by Naomi West
“Go on,” I urge him, sliding my hand up his leg. “Tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says. “These ain’t been charming fantasies, neither.”
“What have you been thinking about?” I ask, my voice suddenly breathy. I lean forward, looking up into his face. “Tell me.” My body is afire with anticipation. I need to hear his words, to be welcomed into his fantasies. What am I, in his head, and can I be the same in real life?
“Do you really wanna know?” he asks.
“I do. I really, really do.”
He swallows a sip of whisky and then places the bottle on the coffee table. With one hand, he grips my hand. With the other, he grabs onto my knee. “I’ve been thinking lots of things, but one thing just keeps coming back to me.” He slides his hand from my knee onto my thigh, squeezing it. “I know this is damn wrong, but I’ve been thinking about pulling down those jeans and tearing away your panties with my teeth and spanking that tight ass, spanking it and then bending you over and shoving my hard cock deep inside of you, and just fucking you, Kayla, fucking you hard and making you come all over my cock.” He lets out a breath, shaky, the breath of a lion before a hunt. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
He slides his hand further and further up my thigh. My pussy is wet now, my breath coming faster and faster. My nipples tingle, my clit tingles, the inside of my pussy tingles; everything does. I can’t think anymore. His tattoos, his muscles, his face, everything: his intense eyes, watching me. I open my legs. “Do it, then,” I whisper. “Make it happen.”
He slides his hand the last few inches, clamping down on my pussy with all his strength. He presses his palm against the crotch of my jeans so hard that the denim squashes against my lips, crushing them along with my clit. I let out a gasp and fall forward, sliding my hand up his leg, under his shorts, and grabbing his cock. It’s huge, hot, and hard. I squeeze it and move my hand up and down, and then we’re lost to the world. If either of us had thoughts of stopping before, we’ll never be able to act on them now. He moans into my neck, kissing and biting me, and I moan softly as I jerk his cock up and down, so big I can’t even get my hand around it. This is Arsen’s brother, but I box that thought away. It doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is how hot he is.
His cock is so massive I can feel individual veins against my palm. But most of all I feel his hand on my pussy, unclasping my jeans and yanking them around my knees and then pressing his middle finger down on my clit, pushing it firmly like a button and then rubbing it side to side so quickly that I can’t feel any movement, just the presence of an immense heat, a heat that captivates my entire lower half. Soon I can’t even touch him anymore, the pleasure is so huge. I haven’t felt pleasure like this in all my life, with any other man. I don’t know what it is about Xander. Maybe it’s the tattoos, the fact that he’s an outlaw, the muscles, or just the circumstances. Whatever it is, my pussy has never burned like this before. I throw myself back, gasping and moaning.
He pulls my jeans completely off and goes to his knees, nudging the coffee table out of the way, and then splits my thighs violently, digging his fingers into my skin. It hurts, but it feels amazing, too, naughty, rough. I’ve spent months worrying about how to get this done, how to handle that, but now I don’t have to worry about anything. Now all I have to do it give myself to him and I’m glad to do it. I lean back on the couch, spreading my legs, and bite down on my lip as he presses his face against my pussy, going berserk on my clit, licking it fast, kissing, almost making out with it. I grab onto his head, pushing him against me, utterly caught up in the madness of this. One moment ago we were flirting; now his mouth is consuming my pussy. I tilt my hips, lifting them slightly, and push down on him as he licks, the pressure of it combining to an even more intense pleasure.
I feel the orgasm coming but it still surprises me. It’s been so long since I’ve experienced this that I was starting to forget the feeling, but now that it hits me I can’t ever remember forgetting. The pressure in my pussy grows and grows like a ball of heat, a star going inferno, spreading throughout me until all I can feel is Xander’s tongue against my clit and all I hear are his growling sounds, as though he is taking as much pleasure from this as I am. He is rushing me toward orgasm. That’s the hottest thing of all. He wants me to come just as badly as I want to come. I close my legs around his head, trapping him, and slide my fingers through his hair. Hotter and hotter, larger and larger, the ball of pleasure grows. Until it bursts.
It hits me like a punch to the stomach, causing me to seize up, my body cramping. I stay like that for what feels like a long time, but really must be just seconds, and then the pleasure releases, all of it, emptying out of me like air from a balloon. The orgasm captures me; waves and waves of pleasure crash into me with the force of a tsunami. Months of withheld pleasure escapes me. I moan and writhe, pressing my hips firmer and firmer against him, biting my lip but moaning loudly all the same. It feels like the ball of heat in my belly is re-forming and sending flares throughout me, to my fingertips, to my toes. I grind my pussy against his mouth. His teeth nick me but I don’t care. All I feel is the heat, the oppressive heat—and I want it to oppress me.
“Yes—yes—yes,” I whisper. “Fuck, Xander, oh—oh my—oh my God!” I have to clamp my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.
The waves of euphoria come less and less frequently, but they still cause me to tremble, like the after-judders of an earthquake. My body vibrates with the force of the pleasure, my pussy feeling emptied, and yet there is still the residue of lust there, the capacity for further pleasure. Xander stands up and takes off his clothes and the capacity becomes a reality: over six feet, completely naked, cock so hard it stands almost straight up.
He approaches me and I climb up onto my knees without having to question it. It’s as though we’ve done this dance before, as though we already know how to please each other. His eyes turn wolfish when he sees me like this: back arched, pushing my breasts out, pushing my ass out, waiting for him. My body is alight under his gaze. For the first time in a long time, I feel sexy. No, I don’t just feel sexy; I believe that I am sexy. Thrill after thrill runs through me, my pussy getting warmer and warmer. He brings his cock to me and I pounce on it, taking it in my mouth, cupping his balls.
I suck as much of him as I can fit in my mouth, opening it wide and taking in big mouthfuls of his rock-hard cock. He pushes his cock back into my throat. I choke quietly. I would never have believed that the sound of choking could be sexy until now. I grab onto his hips and force my head down, looking up at him. From where I am he looks even taller, seven, eight feet of pure muscles, a graffitied wall of bumpy rock. He groans and lets out small growls, the hottest sounds I’ve ever heard. There’s something dirty about knowing that I’m the one making him growl like that, that less than half an hour ago we were talking and now we’re doing this. His cock tastes slightly salty as pre-come fills my mouth, spit and pre-come dribbling down my chin as I lick the tip. I soak his cock, get it wet enough so that it can slide right into me. And it will be in me soon. The thought both excites and terrifies me. He’s so big. He’s so fucking huge.
He grabs me by the shoulders and lifts me up as though I weigh nothing. His arms don’t even tremble as he holds me there, completely off the ground. I’m not heavy but I’ve never been with a man who could lift me up like this, arms fully extended, without breaking a sweat. He must be insanely strong. He looks me in the eyes for a time, his bright greens penetrating me, and then turns me around and lowers me to the couch. I grip the edge of the couch, pressing my breasts against the back cushions, and then stick my ass out, baring my pussy for him, welcoming him.
He grabs my ass cheeks so hard that I know I’ll see handprints the next time I look in the mirror. But I don’t care. If anything, that makes it sexier. He brings his cock to my pussy, pressing the helmet up against the hole, just enough to make me feel how massive he is. His helmet
pushes firmly against me, splitting me open, my lips stretching around the girth of him. Then he grabs his cock and pushes firmer, pressing more and more of himself inside of me. For a few moments there is pain as his length slides inside of me, the pain of something too big, too powerful, but very quickly lust and pleasure replaces pain. Wetness floods my pussy, mixing with spit and pre-come on his cock. I open for him.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. “Xander. Fuck.”
“You’re so fuckin’ sexy,” he snarls. “Push your ass out like that. Keep pushin’ your fuckin’ ass out like that.”
It feels good to do as he says. It feels good to know that what I’m doing has an absolute result, to know that what I’m doing is appreciated. It feels good to be sexy, wild, and carefree. So I push my ass out on his cock, sliding down him until my ass cheeks push flat against his abs.
“Can you take it hard?” he asks, voice trembling with withheld passion. It reminds me of a bowstring trembling as the bowman struggles to withhold the arrow.
“Yes,” I tell him.
And then we fuck; we fuck like I’ve never fucked before, like I never dreamed I would want to fuck. It’s hard and fast and frantic, it’s animalistic, it’s mad. He completely loses control on me and I completely lose control of myself, bucking in time with his thrusts, both of us falling apart only to come together violently in the middle, the room full of hushed moans and the sound of flesh slapping. He spanks me a couple of times and I never knew it could feel so down and dirty, so naughty, so much like we’re doing something wrong. And I never knew that doing something which felt wrong and dirty could feel so damn good.
I dig my fingernails into the cushions and bounce, over and over, slamming down on his cock as he slams into me. Sweat slides from him and onto me, making both of us slick. Then he leans over me, his abs almost flat against my back, his hands cupping my breasts, pinching the nipples. We’re so close, almost like we’re sinking into each other. My pussy screams, howls, beats a war drum. I close my eyes; when I open them an orgasm tears its way through me, almost as though opening my eyes was the trigger.
My pussy goes tight around his cock and so much euphoria spills out of me that I feel disoriented, feel like I’m spinning head over heels. I collapse onto the couch and my whole body vibrates, my hips gyrating like crazy on his cock, my come spilling down the length of him. I feel like I’m emptying for him and it’s the best feeling I can imagine: right now, ever, forever. All that exists is pleasure. Before, there was anxiety and stress but that was in a life long-ago lived. Now there is only this potent pleasure, this eruptive euphoria. I reach back and dig my fingernails into his ribbed abs, feeling the wet muscles, struggling to find purchase. I think I make him bleed. My pussy gives one final scream, emptying its last, and then Xander thrusts deeply into me and bites down on my shoulder, growling so close to my ear it’s like he’s growling inside my head.
“Fuck,” he whispers, sliding onto the couch.
“Fuck,” I agree, dropping into his arms.
Chapter Eleven
Xander
At some point in the night the kid starts to cry and Kayla gets up, but a few minutes later she comes back to me, climbing into my arms. The couch isn’t big enough for two people but somehow we make it work, sinking into each other and hugging like I’ve never—in my entire life—done with a woman. I’ve been with my fair share of women, but I’ve never been the hugging type, the snuggling type, whatever the fuck snuggling is. But right now it feels good to have her in my arms. I wake up several times in the night, holding her close to me, enjoying the way her hair smells: like nature, like something fresh, even if it is tangled and crazy-looking. I bury my face in her hair throughout the night, breathing in the scent of her. She kisses my forearm at one point, which is across her chest. There’s something so intimate about that. A woman has never kissed my arm like that. And if any other woman did it, I’d wanna get the hell out of here. But I hug her closer.
I wake with sunlight resting on my face. Kayla snores softly. I get up as carefully as I can, leaving her wrapped in a blanket one of us must have pulled over us in the night, and then pull on my T-shirt and shorts. I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face, and then go into my bedroom and look down at the kid. It’s half six in the morning and he’s awake, a smile on his face, punching the air.
“You’re a little fighter, eh?” I sit on the edge of the bed and offer him my finger. I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I feel different this morning to how I did yesterday, less opposed to the idea of this kid. I’ve never been a sex-changes-me sort of man, but I think this might be the exception, ’cause there’s no denying that this sex has changed me. Cormac grips my finger and for a split second, it’s like Arsen is back. It’s little Arsen looking up at me, the same way he’d look up at me when I was a toddler and he was a baby and I’d be the one feeding him because Dad was a useless sack of shit. I told Kayla I was no babysitter but that’s a lie, because I babysat Arsen every day he needed it when we were younger.
“Goo,” he says. “Ga-ga.”
“Goo ga-ga,” I agree. “It’s funny, little man, but you’ve got me thinking on some good stuff about my little brother, your dad. I’ve been focusing on the bad but it’s hard, you know, when you’re looking up at me with that big smile. Maybe I don’t have to be an asshole all the time. I don’t know. I feel good. I feel … Hell, I feel. That’s enough for me.” He holds onto my finger tightly. It feels like the kid needs me, which is a shame ’cause it should be Arsen here doing this with him, but even so, I like it. I like the way he looks at me. It’s like I’m worth a damn. “I’ll tell you all about your dad one day. He was the best man I ever met.”
I go into the kitchen, to my store of whisky under the sink, and then just stay like that, leaning over, for a long time, far longer than I have before. I’ve paused like this a few times, seeing myself almost in the third person: hunched over in the dusty cupboard, eyes roving over the packed-together bottles, wondering what happened to this pathetic bastard to make him skulk around for whisky when the sun has barely risen. But usually I’ll just push the uncertainty away and get on with my drinking. It don’t take much to push away doubts when it comes to whisky. At least, for me it doesn’t. But I must stand here for five minutes, just staring.
Kayla, Kayla and the kid; they’re the thing. I could get trashed again and maybe I can justify it at the club by saying that I can still do my job, but the truth is when I’m drunk, I’m slower and clumsier and duller. When I’m drunk I’m not half the man I am when I’m sober, and if I’m going to protect Kayla and Cormac from Connor, then I need to be sober. I pick up a whisky bottle—it’s cool, almost cold, and its weight is nice and familiar in my hand—and go to the window, looking out upon the Rockies, ever-looming. It always makes me feel small to look at these mountains, like the eyebrows of a giant poking through the earth, the eyes watching. I open the bottle and bring it to my lips. Just one drink won’t hurt, will it? One drink won’t screw me over. One drink’ll just settle my nerves and—
“No,” I whisper. “Fuck, no, no, no.”
I replace the cap and return to the sink, lips trembling with the desire to gulp, gulp until the bottle is half-empty, gulp until the warmth is back in my body. I feel too cold. I need some food, some meaty food, and a coffee. I go to the front door and lock it, double-lock it, and then lift up the armchair and place it in front of it. When Kayla asks what I’m doing—half-asleep—I just touch her head and tell her to go back to dreaming.
Then I climb out onto the fire escape. I can’t have Connor breaking into this place while I’m gone, after all.
I get a few strange looks as I climb down the ladder onto the street, but if outlawing has taught me anything it’s that mostly folks just mind their business. Most people don’t want to take the extra effort to get involved in someone else’s life. I walk onto the street and to the breakfast place across the way, which isn’t going to open for another half ho
ur.
I pace up and down, opening and closing my hands, trying to stop my mind from straying to whisky. But whisky, whisky … the elixir, sliding down my throat. Kayla, I remind myself. Cormac. Kayla-Cormac, Cormac-Kayla. I have to think of them. If Connor comes for her he might bring backup and I’ll need to be sharp. Not that Connor knows where I live; at least I think he doesn’t.
“I’ve seen that walk,” the homeless guy says. I’ve seen him around here a few times. He’s tall and has a tattoo of a snake under his eye. His hair might be blond or brown, it’s hard to tell. His face is covered in dirt and his clothes are full of holes. He rubs his nose and smiles at me, flashing a mouth full of as many holes as his shirt. “I know that walk, lad.” It’s difficult to tell his age on account of the dirt: somewhere between thirty and fifty, at any rate. “You itching for somethin’: a drink, a needle, a smoke, a line. I’ve even seen gamblers walkin’ how you’re doing now, outside the casino back in Vegas. Some crazy walkers down that way.”
“Here you go.” I hand him a ten-dollar bill.
“What’s that for?” he says, taking it.