Fling

by Jana Aston

  I’m an idiot. That was the most embarrassing ten minutes of my life.

  I slump against the closed door and drop my head into my hands. What did I think was going to happen? That he’d invite himself in? Kiss me? Bend me over the couch and fuck me like he read that stupid quiz and he feels the same?

  Not likely, silly. I sigh and push off the door, hanging my coat in the hall closet as I walk towards my kitchen. Good thing I stocked up on ice cream when I went to the grocery store this week. I think I’ve got a pint of Rocky Road. And strawberry. I might have both, I think defiantly as I step out of my heels in front of the freezer. My hand is on the tub of strawberry when there’s a knock on my door.

  I leave the ice cream and walk back to the door in my bare feet. Did someone really just knock on my door, or am I hearing things? I wonder as I peer through the peep-hole.

  Not crazy. Gabe is still standing outside my door.

  My heart thuds in my chest. Holy oh, my God. Gabe Laurent is standing on my doorstep. Because he didn’t leave after I shut the door. Which can only mean one thing, even I know that.

  I swing the door open. He’s leaning on one arm against the doorframe and he’s silent as I gaze up at him, a few inches taller than before, with my heels off now. Then he’s stepping forward and pulling me to him as he kicks the door shut. He doesn’t say a word, instead roughly grasps the back of my neck and dips his head to meet my lips. And his lips? They feel like everything I’ve ever imagined they would. Soft, yet aggressive. Commanding. The lock clicks on the door and then his other hand lands on my hip, guiding me backwards into the room.

  “Undress,” he demands, breaking away from me. I’m still leaning forward, my mind trying to catch up with the fact that his lips are gone.

  “What?”

  “Take off your clothes,” he instructs, shrugging out of his winter coat. He doesn’t take his eyes off of mine as he tosses the coat at the back of my couch.

  I hesitate, glancing down at my outfit. There’s not much between what I’m wearing and complete nudity; the only undergarment I have on is a pair of black panties. My bra was ditched with my shirt and pants when Everly gave me this party makeover.

  “Do you want me to leave, Sandra?”

  I finger the button on my blazer. Do I? “Do you want a drink or something?” I ask instead of answering, glancing away from him to the kitchen. Do I have anything I could offer Gabe? An open bottle of wine or diet soda. Unlikely he wants either.

  “No.” He shakes his head, a smirk on his face as he loosens his tie. “No, I’m not interested in a drink.”

  I swallow and nod. This is real. This is happening. Gabe wants me. This is not a figment of my imagination. Time to own it, Sandra.

  I unbutton the blazer and slip it off my shoulders, letting it hit the floor behind me as I flick my eyes up to watch Gabe’s reaction. He rubs his bottom lip with his thumb and index finger and gives me the slightest nod, a silent instruction to continue. I suck in a breath and hook my thumbs into the skirt, then slide it over my hips until it too is pooled on the floor with my blazer. I’m left bare save for my panties.

  “Don’t stop,” he says, several feet in front of me, his eyes locked on mine. He’s still fully dressed and it makes me feel dirty in the best possible way.

  I bite my bottom lip and hook both thumbs into my panties. They’re not fancy—black cotton with a lace waistband—but I’m not going to second-guess them because I don’t think he cares; he just wants them off. I slide them to mid-thigh with both hands, then let go with one and step out of them one leg at a time until they’re dangling from my fingertips in one hand. I let them go and try to stifle the shiver that wants to run through me, both from my nerves and the temperature in my apartment.

  He prowls towards me. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s only a few steps but he’s taking his time. He reaches me and brushes my hair over my shoulder, then leans close, nipping my earlobe between his teeth. He drops his hand to my waist, his fingertips splayed over the upper swell of my ass. It makes me wet instantly, which is ridiculous but true all the same. I’ve never been this ready to go this quickly. My nipples are hard and pressed into the fabric of his suit jacket. I’m glad this isn’t one he wears to the office or I’d have to quit, positive the mere sight of it on a Tuesday would cause me to salivate at my desk.

  “Tell me what you want, and I can make it happen,” he says into my ear before moving his lips to my jaw.

  “I want it all,” I respond, feeling bold. And let’s be honest. Gabe Laurent in my apartment? This may never happen again. I want to experience everything he has to show me.

  He laughs, softly. “Be careful what you ask for, Sandra,” he responds, then slides the hand on my back lower, slipping his index finger between my cheeks as far as it will go, then slides it back and forth, his hand anchored by his thumb and remaining fingers digging into my flesh.

  I flinch a fraction, surprised by his bold touch, but then I relax into it and move my hands to his chest, sliding my palms over the fabric of his jacket. I like the feeling under my hands—it’s soft yet crisp and I can feel the strength of him through the layers of fabric. “I want anything you want,” I reply and press myself closer.

  He cradles both hands under my butt cheeks and lifts until I wrap my legs around his waist, grateful for the first time in my life for the length of my legs. I grind myself against him then freeze.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, pausing in the attention he’s giving to my neck.

  “Nothing,” I lie, holding myself still. It’s not easy.

  He pinches my ass hard as he moves the other hand to grasp my chin and turn it towards him. The pinch hurts—and makes me even wetter. I hold myself stiffly in his arms, trying to stay balanced in just the right way to avoid smearing myself on him.

  “What is the matter?” he demands again, his tone unyielding.

  “I don’t want to get your jacket wet,” I say, flicking my eyes away from his.

  He pauses a second, my meaning sinking in. I see his lips turn up in amusement from the corner of my eye before he speaks. “You’re embarrassed?”

  I shrug.

  “You’re a delight, Sandra.”

  I am?

  Then he lays his arm across my back, his hand on the back of my neck, and anchors me to him, leaving no doubt that he doesn’t care about his jacket. I can still feel the smile on his lips when they cover mine again, so I forget about dry cleaning and tighten my ankles behind his back, unabashedly moving myself against him. He’s walking now and just the movement of his steps is giving me an extra bounce against him that I could probably use to get myself off if the walk to my bed was any longer.

  He finds my bedroom—one of two open doors in my apartment, the other being the bathroom—and bends over the bed until I unwrap myself from him. I scoot back to the center and cross my ankles, feeling like this gives me at least a hint of modesty. I watch him turn, shrugging off his jacket. I think he’s looking for a place to set it in my small room—a hook or a chair, neither of which I have in this limited space—but he’s not. He’s looking for the light switch, I realize as he zeroes in on it and flips it on.

  I glance between him and the overhead light. Do I want that on? On the one hand, I get to see him, on the other hand, he gets to see me. He must sense my hesitation because he uses the dimmer switch—thank God I have one—to lower the light a bit.

  “Do I make you nervous, Sandra?” he questions me from the doorway, loosening his tie as he speaks.

  “A little bit,” I admit, “but in a good way.”

  “A good way?”

  “An exciting way,” I offer.

  He unbuttons his shirt. “In a sexual way?”

  I nod. “I-bet-you-know-what-you’re-doing kind of way.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he questions, brow raised.

  “Probably not as much as you do,” I admit, then pause. Th
at sounded a little judgmental, I think, frowning, but he laughs.

  “Probably not,” he agrees and unzips his pants. They fall from his hips and saliva pools on my tongue looking at him. His body is exactly as I pictured it hiding underneath his clothing—perfectly defined, broad chest, muscled arms. The vein in his forearm catches my attention as he moves his hands to the waistband of his boxers. Slim hips and OMG, that vee thing guys have. Well, not all guys. Not any guy I’ve been with. But Gabe has it, complete with flat stomach and a smattering of hair trailing into the boxers that are sliding down his hips, right now.

  Six

  Gabe

  I drop my pants and palm myself, eyes on Sandra. She doesn’t pretend not to look. I like that. She’s braver than I expected with her shy glances and blushing cheeks. Her pupils widen and the tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she takes me in. I keep my gaze on her, watching her slow perusal of my cock before her eyes trail up my torso to find mine. She blushes and glances away. I laugh.

  “Look all you want. I like it.”

  Her eyes fly back to mine, bottom lip between her teeth, and then her breathing increases as I close the gap. Her legs are still crossed demurely at the ankles. I unhook them and wrap my palms around each as I drag her to the edge of the bed.

  “Condoms?” I ask. It’s a dick move, because I have a few in my wallet and I’m only asking so I can see her blush. She’ll either confirm my guess that she doesn’t have any on hand, or she’ll open a bedside drawer and I’ll get a look at what she has.

  She doesn’t disappoint, color flooding her cheeks as she gives me a tiny shake of her head.

  “I don’t have any,” she says, glancing at my erection with a look of regret. “There’s a CVS about a mile away,” she says softly. “Really close,” she adds with a hint of doubt in her voice, as if there’s a chance in hell that I’d choose to go home instead of fucking her. This girl.

  “I have some in my wallet,” I tell her, and she smiles, relieved. With her rear pulled to the edge of the bed, I bend her knees and spread her legs wide before stepping between them. She groans and arches her back, her fists clutching the bedspread on each side of her hips. I take my time looking at her: her flushed face, her tits, the tiny curve of her stomach and finally, lower. She’s got a small triangle of hair and it makes my dick throb. It’s not much, not terribly more than a landing strip and a shade darker than her blonde hair, but I can’t stop looking at it. I move my hand to the top of it and trace around the triangle with the tip of my finger, knowing it’s going to drive me crazy knowing that this is what she’s hiding beneath her demure clothing at work; the memory of it will be imprinted on my brain every time I see her in the office.

  Her fists clench the bedspread again and she makes a tiny indiscernible noise in the back of her throat, then turns her head to the side. There’s my shy girl again.

  I toss my glasses on her nightstand and bend to suck a nipple between my lips, my cock resting on the soft skin of her stomach as I do. I lap my tongue along the underside of her breast, then bite her nipple and she groans, the sound music to my ears. Her hands move from the bed to my shoulders, her touch tentative at first, growing increasingly confident as I palm one breast then the other, alternating with my mouth. Her tits are perfect, just the tiniest bit small in my large hands, and I find that I like that—the weight and feel of them ideal, her nipples rock hard as I roll them between my lips and fingers. One of her hands slides down from my shoulder, her palm resting against my chest as I drag my mouth back to hers, so I wrap my hand on top of hers and move it lower, wrapping her fingers around the length of me, moving her thumb to the pre-cum that is waiting. She sucks in a breath and rubs the pad of her thumb across me and it feels fucking fantastic having her hands on me. I tilt my head just enough so I can watch. Her nails are painted dark, navy or purple—I don’t know or care—but it outlines her thumb perfectly as it moves across my cock, and that I like very much. She jerks me softly with her hand, as women tend to do, never quite as aggressive with their grip as I am with my own.

  “Harder,” I tell her and her eyes fly to mine, widening in surprise. Her grip tightens as she holds my gaze and I dip my forehead to hers as I slip a finger inside of her. She’s wetter than I expected and she instantly squeezes around my finger, making my cock jump in her grip.

  I slip my finger halfway out and slide two back in. Her eyelids droop and her breathing increases. I know that I could make her come in the next minute or two, but suddenly I’m on sensory overload. Sandra overload. Her flushed cheeks, her eyes, the tiny gasps coming out of her mouth. It’s too much. Too fucking much. If I look at her face while she comes, the next thing I know I’ll be staying for breakfast. Not happening.

  I slide my fingers out of her and flip her over face down before she has a chance to react—her ass on the end of the bed, legs dangling over.

  “Kneel on the edge,” I instruct before sucking her off my fingers. Another mistake. Now I’ll be remembering what she tastes like and what she looks like naked. She brings one leg up, then the other until she’s on the bed before me, the height perfect. I have a moment of regret—I wanted to watch her tits bounce while I fucked her—but this view is good too.

  I reach for my pants and grab a condom, rolling it over myself. I should have made her do it before I flipped her over; I’d have liked to watch her fumble with it, because there is no way she wouldn’t have, at least a little.

  Bending down, I kiss the small of her back and she turns her head, her blonde hair falling to one shoulder as she does. She smiles at me, her cheeks flushed, before turning back and dropping to her elbows, her bottom pushing back towards me with the movement. I palm myself and guide the tip of my cock between her folds and nudge into her. She pushes back eagerly—I like that—but I refrain from slamming into her in one thrust, because the feeling of her separating for my dick is intoxicating and I want to enjoy every inch of the slide in. She’s warm and wet—and tight. I’m watching myself half inside of her and when she wiggles her ass the tiniest bit, trying to encourage me to sink deeper, I almost lose it and give her what she’s asking for. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to pound the fuck out of her, but I’m not a goddamned teenager so I won’t be rushed.

  I slide out an inch and then back in two, continuing the slow descent into her body as I place my hands on her hips. I like the feel of her under my hands; she’s soft and smells faintly like cinnamon. Her curvy ass leads into a much smaller waist and I follow it with my hands, running them up her slender sides before I dip down and palm her tits as I bottom out inside of her.

  She gasps and rocks forward a fraction to ease the size of me. “You’re beautiful,” I say before I realize it’s coming out of my mouth. What the fuck am I saying? I let go of her tits before she can respond and grip her shoulders. Then I pull back and thrust into her so hard she’d be face down on the bed if I wasn’t gripping her shoulders. She is beautiful, but that’s not what this is. I’m fucking her, not making love to her.

  After that it’s nothing but the sound of skin slapping against skin and tiny groans and sighs coming from her mouth while I pound into her. There’s several ‘Oh my God, Gabe’s coming out of her mouth and when she comes her pussy grips me so tight I wonder if it’s possible to get a bruise on my dick. Worth it. I thrust for another minute before coming myself. Sandra’s long since given up on her elbows supporting her and is splayed on the bed in front of me. She flips over and looks at me after I pull out of her, her expression sated and happy and a bit wondrous.

  And because I’ve never been more interested in staying after I’ve fucked someone…

  I leave.

  Seven

  Gabe

  It’s the Monday after New Year’s and I’m back at work. Four days since New Year’s Eve. Four days since I’ve seen Sandra. Four days to think about the fact that she didn’t look hurt when I pulled on my pants to leave. She simply slid under the covers on her bed
and said, “Thanks for driving me home.”

  What the fuck does that mean? Thanks for driving her home? I know she doesn’t have random sex, she can’t possibly—she was too nervous, she didn’t have any condoms on hand. She didn’t even ask me to come inside, for fuck’s sake. I had to invite myself in—after she shut the door in my face. So no, seducing men or having casual hookups, it’s not something Sandra does with regularity. So the casual goodbye stung, even though I was the one leaving. Even though I was the one who had no intentions of spending the night.

  I toss the paper coffee cup I came to work with in the trash next to my desk and stand. I walk down to Sawyer’s office and note that Sandra’s not in yet as I pass her desk, located outside of Sawyer’s office. I shut the door anyway, the click causing Sawyer to look up from the monitor on his desk.

  “Hey,” he says in greeting.

  “Hey,” I return, walking over to snag a bottle of water from the mini-fridge located in a small built-in kitchenette area along the far wall of his office.

  “You didn’t make it back to the party the other night,” Sawyer says, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on mine.

  “Yeah, no shit,” I respond. “I spent some time with Sandra,” I add when he just stares at me.

  “Jesus, Gabe. I told you she’s not that kind of girl.” He sighs at me, actually fucking sighs, and leans back in his chair.

  “What kind of girl is that, Sawyer?” I ask, annoyed.

  “Temporary. She’s not a temporary kind of girl.”

  “Fuck off, Sawyer. She’s a grown woman. Besides, you told me to go for it.”

  ”No.” He’s shaking his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I said the opposite of ‘go for it.’ I think I used words like, ‘stay away from her’ and ‘employee.’”

  “She’s your employee not mine,” I argue.

  “You own thirty-five percent of this company, dumbass, that makes her your employee too.”