Because she’s fucking perfect and I’ve wanted her for months, thinking I could never have her.
But also because I’m forty-seven years old and all my friends have families and children and I’m finding that even though I’m proud of my professional accomplishments, none of my awards or diplomas or money can take away the loneliness I feel going home to an empty house each night.
I’ve been questioning the intensity with which I threw myself into my career as a younger man. It had seemed smart at the time and I have been richly rewarded for it — as in millions of dollars of reward — but I wonder if it made me miss my chance at sharing my life with someone.
I’ve never lived extravagantly. I have the fantastic house, the sweet car, the subtle but perfectly tailored wardrobe, sure. But I’ve invested or donated most of the millions my work has earned me. The over-the-top lifestyle was never for me.
And I know that I could buy a wife, but why would I? A marriage that’s a sham from the start might look shiny on the outside, but I’d know it was hollow, devoid of meaning.
I’m not that kind of guy. And hell, just because I can buy something doesn’t mean that I should. Doubly so with love.
I want the real deal.
So when the girl I’ve been dreaming of asks me to kiss her, to be close to her, how can I say no?
Which is why I’m in the alley sucking Emmy’s neck so hard that I know it’ll leave a bruise, and she’s grinding her pelvis into mine, groaning. I tangle my fingers in her thick hair and tug her head back, exposing the vulnerable expanse of her throat. I meet her eyes, making sure this is okay, and I’m met with heat and desire.
I rake my teeth over her esophagus, light enough that it won’t hurt, and she shivers, eyes shuttering. A leg winds around my low back. The part of her that grinds on my hardness is hotter, and I know she’s dragging the opening of her pussy over me through her black workout leggings.
And I know she can feel my cock because she smirks every time she finds it, her touch making my dick jump and my belly suck in as I gasp for air.
“Let me take you home,” I say, nipping at her earlobe.
Her other leg wraps around me and she uses her powerful thighs to lock my body to hers — not that I’d have dreamed of walking away without her. “Why not just take me, period?” Her dark eyes are alight with a challenge that makes me all the more rigid.
“Here?” The thought of bending Emmy over and ravishing her in the alley makes me groan the word.
Her teeth gleam through the darkness. “No one will see. And I’m clean and on the pill, so no worries about that.” Her smile grows. “Besides, I’m looking for the kind of fun I’ve never had before.”
I swallow hard. I never would’ve guessed that the sweet and quiet woman I’ve had my eye on was so damn wild.
Not that I mind. Not even a little.
I support Emmy under the arms and break from her leg hold. She doesn’t let me go easily so I have to tear away from her with force I’ve never used on a woman, but her wide smirk doesn’t flinch.
In fact, I think it actually grows at my roughness. I squint through the darkness, examining the shadows of her face, trying to make sure that we’re on the same page.
“What are you waiting for?” she purrs. “I’m ready for you.”
Fuck.
I’m a powder keg and her words are the spark. With a growl, I close the space I’ve put between us. Crouching, I seize the waist of her leggings and, in a single movement, yank them down to her ankles, taking her panties with them. I pause for a moment, groping in the dark for the crotch of her underthings. I’m not disappointed — I find them wet.
She’s not lying — she really is ready for me.
My cock feels like it grows exponentially at this discovery. It begs me to shove it inside her and screw her hard and fast. That’s what she seems to want.
But I have other things that I want to discover first.
I get on my knees in the fine gravel of the alley and look up at Emmy, a supplicant before his deity. Her breath comes quickly, belly rising and falling like the rolling ocean, jaw tight and eyes hard as she waits for me to make the next move.
Dropping my gaze, I take in the downy darkness of her mound that curls directly before my eyes. Leaning in, I inhale her scent. It’s like the musk of springtime, damp and full of promises.
I trail a single finger from the peak of her forest down and inwards, burrowing into those ringlets until she gasps and I know I’ve found the home of her pleasure.
Homing in on her buried clit, I spiral my touch over her nub. Her hands grasp at the side of the building she’s leaning on without finding purchase, and her hips instinctively arch to give me better access to her most sensitive place.
I don’t hesitate. Traveling slightly more south, I find her slit. Her lips are slick and swollen, ready for me. I slip two fingers inside her and she rewards me with a moan that threatens to shred my self-control. I take a ragged breath to steady myself, then insert a third finger, probing deeper.
Her head rocks back and, inside, she clutches at my fingers. I move them within her, reaching for the sensitive, spongy center that is her G-spot. Again her pelvis shifts as of its own accord, guiding my hand while Emmy rides my thrusting fingers.
And then, galloping out of nowhere, her first orgasm thunders through her. I’m breathless as I watch her brown thatch undulate, her cries turning mewling for a moment before giving way to a guttural clamor that matches the intensity with which her velvet walls clamp around my digits.
Suddenly it is impossible to stay on my knees and watch my hand have all the fun. Keeping my fingers embedded in her silken flesh, I climb to my knees, cock pressing through my sweatpants, demanding its turn.
Emmy reaches for me with both hands, clutching at my shirt. “Please,” she begs, “please.”
Her plea contains no parameters, but I know exactly how she feels — utterly, blissfully lost in a moment that feels like it shouldn’t exist and yet, defying all the laws of heaven and hell and everything in between, does. She needs more, more of all this impossible, exquisite, excruciating beauty.
I need more also.
“Turn around,” I growl, my breath coming in hungry pants.
Emmy doesn’t hesitate, not even a for a moment. I’d marvel at how trustingly she turns, faces the bricks, and bends over, palms resting on the wall, pussy glistening.
I shove my sweats down so that my cock and ass are exposed and nothing more. I don’t need anything but the sensation of my heavy dick sliding into her heat.
I don’t waste a second. Grasping my length, I align with her opening. She feels what I’m doing and rocks back in encouragement. Her juices adorn my head, the tip of my cock now cool from the wetness. It feels fucking amazing and I can’t wait another moment.
So I take her hips in my hands and slam home.
Her body contorts at my rapid entry, but the only thing I hear coming from Emmy’s lips is a happy hiss. “Yes,” she says, pressing back against me and looking at me over one shoulder with eyes wild but ready. “You make me feel so good. Better than anyone ever has.”
I stab at her again, and once more she meets me there. I grunt, loving how she’s lapping up my rough loving. “You deserve to feel good.”
For the first time, I wonder what her sexual history has been. Guilt floods me, cooling my lust. Shit. That’s probably something I should’ve asked before doggy fucking her outside a dive bar.
But then she swivels her pelvis, her velvet walls smoothing and tugging at my naked wood like nothing I’ve ever felt before. “Hell yeah I do. And I can.” Her words should sound bold, cocky, but she whispers them like a revelation — to herself.
“Yeah, you can feel good,” I say, leaning over her back to murmur in her ear. “Let me help you.”
Emmy flexes back against me. “Then do it.” The challenge returns to her voice. “Make me feel so damn good that I’m never the same.”
The swivel
stops. She leans forward, away from me. I bark in dismay, but before I can fill her up with another hard thrust, she’s the one who barrels back at me, taking every inch of me until I’m buried to the hilt. My tip finds new depths within her, nudging up against a soft something, and she goes off like a firework.
Again out of seemingly nowhere, Emmy is mewling and sobbing the pleasure of her climax. Her hips buck against mine, cavern pulsing and clenching around my shaft, trying to milk me dry.
I’m done with holding back, done with words, done with wondering. I give myself over the demands of my hungry cock, spearing her again and again without reservation. My fingers dig into the soft flesh of her hips, pulling her back over me even as I thrust my hips and plunge deep over and over.
Emmy pushes back against the wall with her hands, trapezoids flexing, needing more of me, needing everything I offer. She arches her low back, helping me to find the place where her orgasms are born. In quick succession, her walls clamp around me until she unfurls, and then she begins to close on me once more.
I can feel my own climax approaching when headlights sweep through the alley. A car is coming, I realize, and freeze. Emmy swivels her head at my motionlessness, and we both hear the vehicle approach.
We remain in darkness — for now. But if the car comes as far down the alley as we are, there’s no place for us to hide. We’ll be caught with our pants down.
I turn back to Emmy, cursing whatever driver is heading our way, ready to withdraw from her.
“No,” she says, voice ragged, hands reaching for me, holding me where I am.
I could tear away, listening to my good sense.
But this woman needs me — and she’s willing to risk public indecency to get what she wants.
Which only makes me that much more unable to resist her.
Praying that the car parks further up the alley, I pummel Emmy with my cock.
“Yes,” she urges me, breath ragged. “God, you feel so good.”
Every sense is heightened. I’m aware in equal parts of the refreshing cool of the night on my skin and the fire I’m stoking in Emmy’s insides and the sound of the car rolling toward us.
My hips fly back and forth and I’m a man lost to his desire.
And then there comes the sound of the car’s engine being cut, and a single set of footprints in the alley — fading, not coming closer.
My muscles go limp with relief. In contrast, my dick is so damn hard that it’s almost painful — almost. I grit my teeth and give her everything I have, both of us crying out without fear of being heard even though we’re still very much in public.
Another orgasm takes hold of Emmy and that starts a chain reaction that races down my dick and into my testicles. My balls tighten and I hold on to Emmy’s hips for dear life as my climax comes raging out of me. I thrust harder than ever into her wetness, but now I’m not in charge of my movement. Instinct has taken over as I spurt ropey cum into the woman shattering around me, head thrown back to the sky, wishing this moment could last forever.
Emmy
I drive through the quiet streets of Shotgun faster than I should, the lights of the buildings I’m passing glaring and over-bright on my eyes.
My heart is racing faster than I’m speeding through the city because what the fuck.
What just happened?
I thought I knew who I was, what I wanted — and then in mere hours I go from normal life, doing just fine, thank you very much, to being ass-up in an alley, having the fuck of a lifetime.
And seriously, those orgasms — I’ve never had so many in a single session, or with such intensity. I’m lucky to eke out one per round, either with a partner or solo.
Of course, most of them have been solo. Because I don’t know that I can put myself into a relationship with someone knowing how so many of them turn out.
And then along comes Oliver Lewis with his salt and pepper hair begging to be touched and his warm gray eyes, and I drop all my principles — and my pants.
Then went on to have the best sexual encounter of my life.
I press the gas pedal harder. I’d already texted Kate, figuring that she was the most likely to still be awake at this hour, letting her know I’m on my way.
After I’d practically fled the scene of my public copulation with Oliver.
I groan just thinking about it. I’d excused myself to go to the bathroom to freshen up — cringe — then had hightailed it out of there when I thought he wasn’t looking — double cringe.
After all my training as a therapist, all my self-examination and training, I’ve still ended up a cliché. I’m a danger to my own heart and others, and I can’t let this happen again.
Except that I want to.
With Oliver.
I want him to be the first thing I see in the morning and the last before I go to sleep at night. I want his eyes on me every damn day, and I want to cherish him and play with him and make love to him and —
My own thoughts bring me up short.
Make love to him. That’s what I’d just thought.
Things are even worse than I realized. I’m not just falling into infatuation with a man I’ve known for hours.
I’m fucking falling in love.
Which cannot happen. Because life doesn’t work like that. This is not some storybook romance where somehow, against all odds, strangers conjure a happily ever after out of thin air.
This is the real world, and it’s where I live. I won’t allow hormones and wishful thinking to lure me to believe in a happy ending that’s not in the cards.
I careen into the long driveway that leads to the cozy above-garage loft Kate shares with her boyfriend, Harry, near Shotgun College. Throwing myself out of the car, I stumble up the narrow stairs to their front door, raising my hand to bang the crap out of it.
Like Oliver banged the crap out me, so good that the memory makes my toes curl in pleasure even though I know I’m better off putting tonight out of my mind for good.
Before my knuckles can land on the wooden door, it swings inward, revealing my friend.
“Are you okay?” Kate says, ushering me inside. “Your text . . . I haven’t been able to sit down since I got it. What is going on?”
Slivers of crystalline guilt spear me from the inside and I wince. I’m not the one who’s usually in need of a late-night rescue. I’m the one who knows better to get herself into messes she can already see the end result of. And now this evening’s carelessness has already hurt another person — Kate.
“I’m fine —“ I begin, wanting to ease her worry, but she cuts me off with a firm shake of her head.
“If you were fine you wouldn’t be here. Stop trying to save my feelings — I’m your friend and I want to be here for you. So please let me.”
More guilt. Shit. I’m really racking the mistakes up tonight.
I glance around the small but immaculate minimalistic interior of the loft. “Is Harry . . . ?” I begin, then shake my head. I chose to come here, to where Harry lives with my friend. If I didn’t want to be near him, I shouldn’t have come.
“He’s in bed,” Kate answers my unspoken question, voice silken and soft. “It’s just us.”
Kicking off my shoes at the door, I stalk across the kitchen and throw myself onto one of the squashy couches near the barren wood-burning fireplace.
Kate rustles in the kitchen for a moment, then follows me. “Wine?” she asks, offering me one of the glasses of red she carries.
I accept it and take a massive swig that should embarrass me. But after tonight, I’m not sure I have the right to be ashamed about anything as trivial as over-imbibing.
My friend raises an eyebrow at my gulp but says nothing as she settles onto the other end of the couch other than, “Rough night?”
I open my mouth to spill the details of the evening, but just the memory has my jaw clamping shut, cheeks flaming red.
Now Kate looks confused. “Wait, you really have had a rough night, haven’t you? I
thought maybe you were having an existential crisis thanks to one of those self-flagellating philosophy and psychology books you insist on reading before bed.”
“They’re not self-flagellating,” I say defensively. “They open my mind to deeper self-examination.”
“Okay. But this,” she waves her hand at me, “isn’t about a book, is it?”
I shake my head, inhaling more wine, tears brimming. I try to swallow them down, but without my permission they flood my cheeks, my sudden sobs loud in my own ears.
“Holy shit,” Kate says, more to herself than to me. She sets her wine on an end table before grabbing mine and doing the same. Then she scoots close and folds me into a hug so gentle that it only makes me sob harder.
“Oh, Emmy,” she says, voice rough with empathy, “what happened?”
“I met a man,” I bawl into her sweatshirt.
She sits up straight, still holding me. “Wait, what? You met a guy?”
“And he’s kind and strong and funny and I like him and we had sex —“
Kate sucks in a sharp breath. “Whoa. All this in one night?”
I nod, snuffling. “And now I don’t know who I am. How could I have let this happen?”
She rocks back from me, holding me at an arm’s length and examining me with the keen eye that’s served her well as an up-and-coming lawyer. “Em.” She doesn’t continue until I meet her eyes. “Did this man hurt you?”
“No, he’s wonderful. I’m the one who’s the problem.”
Kate frowns. “Explain.”
The meaning of the two syllables is clear. But for some reason, when faced with this stark, uncomplicated question, I find myself stammering.
My friend cuts me off. “Okay, let me see if I can get this straight. You met a man tonight?”
I nod. “At kickboxing.”
“And you liked him?”
Another nod.
“So you . . . ?”
“Went out for a drink,” I finish.
“And then you went home and had sex?”
One in a Million: Love at First Sight: Book Four Page 3