by Cynthia Dane
“Yes, yes, I knew you’d be into what I’m packing soon enough. That’s why I was back here sobering up for you.”
“Liar. You fell asleep, too.”
“Only for a couple of hours. You slept way longer than me.”
I ease forward, my nose coming closer to his. “Everything working downstairs?”
“Why?” He asks that, yet Drew’s hand doesn’t hesitate to reach up my shirt and clasp my breast. I half expect him to honk it, considering the playful mood he’s in. Yet all I get is an infuriating flick of his finger against my nipple. “You want me to fuck you like I’m taking payment for buying your train ticket?” It takes every drop of effort to not let my eyes roll back.
I don’t have enough effort. There they go. Can’t see shit now. Can only feel heat rushing to my pussy and tingles exploding in my tits.
“Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought.” Drew pulls his hand out of my shirt. I nearly fall forward. “You’re an easy slut.”
He says it with a nonjudgmental click of the tongue. Although everything from his tone to his posturing is facetious, I can’t help but take his words to heart. Does he sense that I take him seriously? Because Drew changes tune, sitting up to take me by the hands and draw me down into his lap. Soon, my arms are wrapped around him, his hand pushing up my skirt and sinking into the heat of my thigh. I’m so secure in his embrace that I almost forgot what he said.
“I mean,” Drew says, “you know what you want. Some people would say that makes you an easy slut.”
There’s something poetic about the way he says the word slut. Most men say it with disdain. They’ve picked up the cadences from society. From the men in their lives. From the very women they tell are sluts. Of course, a slut can be any woman they sexually disagree with. She could be the purest virgin at the nunnery and still be a slut. I fully understand the connotations of that word. My exes have called me a slut, a whore, a floozy. Women call me Jezebel.
I call myself complicated.
“You’ve already said it,” I say. “You can’t take it back once you’ve said it.”
“I guess it’s a good thing it doesn’t bother you, then.”
“Who says it doesn’t?”
“You.”
I don’t ask for an explanation. It’s in his eyes, which are as clear as they were the first night I met him. I can only imagine what he sees in my fucked-up eyes. The truth of who I am? What I really am? Deep down, we know what I am. Who I am. What powers me to do the things that I do. He can treat me like some puzzle to be solved, but why put that much thought into it? Anyone can look at how I interact with the world, let alone the men in it, and discern how I function. It’s been this way since I hit puberty. Since before, if we really dig into it.
With his hand up my skirt, I slide mine down his pants and clutch his hardening cock.
Ah, yes. We’re in business.
Without a single word uttered between us, Drew rips my skirt upward, clutches my ass, and spreads my legs across his lap. I get very little say in the matter. To the point I don’t care. This is what I want. Isn’t it obvious, from how aroused I already am? Just the thought of him calling me by my real name and throwing me down for sex has the wet dripping down my legs. I don’t hold back the gasp of surprise – and a little pain – as his half-erect cock burrows into me. The louder my acceptance of this pain, the more we’re both turned on. I want every sensation he can give me. Pleasure. Pain. Teasing. Satisfaction. I know that as my cunt gets him fully erect and my neurons fire up with desire, it will feel good. So good, in fact, that I’m nothing but a bouncing doll in his lap.
I really don’t deserve the kiss he plants on my lips or the soft inhale he gives my cleavage. My high-neck T-shirt separates his mouth from my skin, but the sheer amount of heat spreading across my chest has me gripping his shoulders and slamming myself onto his cock. Every thrust has him filling me in ways that only gravity can accomplish, whether I’m riding high or he’s piledriving into the core of my being. For every part of me that hates Drew Benton for being so good at fucking, there’s the other part that wants this to keep going forever. I’m probably never going to meet a lover who gets me on this level again. We’ll inevitably split, because we’re the toxic, sorry excuses for people that we are, but until then… ah, I’ll fuck him as hard as I dare.
“You look a mess.” Those accusatory breaths turn me on more. Drew’s hands are on my hips, pushing down my pelvis, making me a slave to his cock. Slowly, but surely, his tip is traversing the eager spaces of my cunt and getting ready to strike my elusive G-spot. Say hello to one of three men in my whole life who have ever found it. He may be the first one to find it with his damned cock, though. Go figure. “You always screw guys looking like you rolled right out of bed?”
My smile of triumph only grows as he talks dirty. “That’s right. Tell me how nasty I am.”
I slam down in such a way that his response is nothing but a garbled mess of masculine words. My shirt quickly ascends my torso, but doesn’t go over my head. Drew only raises it high enough to give him unfettered access to my breasts. As he sucks my nipples and slips his tongue beneath my tits, I arch my back and roar like a lioness from the overstimulation crashing down upon me. A thick cock in my cunt and a big, nimble tongue on my breasts? Heaven, here I come.
Or Hell, I suppose. I could be going to either.
“Didn’t even shower for you,” I say into the top of his head. Hair covers my face. Could be mine. Could be his. Either way, there is no trace of shampoo in this rendezvous. We’re only a pair of dirty lovers getting dirtier. “You have no idea what I’m covered in. I could be covered in another man for all you know.”
We both know that’s not true. Yet the fierce look I encounter when Drew lifts his head again tells me I’ve unlocked a beastlier part of him.
Oh, good. I had no idea my pussy could get tighter. Bet he didn’t, either.
I’m soon on my back. Abandoned. That’s how I feel when Drew pulls away from me, my legs left spread open and my pussy missing his presence already. My eyes instantly go to his glistening cock. Before I can take pride in how hard and wet I’ve made it, however, Drew pulls my skirt off and tosses it onto the floor like it doesn’t matter. Like I might not plan on wearing it ever again.
“You’re in trouble now.” His growl is both reassuring and menacing, or maybe I mistake reassurance for attraction. I definitely do not fight him off when his hand lightly encloses my throat. I never struggle to breathe. Not as long as I stay perfectly still. Except those panic-driven parts of my brain are now alive with adrenaline. Will we stay like this while he fucks me? Am I supposed to feel like his prisoner? His sex slave? God knows how many boyfriends have gotten off on that scenario, especially those that never admit it. They go for the throat and the one-two pumps.
Not Drew. Every movement, every look, every breath is part of a moment. He’s getting himself off. Getting me off. I don’t want it to stop. It can’t end. Not now. Not when my legs are spreading so wide for him that he has to call me a slut again. That’s all I fucking want. Just tell me what a big ol’ whore I am, Drew. Call me your whore. Take a little dominance and possessiveness into your hands. I may be a sullied, dirty whore, but by God, I can be all yours for a few nights.
Yes, I know I sound insane. No, I don’t care. Not when I’m so aroused that I can’t stop thinking about his cock consuming me.
His hand lowers from my throat. The look in his eyes does not fade, however.
I expect him to flip me over, bury my face in his bed, and fuck me until he can’t manage another thrust. Every inch of my body is ready for it. I’m prepared to hold my breath and take it. Honestly, it can’t come soon enough.
Instead, Drew sits back and pulls me back into his lap. Except this time I’m facing forward, his hands securing me to his chest while his cock slams against the brunt of my pussy.
“I want you to look in the mirror while I fuck you,” he growls. Sure enough, I open my eyes to discove
r we’re looking right into the vanity on the other side of the room. My vision may be obscured, but I can make out us. He’s got his pants on. I’ve got my shirt on. That’s the only clothing between us. My hair is a mess as he tosses it out of the way so he can suck on the side of my neck and the top of my shoulder. My hands have nowhere to go except the arm wrapped around my chest. My pussy doesn’t have to think about where it’s going. It’s on his cock again within two seconds, my cries of desire echoing in this high-rise bedroom. “I want you to know what you look like when you fuck a man dry.”
I’m not vain enough to film sex tapes and watch them later, but I understand the thrill of watching myself have sex, especially when I’m meant to get off from the latent shame infusing my body. Isn’t it amazing how easily my body accommodates him? He’s so much bigger than me. His cock stretches me wide open in this position. If this were porn, the camera would be making a beeline for my pussy milking his shaft like I needed his cum yesterday. It’s not just him bouncing my ass with his thighs. I’m 100% throwing myself into it, completely abandoning any and all propriety so I can get off on the moment.
“Yes,” I say, as he hooks my hands beneath my thighs and spreads my legs so wide that I now rely on him to do all the fucking. My arms wrap behind him. My fingers can almost touch. I don’t want them to touch and ruin the sensation of him completely owning me. “Yes!”
Yes to what? To this feeling? To him getting everything he wants? Yes to who I am? Yes to the orgasm forcing me to close my eyes so I can appreciate every damn moment? Definitely yes to the growl perpetually sounding in my ear.
“Call me a slut again.” My orgasm wans, but another is hot on its heels. This time, he better come with me. “I fucking love it when you call me a slut.”
One finger touches my clit. I’m almost off like a rocket, but it was only a tease.
“Why tell you?” That’s all Drew says before he thrusts up into me so deep that I’m split wide open.
Do I see my face the moment it happens?
You tell me. I’ve only come so hard again that I see nothing but stars before my face.
I feel more than that, though. I feel the natural guilt embedded into me from birth. Guilt that arouses and excites me. The feeling that I shouldn’t be doing this. Not with a man like this. Not when I have so many smarts and so much sophistication built inside of me that it’s a waste to fuck like this all night. I could be doing so much more with my life, right? More than squeezing a cock so hard that the man attached to it completely loses control and comes in two firm, satisfying bursts.
I fall down to the bed. Drew isn’t too far behind me, but he’s no longer touching my hot skin. It doesn’t matter. He’s still inside of me. I feel him dripping out, sticking to my thighs, and promising me that I’m all I want to be and more.
This intoxicating feeling is mutual, I’m sure.
“What a waste,” I can hear someone say in the deepest corners of my mind. “What a waste to take so much of a man when you have an IUD. You can’t even trap him with a baby. You like it, don’t you? You’re just a slut.”
I push myself up and look right into Drew’s mirror. My lover may have his arm flung over his face as he recuperates, but I’m instantly renewed by the view of my countenance.
That’s a woman who isn’t afraid of the truth. That’s a woman who will always shamelessly get what she wants, no guilt to get in her way.
That’s me. I’m that woman.
Chapter 21
DREW
My father was never big on teaching me important life lessons. By the time I was born, he was absorbed in his work and completely checked out from the family. My sister was old enough for him to take under his wing and show the ropes from the time she could recite her ABCs. (Which was obnoxiously early, of course.) That left me to flounder my way through life as a trust fund kid, always looking for a little meaning in a life set-up to fail in the most fantastical of ways.
So I got few “talks.” Those fell upon his step-mother, who took it upon herself to teach me the birds and the bees and how to prevent syphilis when I inevitably ran out there and started sticking it in any girl who would have me. I can’t tell you if that was a boon or not. I mean, what man wants to hear about sex from his grandmother? In retrospect, she also left out a lot of crucial things. Including facts that could have only come from a man, like my father.
Like, oh, say… the difference between infatuation and love.
I’m well acquainted with infatuation. Desire. Need. For a woman, specifically. I know all about seeing a beautiful woman and instantly wanting to get to know her, both intimately and carnally. She can tell me her childhood dreams while I rub my stiff cock up and down her body. Hum her favorite Sunday school song while she blows me. Help me study for my chemistry exam as she sensually strips for our entertainment. Go ahead, girl! Knock yourself out!
Yes. I know all about that. My whole life has been an endless stream of women who infatuate me, both those I genuinely pursue and those who I’m paid to woo.
Love? Real, passionate, romantic love? I’m not sure I know what that looks like. Nobody’s ever been around to show me. My own parents are a mess of ignoring each other’s cheating. My father has always had a mistress of some sort, and my mother? Occasionally I hear her flirting with a man more around my age than my father’s, but for the most part, she sequesters herself in sexless bubbles. My sister is the only one who has had “real” relationships, but considering how quickly she goes through them? Meh.
If you’ve lasted this long listening to me whine about this crap, then you know what I’m thinking. Who am I kidding? You’ve been snickering in my direction from the moment I encountered that vixen in a downtown Portland lounge. You probably would’ve laughed had you been around for my first meeting with Jason Rothchild, the man who hired me to completely destroy Cher Lieberman in all the ways she destroyed him.
Uh huh. We’re all yucking it up now.
Do you think I don’t know that woman is poison? Every time I kiss her, I drink a little bit more. Merely brushing my hand against her cheek or her damned ass brings me closer to death. People don’t call her black widow for nothing. I’m quickly en-route to become the next man caught in her dastardly web. Why? Because she sucks cock like a goddess and screams like a lustful siren when we fuck?
No. That’s infatuation. Let’s be real. While love can certainly encompass all the blissful ways two people come together in their bed, only sex is attributed to infatuation. Isn’t that one of the core differences between lust and love? Damnit, why hasn’t anyone ever been around to teach me these things? I’m thirty-years-old. I shouldn’t be figuring this out on my own! Although, to be fair, I always assumed I would know by now.
Wouldn’t I know if I’m in love?
What does it mean when I can’t stop thinking about her? For every memory of the curve of her body, the gasps of her orgasms, and the clench of her cunt around my cock, there’s a glimpse into her sultry smirks and the honest way she cackles when I’ve amused her. If she’s using me for my money and bed, then she’s doing an admirable job of making it look like she fancies me. Even if we both acknowledge that this is a casual thing that will come to an eventual end – probably sooner rather than later – that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. With benefits.
That only works if we’re on the same page, though. If she truly is playing me for a convenient fool, or as a way to get back at me for what I do, then I’m fucked. In more ways than one.
This is something I’ve been suspecting for a while. Since the morning I saw her humanity displayed on my bed. No, I’m not talking about that. Whatever you’re thinking. That’s not it. I don’t need to see a woman bleed to know she’s human, for fuck’s sake. I did, however, see fear and anxiety on that morning. Two very human things that I’m sure most people never see in the likes of Cher. She guards her heart like I guard my reputation. Yet that wasn’t enough for me to assume I might be in love with her. That didn’
t come until she was in my Seattle abode, commanding my bed like she might command an entire army.
If she’s Helen of Troy, sending thousands of men off to their deaths, then that makes me some poor Grecian sap about to spend the next twenty years bumbling about on the waves. Didn’t that poor fucker also have to deal with sirens? I apparently live in a hell where one woman has taken the mantle of every female in Greco-Roman lore.
We didn’t just make love that one night, when a little high and drunk enough to think it a fantastic idea to go all night. We went on into the morning. The afternoon called us to get something to eat, but then we were at it again, two people who one moment pretended to not know a single thing about each other, only to follow it up with accusations of seduction and delusions of grandeur.
Cher is a woman you take every which way to Sunday and then want to go on for another week. She leaves you both completely satisfied and hungry for more. It’s not enough to make such sensual love to her that she’s biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut in crowning ecstasy. You have to fuck her so hard she’s screaming your name and begging you to completely ruin her in ways you were not paid to make happen. “It’s our little secret,” she whispers in your ear, her naked body pressed up against yours as her hand slowly encases your hip. “I won’t walk right ever again. Because that’s how hard you go. Bruises up and down my thighs from the impact of yours. Now, flip me over and do it again.”
Right when you think you can’t go anymore, she says something or moves in such a way that you’re hard all over again. And it’s not the fun kind of hard. You keep banging away at her, yet none of the sweat, the curse words, or the ejaculations sate you. You’re not halfway to finished until she finally falls down to your bed, breathless, her legs slowly closing as self-satisfied giggles fall from her lips. Only then do you collapse into a heap of exhaustion, your whole body angry at you for pushing it so damn hard.