by Nicole Fox
He has me on my back, thighs gripped in his hands, legs parted. He brings his face to my pussy and licks my clit, brushing his warm tongue against it. I reach down and slide my hand into his hair, gripping fistfuls of it, pushing him closer to my pussy. He goes berserk on me with his tongue, really eating my pussy, gnawing on it, making out with it. I close my legs around his head and throw my hands back. My pussy tingles like crazy, and then the tingling gets louder and louder until all I feel is a monolithic heat, like a hot iron poker buried inside of me. I close my eyes and see red, and all at once it’s like something is going to release; everything is going to release.
“Fuck, fuck …”
I bite my lip as the orgasm tears through me, starting as a tiny point in my clit and then erupting like the Big Bang throughout the rest of me, stars of pleasure through to my toes and my fingers, my nipples and my belly: my belly most of all, because the heat is most intense there. I wriggle on the couch, unable to stay still as wave after wave of star-hot pleasure consumes me, cheeks flushed, lips feeling like they might burst. I think I draw blood from my lip. I’m not sure. I don’t care. Then it’s over, and I’m left deflated, drawing in desperate lungfuls of breath.
Logan stands up, staring down at me with crazed eyes. “Turn over,” he says in a commanding tone. “Get on your hands and knees.”
From any other man, that would seem absurd. But from Logan, it’s anything but. A thrill runs through me, reinvigorating me. Fresh sexual energy infuses me and I do as he says, rolling over and propping my hands on the back of the couch and my knees on the cushion. I can see the front door; there’s something wildly dirty about that. I stick my ass out, baring my pussy for him, feeling myself open up.
He brings his hand to my ass, gripping onto my flesh, pressing my ass cheeks together. “You have no damn idea how fuckin’ sexy you look right now.”
“Fuck me, baby,” I moan, wriggling my hips from side to side. “Fuck me. Hard.”
“You can take it hard?”
“Yes. Yes.”
His brings his cock to my wet pussy, pressing the head against my hole and pushing so that he spears inside of me, so big that my first instinct is to move away, to flee. But then I push back against him, grinding down the length of him, and my pussy opens up and warmth floods into me. His cock is so massive, it presses down on my sweet spot: that spot which is secret and deep and the source of so much pleasure. It presses down on it with power for a long time. Logan just holds his cock there, and then he growls, “Are you sure you can take it hard?”
“Yes!” I cry.
“All right.”
Logan Birch fucks me harder than I have ever been fucked, so hard that I have to reevaluate what it means to be fucked hard. He grips onto my ass cheeks and rams into me over and over, each thrust harder than the last, my ass cheeks pressing flat against his stomach muscles. I tear at the couch with my fingernails, with my teeth, bucking in time with his thrusts. We fall into a rhythm at once, both of us losing ourselves in the frantic motions of screwing. I think about the biker I saw watching me during my set, and how that biker is inside of me right now, and it seems so naughty, so stolen, so illicit. The pleasure doubles, trebles, because of the sense of danger that comes with it. I grind up and down his massive length, feeling every stone-hard inch of him.
He moans and I scream into the couch, both of us utterly captive. I push all the way back on his cock until I feel his balls squashed against my clit, and then push back even harder, taking all of him inside of me. He moans and growls and makes animal sounds which tell me he’s struggling to contain his pleasure, and I keep grinding, and he keeps fucking. Warmth rises all through me. It must be ninety-five degrees in here anyway but it feels double that, so hot my head boils and thought becomes impossible. I close my eyes, seeing red, and then black, and then nothing at all. I don’t see or think; I only feel.
He pounds into me so hard that I collapse forward and almost fall. I would fall, but he catches me, wrapping his arm around me and cupping my breast as he drills inside of me. The orgasm approaches, and then all at once it is on me, leaping like a wolf. The orgasm tears at me with its teeth. I gasp, and then I can’t breathe.
“Fu … fu … fu …”
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come hard.”
“I am!” I scream.
I spill come onto his pounding cock, my pussy going tight and my head flooding with ecstasy. I twist my hips, grinding his cock at the perfect angle, the orgasm coming in waves that unleash one after another quickly, pleasure spiking and then subsiding and then spiking again. I bite down so hard on the couch, I tear a chunk out of it, but I don’t care. All I care about is the orgasm, consuming me. I reach back and touch his belly, feeling the strength of the abs, pumping tirelessly. His hand grips my ass so hard I’m sure there will be a red mark there. He spanks me, and that does it: another explosive orgasm rends me, splits me in half, cutting me down the middle and sending pleasure flooding to both halves. I moan one final time and then lie still for a moment.
I rise once my orgasm is completely gone, my pussy still buzzing with the after-feeling, and buck and twist on his cock, hungry for his come, wanting him to experience the same pleasure I just did.
It only takes a moment, because he’s been withholding himself for me. “Fuck,” he grunts, leaning forward and biting into my shoulder, thrusting deeply one final time and spilling himself inside of me. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He slides aside, and I slide away, and for a second we just sit like that.
Later we order food and fall asleep together in front of the TV. For a short while it’s almost like we’re a couple. But as my eyes fall closed to the infomercial playing at eleven p.m., I can’t but feel like it’s a mistake to let him stay here, that it sends the wrong message. If I want to keep my distance I should wake him up and ask him to leave.
But the crook of his arm is too warm and my belly is too full of pizza.
Chapter Seven
Logan
I wake around half past six. Maybe it’s my one-night-stand instincts kicking in. This is usually the time I’d sneak out like a real piece of shit, not wanting to deal with all that morning-after bullshit, all those questions: “Do you want to stay for breakfast? When will we see each other again? Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” But when I look down at Cora, half-naked, with her pert breasts rising toward her nipples, I find I don’t feel like leaving. I’ll wait until she wakes up and I’ll let the questions come. I’ll let events run their course. If that means some scary intimacy, maybe I can deal with that. I don’t know what’s come over me. I just can’t get that water-snake dancing out of my head, or that water-snake sex, the way she shifted and writhed and twitched as though caught up in some ancient ritual.
I go into the kitchen and make myself some coffee, checking my phone as I wait for the water to boil. I don’t have any texts or calls, which is good. Lately it seems like all I do is wait for texts or calls from the club or Mom. The club means violence, and maybe bloodshed. And Mom might just mean the same one of these days. I push that thought away and stir the instant coffee into the water, pour in some milk and then take a sip. I feel oddly comfortable here. I’d never dream of swaggering into the kitchen in any other woman’s apartment and—
“What is that?” she asks, standing at the kitchen divider. She’s thrown on her T-shirt but not her bra; her nipples poke through the material. I try to look at her face but damn, it’s hard.
“Coffee,” I say, lifting the mug as if that makes it more obvious. “I’ll buy you a new jar if it’s that important.”
She’s looking at me like I’ve just gone into her bedroom and sniffed her panties. “You just made yourself a mug.”
“Yeah. I wanted coffee. I didn’t shit in your bathtub.”
“You think you can just make yourself a mug without asking, then.”
“Well, you know, I figured since I’d been balls-deep inside of you, we were past the asking-for-coffee stage. Apparent
ly I was wrong.” I can’t hide the annoyance in my voice, though usually I would. I try and summon my usual coldness, but it’s nowhere to be found. Surely she can’t bend over, bounce on my prick, and then talk to me like I’m scum on her shoe.
“Wow, what a lovely way to put it.” Even the way she holds herself is argumentative, shoulders back, lips curled. I can’t tell if she really hates me or if she’s just trying to. “I don’t think it’s very polite to go into someone’s kitchen and make yourself coffee without asking.”
“Then I don’t know what the goddamn rules are, princess, ’cause the way I was raised, if you’re comfortable enough to fuck someone, you’re comfortable enough to offer them some coffee. We shared a pizza last night. Do pizza and coffee have different rules? Maybe you ought to draw me a list. It seems pretty damn complicated.”
“It’s my coffee!” she snaps.
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Fair enough.” I pour it down the sink, even rinse out the mug and place it on the draining board. “Are you happy? Maybe you’ll be able to sleep easy now.”
“There’s no need to be an asshole about it.”
“I think you need to take a look in the mirror. You’re the one acting fuckin’ crazy.”
“Don’t call me crazy.”
“Don’t act crazy, then.”
She folds her arms. “I think you should leave. I don’t want you here. What? Don’t look at me like that! I think you should leave. What’s the problem? You got your payment for helping me out with Charles, didn’t you? You got yours. You took what you wanted.”
“From where I was standing, both of us were getting what we wanted. Unless you’re the best actress in Cali.”
“Maybe I am. How would you know? You don’t even know me.”
I walk around the partition and stand over her, looking down. “Maybe I’d like to get to know you.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t.” She takes a step back.
It’s like she’s a completely different woman from last night. I try not to take any offense at it, try not to feel upset or angry, try to remind myself that I’ve snuck out plenty of times before. But right now reason isn’t in the driver’s seat. I’m hurt, is the truth of it. The feeling of rejection isn’t exactly pretty. But I can’t show her that. Men like me never can. I hold my hands up as a sign of defeat. “If that’s how you feel. I just want you to know that you’re acting crazy right now, really bat-shit. I don’t know what it is. You weren’t too drunk. I know that for a fact. You were tipsy, sure, but I was tipsy too. I don’t know what the fuck it is.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she says. “We’re strangers, and I’d like you to leave.”
“Fine.” I feign a casual shrug, when really what I want to do is grab the mug from the draining board and smash it against the wall, kick the oven until the glass shatters, put a hole in the wall. But I keep that inside. Outside, I try and seem calm. “But let me tell you something. You didn’t fake it last night. I know that for sure.”
She bites her lip, seems about to say something, and then bites her lip harder and points at the door.
“Fine. See you around, princess.”
I shrug on my leather and make for the door.
She follows me, standing at the threshold. “Do not call me princess!” she shouts after me, and then slams it closed.
Walking down the stairs, I clench and unclench my fists, my temples pulsing, my jaw aching from where my teeth are clenched. The fucking rejection hurts, hurts bad, and I can’t stop thinking about what an asshole I was in the kitchen, thinking she’d get up and smile at me and ask me to make her a mug, and we’d watch TV or get breakfast and maybe I’d drive her to work if she felt too hungover. What a fucking prick.
That just proves it, I guess. Men like me can’t hang around for the morning after. Men like me can’t expose ourselves, even for something as seemingly harmless as coffee. I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest, and everything is worse because I feel melodramatic on top of it. I want to stop feeling this way.
“Whatever,” I say, closing down my emotions like I do on a job. “Fuck it.”
I just won’t think about her, or what just happened. I’ll just let it grow smaller in the rear-view. The water-snake will soon evaporate in my mind; a few club girls will help the process along.
I take a cab back to my bike. I’ve climbed on when my cell rings. Absurdly, I think it might be Cora for a second, but then I remember that we didn’t even exchange numbers.
“Your father is getting worse!” Mom cries down the phone. “Your father is getting worse and his only son is not even at the hospital! What sort of family is this, Logan? What sort of son are you?”
“Fuck’s sake, Ma. You just called me. What’d you expect me to do, sit at his bedside all damn day and night? You know as well as I do that he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be seen as weak. He doesn’t even want to seem human. I bet if he wasn’t so drugged up, he wouldn’t even let me come by at all.”
“You might be right,” Mom says. “Maybe you are. But I want you here anyway. Okay?”
“Okay, Ma.”
I hang up and ride down to the hospital, stopping on the way to grab a burger and a shake. Dad’s sitting up when I walk into his room, Mom holding a straw to his lips. He sucks weakly, dribbling. That’s the worst part about this whole mess, or at least one of the worst parts. The dribbling, like he’s a child, like he isn’t the president of the Demon Riders.
I take the seat opposite Mom. “You all right, old man?”
He grins weakly. “Fine,” he whispers in his too-soft voice. “I just wanted to tell you, son ...” His eyes close, and then open wide. He’s trying to stay awake but his body is fighting him. “I need to tell you …”
He falls asleep. Mom dabs at his chin and lowers his bed with the switch.
“The doctor thinks it might be the end of this month, maybe next.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Shit is right,” Mom agrees. She wipes a tear from her eye. “Where were you? With some girl, I bet.”
I think about telling her, laying the whole thing out (without the sordid details) and seeing if she can make sense of Cora’s behavior. But if I do that she’ll only want me to go back and try and make things right with her, which I know won’t work. And even if it would, I’m not about to start groveling.
“I was with Spider. We were getting shitfaced.”
Mom rolls her eyes but doesn’t ask any questions.
Chapter Eight
Cora
I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself that I was too drunk last night and that’s why I slept with him. I want to be able to lay the blame elsewhere. I want to be able to look into my eyes and see somebody who’s not responsible for letting my defenses crumble so easily. But the truth is last night was as much my fault as his, maybe more, because I’m the one who invited him back here. I lean closer to the mirror and try to convince myself that I didn’t seem like a crazy person when I screamed at him to leave, and that fails, too. In the end I stop trying to convince myself of anything and just go about getting ready for my shift at the dentist’s office.
Getting ready for me means painting over the rune tattoo on my hand with foundation, trying to make the coverup as seamless as possible, getting dressed, and then wrapping the light red scarf around my throat to hide my snake tattoo. All through this—and as I shower and apply my makeup—my mind drifts to Logan. It drifts to how it felt to be bent over, completely vulnerable to him, and how it felt to have his cock slide deep, deeper, deepest … And then I shut my mind to it, or try to. All I succeed in is stowing the feelings far back in my mind where they are quieter, at least.
I make myself some coffee and can’t help but think about what went through my mind when I saw him drinking from his mug. At first I felt a warm and homey feeling. It was almost like we were a couple. Part of me wanted to join him and wrap my arms around him and
place my cheek against his back, feel the power of him and then ask if he wanted to hang out later after work. Part of me wanted to drag him into the living room and strip him naked, just to get another look at him. Part of me wanted to fall to my knees and blow him right there. Or go for a walk, or anything. But then I remembered who I am and my promise to myself. In the Viking Age, oaths meant everything because they didn’t write anything down. They had lawspeakers who remembered all their laws. That was what I intended my promise to be: an unbreakable oath. And so my mind moved from fantasy to trying to scrape back some of my willpower.
I sip my coffee, watching the clock to make sure I leave in time.
I might have overreacted, but at the same time, what was the alternative? I need to focus on my singing, on trying to make something of my life. Getting into a serious relationship kills that, doesn’t it? But then, nobody said I had to get into a serious relationship. So if it isn’t going to be serious, what’s the point?