turned back, she was sitting on his desk, smiling at him.
"Hi." She didn't look inclined to go anywhere. This was good.
"Hi." He cleared his throat and looked around. His gaze was caught by the retractable screwdriver that wasn't really a screwdriver he'd left lying on the desk when he'd first stepped into the cubicle. He reached for it, and noted how she followed his motions as he wiped the dried blood from the solid silver blade with a stray rag. He was prepared to explain if he had to. He cleared his throat again.
But she just looked at him, and he saw that she understood. He clipped the tool to his belt, offered her his hand, and pulled her to her feet. They stood facing each another in the cubicle. From the radio came the aimless chatter of commercials, but he was grateful for the lack of silence. After a few seconds, he opened his mouth to say something, and was interrupted by the ranting of the deejay.
"Hello there, all you cats and kitties, all you hounds and hound-ettes! This is Dan 'the Man' Gordello, coming to you live from bee-yoo-tiful downtown Plattsburgh, and it's time for your Saturday Night Seventies Show! We're gonna kick off the action with a tune that was never released as a single in the good old U.S. of A., but one I'm sure you'll find appropriate tonight. Here's Van Morrison, with nineteen-seventy's 'Moondance'."
She giggled, and he felt his face split into an answering smile. She tightened her grip on his hand and tugged him toward the door.
"Dance with me."
"Uh, I don't—"
"Come on, John. It's a marvelous night for it." She pulled him out of the cubicle and into her arms. "Now, what was that about me coming home with you, and you spoiling me rotten?"
He swayed with her beneath the arc lights. The feel of her body against his, the scent of her skin...they made him want to swear a blood oath of lifetime passion and fidelity. And, incidentally, to extract the same from her.
Instead, he shrugged. "You might not like it much. I lead a very boring existence."
She leaned back and looked at him for several long seconds, her fingers idly tracing the slashes in the front of his shirt. When she spoke, her voice was serious, to match the expression on her face, "I suspect you're many things, John Chasseur, but I'm certain boring isn't one of them."
Wait—when had he told her his name? He shook his head. "How can you be so sure about that?"
The smile that lit her face was purely joyful, as if she'd discovered a secret she couldn't wait to share. "Just call it instinct."
They danced till the song faded into something else. Then he took a seat within the cubicle and held her curled in his lap. She slept, and he kept watch till the moon set, and the faraway howls faded into the distant hills.
About the Author
Although she appears every inch the well-behaved wife and mother, in her heart Selah March is a hellion—contrary, hedonistic and, on occasion, more than a touch wicked. Her twin obsessions with eroticism and the supernatural have found a much-needed outlet in fiction. Through the characters in her stories, she gives free rein to a dark sensuality that might otherwise remain hidden away forever...and wouldn't that be a shame?
A former schoolteacher, Selah resides in the northeastern United States. She holds a B.A. plus graduate credits in English Literature, and is published in short fiction and nonfiction in local and regional magazines and newspapers. She enjoys solitude, long walks after nightfall, and the bracing rigors of a six-month-long winter.
For more information, see www.SelahMarch.com