She shakes her head. “No.”
“You become mine. All mine. Every inch, every scream, every need. Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. Whatever I need, it’s mine.”
She doesn’t moan. She doesn’t nod. She fucking simpers out a thousand words without saying one. Please and thank you and more. All the sexiest words in the whole fucking language.
“Good girl,” I say, giving her a third finger and hooking tight into her G-spot. “Good fucking girl.”
“Oh my God.”
Down the hall, Frankie Knuckles trots back and forth, still sniffing. I dig him, yeah. Kind of a lot. But right now, we need to get serious.
“First thing. Call your roommate to come get that dog,” I tell her as I run my fingertip back and forth inside her pussy.
“Okay,” she whispers up at the lights without opening her eyes.
“Because until the sun comes up tomorrow, there’s nothing in this world besides you and me.”
19
Mary
With his palm at the small of my back, he lets me inside his apartment. He unzips my vest and locks the door behind us. As Frankie goes exploring, Jimmy presses me up against the door. “Call her. Right now. No fucking around.”
“Okay,” I say, fumbling in my purse, pawing through my stuff without looking away. I can’t look away, not from those eyes, that face, not when he’s got my chin balanced on his finger. My heart speeds up, and I feel myself getting wetter and wetter. My knees are actually weak, and I let his body support me. “But you need to get off that leg.”
He nods down at me, and then brings his lips to mine. The kiss is strong, uncompromising, direct. After he makes me forget everything in my head, he adds, “That’s the plan. Eventually.”
He heads off down the hallway, letting his jacket fall to the floor. He limps only slightly and is as easy in his body, as confident in his stride, as any man I’ve ever seen. The king of everything, and he knows it in his bones. Just as he rounds the corner of the hallway, heading for the kitchen, he peels off his shirt. In the light from the windows, I get a little bit of satisfaction, an offset from what he did to my neck; his back is laced with my nail marks, going back and forth, up and down, side to side.
“You look like you got mauled,” I tell him.
He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, lifting his chin. “Nobody’s pussycat, my ass.”
And my toes curl completely involuntarily in my boots.
When I am able to refocus my eyes, I fire off a text to Bridget.
Favor.
Bridge.
Favor.
Hello?
Bridge.
Christ! I was peeing.
What favor?
Come get Frankie.
This is followed by a very considerable pause in which I see her start typing, and then stop. Instead of a message, a photo of Jimmy pops up on the screen. He’s in his uniform, smiling at the camera, grease paint on his cheeks. The sun is shining; his hair is a mess. There’s a grass stain on his jersey, and dirt on his arms. And he’s sweaty, in white pants, so I can just see the outline of his cup.
“Oh God,” I whisper.
If that’s how he looks during a game, I am definitely going to be watching.
That why?
Yes.
Bitch.
Love you!
*horny face*
Where are you?
Another good question. I undo my snowy boots and step out of them, padding into the kitchen in my socks. Underfoot, the tile floor is warm with radiant heat. Outside, the snow is really coming down—big flakes, regularly spaced, falling slowly as if we’re inside a snow globe.
He’s there, in the kitchen. On the table, he has a bottle of honey and is scooping some white sugar from a bag into a small bowl.
“What are you doing?” That five-pound bag of sugar in his hand looks about as big as a can of soda. He’s that big.
He hooks his arm around me and pulls me into his thigh. “I’m in charge, beautiful. You just enjoy.”
A shiver starts down in my stomach and goes out through my fingers. It’s a thing that happens to me when I’m excited or nervous. This sort of full-body tremble.
“Cold?”
“No,” I say, as he feeds me a grape. “Not cold. Just…excited.”
He whistles softly. “That’s sexy. I can make you tremble like that without even really touching you?”
His eyes tighten as he practices his superpower. And it happens again.
“Fuck!” He feeds me another, letting his thumb stay between my lips.
I wrap my arms around him. “She’s coming to get him. I just need to know the address.”
He takes my phone from me to type it in. But unfortunately, his own face is smiling back at him from the chat window.
“Someone’s been snooping,” he says, looking pretty pleased.
“Not me. My roommate. She’s a fan. I recommend lying low unless you want to sign an autograph.”
Keeping one arm around me, he answers Bridget by typing with one thumb. The thing is like a phablet when I hold it, but it’s just tiny in his hands. He types in the address and gives the phone back to me. “No autographs,” he says, pushing me up against the counter. “Because today, the only thing I’m putting my mark on is you.”
When Bridget pulls up in front of Jimmy’s building, coming to a stop cockeyed on the dirty snow bank, I bundle Frankie into the passenger’s seat, where she has a little box seat that hangs from the headrest. I buckle him in by his harness and when I look up, I’m met with her phone in my face.
It’s an internet meme. At the top:
HEY GIRL. IS YOUR NAME GOOGLE?
Then a picture of Jimmy pouring water from a bottle down onto his face at a game, raking his hand through his hair and smiling. Behind him, everybody looks totally pissed off, royally angry—guys the size of draft horses scowling at something in the distance. One of them has a huge clump of sod hanging from his helmet. But Jimmy looks as fresh as can be, smiling at the camera.
BECAUSE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING I’M LOOKING FOR.
“I may never forgive you for this,” Bridget says, adjusting her Jackie O glasses and shaking her head grimly at the snowy street. “Jimmy Falconi! And you don’t even know your field goal from your touchback.”
“He’s really nice, Bridge. You’d like him. He shops at Costco and makes sensible investments. And he likes dogs.”
Lowering her glasses down her nose, she glares at me. “Any chance I could run up for an au…”
I shake my head. “Already covered it. Nope.”
She groans and turns up the heat. “Have fun. Don’t get pregnant.”
“Advice for the ages,” I tell her, and slam the door.
And then she’s off. I make my way back into the building, his building, marveling at how much of it there is. I count twenty mailboxes and calculate that’s probably four apartments per floor. In the heart of Lincoln Park. Lord.
Because I’m still feeling a little wobbly, a little drunk on him, I decide to take the elevator. The motor grinds along as I ascend one floor, then two, then three. As the door opens, a prickle of anticipation takes hold of my body, from the backs of my thighs to the tips of my fingers.
When I get to the end of the hallway, though, I see a Post-it stuck to the door. My heart drops. I haven’t been gone five minutes and, what? He had to leave?
But as I get closer, I can make out the words. And they most definitely don’t say he’s gone. Instead, the note says:
NAKED. NOW.
I press my fingers to the words, to his clear and confident writing, and the door opens up under the pressure of my touch. Inside, I hear music, something sultry and low. I am struck with that floating, drunk feeling again, like I’m dreaming. Only I know I’m not. This is real. This man is going to have his way with me, and I need him to do it. Opening the door, I step through and see another Post-it on the floor
RIGHT NOW.
So I do what he wants, because it’s so easy, so deliciously alluring, to listen to someone else for a change. To let him call the shots. To do just exactly as I’m told. I peel off my pants and my shirt.
Which leaves me standing there in my lingerie and my socks.
Now, maybe twenty feet in front of me, halfway down the hallway, I am met with another Post-it.
SOCKS TOO.
I laugh and step out of them by hooking my toes over the tops.
BRA.
That hits the floor.
PANTIES.
And those, too.
And I do as he says, just as he says, leaving each piece of clothing on its Post-it.
Then there I am, naked but for my goose bumps. He steps out from his bedroom and takes me by the hand, drawing me toward the bed.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” With one finger, he traces a long line up my arm, across my collarbone, and then slowly back down my other arm, past the crook of my elbow, down to my palm. He comes around behind me and pulls me into him, one palm on my stomach.
“Relax.”
“I am,” I whisper. My voice comes out almost as a chatter. I let myself fall back into him, tipping back on my heels. When he has most of my weight in his arms, he turns me slightly to face the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. He towers over me, his shoulders so much wider than mine, his hands so much bigger. The contrast is startling, overwhelming. And beautiful. Still holding me tightly, he whispers, “Touch yourself.”
I look at him in the mirror. “Here?”
“Yeah. Right there. I’ve got you.”
There is something about the mirror that makes me feel almost vulnerable and exposed. He traces up and down my fingertips. “I don’t think I can do it standing up.”
“I just want to watch you,” he says, coaxing me along. “Please, Mary. Just let me watch you. Let me hold you. Let me feel it.”
I focus on the strength of him behind me. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Reassuring, open, curious. Slowly, I inch my fingers downward past my bellybutton and become acutely aware of his hardness against my thigh. “I want you inside me.”
In reply, he presses into me a little, solid against my ass. It makes his eyes close and slows his breathing. But he stays strong. “Not yet. Just do this for me…” He places his hand over mine and guides my fingers down, down, down, to my clit.
We start slowly. He bends down, letting his chin rest on my shoulder. His stubble presses into the curve of my neck, and I feel his breath, easy and smooth, warming my skin. I make a small circle around my clit, and realize he’s having me teach him exactly what I like. As I let my hand slide deeper to touch myself inside while I rub my clit with my palm, he groans into my ear. I open my eyes and see him watching me. Watching everything.
His left hand drops from the embrace, and he grips me by the front of the thigh. I lean back into the curve of his chest, letting my head fall against his shoulder. I think back to last night, how he made me come with the head of his cock. The way his cum dripped out onto me. The thought of it makes me shudder again, pure pleasure and heat. He holds me tighter and says, “I’ve got you. Keep going.”
I let myself get lost in new fantasies with him. Him taking me in the back of the Wrangler, on a beach somewhere, or in a forest. In the shower. God, I love the shower. I groan into his bicep, and my knees start to tremble. Still holding me tight, he walks me backward and sits down in the big leather chair in the corner of the room. We can still see ourselves in the mirror, but now he’s got me in his lap, his legs spread, but not so wide that I slip down between them. I let myself go limp in his arms and keep going.
“Will you come for me? Just like this?”
“I don’t know if I can.” I’ve gotten so used to my vibrator, and my bed, and my routine. Last night seemed out of left field. I don’t think lightning strikes twice.
“Just try. Come on. For me.” He gazes down at me in this possessive, intense way that makes me willing to give everything to him. He picks me up from his lap slightly, and I feel him positioning himself at my opening from behind. He slides into me slowly, gently, lowering me down onto his cock until I am cradled in his arms and feeling him deep inside my body. “Oh God…”
“Yeah?” he says quietly, lifting his hips a little to get even further into me. “Better?”
That is not the word. The word is heaven.
The angle is out of this world, the pressure on my G-spot totally new and unexpected. It is the most beautiful thing, being cradled in these big arms, with him inside me, too. “I love this.” Pressing back into his shoulder, I let my body relax.
“Fuck. Me too.” He kisses the edge of my ear, the lobe, tracing the clamshell curve with his tongue.
“I could do this all day,” I whisper against his jaw.
“That’s the idea. You don’t have to come, just let me see you. Let me feel you like this.”
I tease my clit with the cup of my palm, parting my first two fingers around him, using a feather touch on his balls below.
He growls into my ear, “I love being inside you, Mary Monahan. It’s that fucking simple, you know?”
Oh God. Yes. It is that simple. That basic. That urgent.
“There you go. Let go. Let me feel you. Let me feel all that power.” When he kisses me, I moan into his mouth that I’m close, so close. He doesn’t pull away from the kiss but instead nods into me and braces my head with his hand from behind, kissing me even harder to say, Let go.
Gone.
Our eyes are open as I come, and he’s smiling into the kiss. I’m not, though. I’m whimpering and roaring as he kisses me deeper and deeper, until I just can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I don’t know how long I’m gone. I hear my own voice echo through the bedroom. I hear him tell me I’m beautiful, so fucking beautiful, as he eases even further into me, heightening the orgasm even more.
Before I’ve even come back into myself, he picks me up and puts me on my knees on the chair, with my ass in the air. He presses me forward so my torso drapes down over the back and my knees are bent at a right angle. From behind, he drives into me, slowly at first. Saying, “Yeah, just like that. Fuck yes.” Then he takes hold of my hips, and begins taking me so hard, so unbelievably hard, that I can do nothing but let go all over again. He fucks me just like that, ruthless, brutal, and primal.
“You can’t squeeze me after you come. Have you noticed that?” he says, ramming into me again.
I turn and look at him over my shoulder. Everything is still flickering and wobbling, except for him. He’s crystal clear. “No?”
He shakes his head, so satisfied and smug. “Nope.”
Right. I’ll show him. I bear down on his cock, using my whole body to do it, gripping the pillows on the chair as I do. His face gets angry, dark and almost unkind, and he snarls, “Knock that shit off, beautiful,” while driving into me even harder, gripping my hips, digging his fingers into my thighs. “And let me fuck you like I want to.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, that is so unbelievably sexy.
“Give in to me.” He gives me another thrust. “Right now.”
“How?” I whisper back.
“Just fucking do it. Hand yourself over,” he says, driving in. “Give in. Let me take you.”
I turn my head away from him. My whole life I have fought, negotiated, jockeyed for what I wanted. I never trusted enough to let go. I never wanted enough to know how that felt.
“I’ve got you. Just let me take you.”
I want to know what it’s like to be someone else’s completely. To be nothing but at their pleasure. Not to fight, not to struggle, not to tease. But just…
To let go. To open up. To be his.
“That’s a good girl,” he tells me as I soften more, and he drives in harder, so that the chair rocks back and forth underneath me. “Are you mine?”
“Yes.”
“Have you let go?”
I focus on him inside me. Just him. Not me. Not the
chair, or the room, or the world outside. Just him. And it happens. I just give over everything to him. I let my back bow slightly. My arms go slack. He supports my body and takes me exactly like I need to be taken.
“I’m yours.”
Finally, on a plunge so rough that I gasp for air, he grinds his palms into my ass and groans out, “Oh shiiiiiiiit…”
He comes first with his voice, letting out this primal roar, and then gripping my hair in his fingers. My face comes away from the back of the chair. My neck bends back, and he powers into me again and again. “There it is…” he says, and then finally comes to a stop deep inside me.
With my cheek against the leather, I tangle my fingers up in his as we both breathe hard, me into the curve of my shoulder, watching him, and him into the clenched fist he’s put to his mouth as he watches me.
“Fuck, Mary.” He draws in a quick, hard breath. He blinks and shakes it off. “Fuck.”
After a long minute, when he’s lost his hardness a little, he pulls out of me. He reaches out for my hand, and I take it. He leads me to the bed and lays me down. He gets in beside me and pulls the comforter over us, and then slips his hand under my waist and drags my body into his. I am the small spoon inside the ladle. I am the Hers to the His. I listen to his breathing slow to something approaching normal. I watch the snow fall outside, and whisper, “That was amazing…”
No answer. I turn my head slightly and see that his face is relaxed, his eyes closed. His lips are pressed gently to my shoulder. But he’s sound asleep. Tuckered out. And holding me tight.
20
Jimmy
Naps. They’re the best. But this nap, with her in my arms, is the nap of naps. “Told you I’d rest,” I whisper into her ear.
“Hi.” She reaches over and runs her hand through my hair, softly touching my cheek with her thumb.
Hail Mary Page 11