Intoxicated

by Cynthia Dane

  “I’m gonna keep giving you what you want for the rest of my life.” That’s his verbal promise to me as I’m made completely nonverbal. His cock is so thick and hard that I struggle to take every inch into my mouth. It’s a point of pride to do it, though. Like hell I’ll let myself drown tonight! “You think I’m afraid to put in the work? The only thing I’m afraid of is you walking out again.”

  My wincing isn’t because I hate what he says. What can I say? Sometimes a dick punches you right in the throat and knocks the breath out of you. I’ve got my bearings back by the time he starts fucking my throat, though. So, this isn’t a mere cleanup job, huh? He’s getting off, and I’m the lucky lady to deep throat him.

  “I’ll give you sweet and gentle love if that’s what you want, my spoiled, selfish princess.” Drew both pulls on my hair and pushes my head down. It’s a steady rhythm that matches the thrusts of his hips and gives me ample opportunity to reorient myself with the breaths I need to keep going. “Or I’ll fuck your ass against the window if that’s what keeps you with me.”

  I grab his thigh and moan. It throws me off rhythm just enough that I legit begin to choke. Drew is quick to pull me off his lap and to get on top of me again, his kisses on my throat as if to say he’s sorry.

  It’s my fault. I got caught up in the moment and forgot that deep-throating is kinda hard.

  “Make me come and then fill me with yours,” I say when I have my voice back. One leg is already thrown against his hip again. Soon, he rolls me over and pulls me back against him. Fingers plunge into my cunt. A moan completely obliterates what I was about to say before he so rudely interrupted me. “That’s all it takes to keep this slut around.”

  Yeah, I wasn’t gonna continue until I got the chance to say that.

  Drew’s hand gently encircles my throat, a finger entering my mouth as my leg lifts and his cock drives back into me. He wraps his other arm around my torso and squeezes my breast. He fucks me so hard that I hear his balls spanking my ass. I have no chance to feel it, though. Only my spoiled cunt getting more of that good shit.

  I’ve almost forgotten everything leading to this moment. I forgot the insults, the histories, and the man I left behind at some stupid party to come here. I’ve forgotten the exes and the embarrassing shit I did in the name of advancing my life. I’ve forgotten the stories he’s told me about his own life. Why do I care about any of that when we’re doing this?

  Of course I’ll stay. If I get this whenever I want for the rest of my life, why the hell would I leave? Don’t tell me he’s making some great sacrifice by fucking me like the woman he both wants to sully and marry. Most men only get one woman like that in their lives. I better damn well be his spoiled slut.

  Oh, I’m sorry. His spoiled princess. That’s what we’re calling it now.

  It doesn’t take me long to come again. My body clenches so hard while I’m screaming and writhing that my cunt’s almost too tight for him to get back in again. But where there’s a fucking will, there’s a fucking way, and Drew moans like I’m about to milk him dry.

  I wish.

  He’s got plans for me, see. I have to ride his lap while he spanks my ass. I have to hang over the edge of the bed and feel my G-spot take more of his tender caresses. I’m thrown from one end of the bed to the other, only to end up against the wall above his headboard, where my head nearly knocks down a picture of some stupid bridge. I’m busy, okay. Too busy having an orgasm as he sucks my throat and squeezes my thighs.

  I’m sore from head to toe, but it’s the kind of soreness that keeps you going. If you stop, you can’t start again. So we go, go, go, our insatiable lust only matched by how often I come once the third orgasm comes and goes. Does it actually stop? Or am I in some rich, orgasmic haze that makes me pliable and convinced that I’m already married to this man?

  I don’t know what surprises me more. That he intends to finish in the missionary position, or that I love it?

  “Look into my eyes when I come inside you, baby,” isn’t the kind of thing I used to find romantic, let alone hot, but it’s all I can think about as he settles between my legs and makes long, hard love to me. It’s not as frantic and determined as it was for the past half hour, but his stamina does not waver, nor does he slow down for the sake of catching his breath. Or maybe I don’t really notice, because I’m so enraptured by his flushed complexion that everything both slows and speeds up like we’re traveling through every timeline to ever exist.

  “You finally ready for me?” Drew pushes himself up on his hands and stares right into my eyes. “Because I’ve been ready for you for like twenty minutes now.”

  “Do it,” I dare him. Even in the most romantic of moments, I have to dare him. It’s in my blood.

  He smothers me with one last kiss before I hear the relieving gasp in his throat and feel the surge of heat filling me up inside.

  Drew never hesitates, like he never relents.

  Is it weird that I don’t really notice the actual moment he comes? When everything slows down so much, I’m busy staring at the ripples in his muscles, the sweat dripping down his skin, and the crease in his face that displays his vulnerability to someone he loves. I’m only aware of how sore I am because he finally slows down, taking a moment to rest inside of me as one last breath heaves from his lips.

  The ache inside of me is temporarily sated. A kiss seals my intentions.

  “I love coming inside you,” he mutters against my mouth. “It’s the best damn feeling in the world.”

  “Physically?”

  “I should hope emotionally, too.”

  “Sorry, I’m stuck on the physical right now. Remember, I’m one-track-minded.”

  Drew pulls out. I had hoped to spend a little more time together like that, but I also don’t mind letting my legs fall limp and sticking my fingers in the fluids spilling out of me. Drew is such an overachiever, but I’m pretty sure it’s mostly me down there. I was so wet when he first entered me, and now I’m like a dam that’s burst open after a torrential storm.

  My fingers travel down my swollen clit. Drew is still stroking himself.

  “Come again,” I purr, toes curling into the blankets. “Come on me and make me your slut once and for all.”

  “I’d rather do one better.”

  “You want me to suck you off?” Dare I dream about that fantasy coming true again? “Come all over my face or give me a pearl necklace?”

  “I’d rather come inside you again.”

  My legs are permanently stuck open, so… “What’s stopping you? I’m open for business all night, and you’re my only customer.”

  “You know what I want.”

  It takes me a moment. I’ll blame my orgasm-riddled brain. That and my body is so pussy-centric right now that I forget I told him I wanted all my holes possessed by angels and demons alike tonight.

  My fingers continue to massage my sensitive pussy. I poke one finger inside and lick it before circling my clit again. Under Drew’s attentive gaze, half the shit inside of me slowly slides down my ass.

  Eventually, I flip over, my wet ass in the air.

  Pretty funny, isn’t it? He’s fucked my ass before, and we had the usual to-do over lube and careful, deliberate strokes to make sure it felt good on both sides. Oooh, not tonight. For some blessed reason, we’re so damn wet that he barely has to test me before the entire length of his cock is back inside of me.

  It’s so fucking tight and satisfying that I have to hold back an instant orgasm. Not Drew, though. He just went nuts inside of my pussy. He’s going to take his time working his way back up to climax. In the meantime, I get what I wanted.

  I don’t have the words – or the breath – to express it.

  Not to you, anyway. Trust me when I say I use the last of my energy to tell Drew how hard to fuck because I know he’s afraid of hurting me. I ain’t afraid. I’ve got an arsenal of colorful language to make sure he finishes the job right. You’re not going to fuck my ass after every
thing we’ve been through and not make me feel like I’ve been through the wringer. The man I love knows how to fuck me good and hard. He doesn’t hold back. He can’t hold back. He’s so into me that he knows my cries are of pleasure and not pain. My languid moans are because my hand is on my clit and the last of the cum I’m holding inside of me runs down my leg and squirts on the bed. He’s right, I guess. I wanted to feel like his slut, and we both made that happen.

  He throws the language right back at me. Drew both tells me he loves me and calls me the dirtiest shit as he erupts one more time. In my ass, of all places.

  We crumple on the bed together. I think I’ve finally tuckered him out. I know that if he tries to go at me again I might finally have to put one of my feet down.

  “I only wish I weren’t such a stupid mortal,” he says with a labored breath. “I’d keep fucking you like you deserve.”

  “It’s my own fault. I drained it all out of you.”

  “I let you.”

  Do we bicker? Do we cuddle? Do we gaze longingly into each other’s eyes and imagine some twisted future together? Or do we wait for some strength to return to our legs so we can take this to the shower?

  If you know me, I love a good challenge. I elect we do it all. Again. And again.

  Every damn day until we die of intoxication.

  Epilogue

  DREW

  “Of course, there are no guarantees when it comes to love.” I show my client the six-sided dice I keep on hand for these brilliant explanations. “Are you familiar with Dungeons & Dragons?”

  This man, Mr. Jeffrey Klein, has to be at least fifty-five. Yet he’s that self-assured and rather sophisticated fifty-five. You know, three-piece suit, groomed hair and nails, and the right scent on his person that doesn’t completely overwhelm everyone around him. He’s as likely to drive himself in his Bentley as he is to hire a driver for the day. When he walks, it’s with those careful steps that turn every lady’s head.

  You’d think he doesn’t need dating help. If anything, he’d usually be coming to me for help with an ex, but here Mr. Klein is, having heard about my new, unique dating services.

  And I’m over here dropping nerd shit on his head.

  “I may be familiar with it,” he diplomatically says, as if that tells me anything. Was he part of the satanic panic in the ‘80s? Because that won’t help me. “Role-playing in your sunroom while the dungeon master rolls a twenty for charisma?”

  “Right. Sunroom.” All right, I admit, I wasn’t expecting him to actually know that much. Let alone… sunroom? At least he didn’t say basement. I wasn’t ready for those flashbacks to my high school days. “Then you’re familiar with the roll of the dice, so to speak. Every time you interact with a woman you have your eye on, there’s a chance that things will go really well…” I tip the six-side up. “Or really poorly.” The one appears. A discerning gentleman will imagine snake eyes, of course, but we’re talking nerd magic here. “Of course, there are ways to up your chances of success. Like you wouldn’t invest in a company that can’t prove itself, a woman looking for the right husband won’t go for someone who doesn’t prove his worth. You have to create your character, so to speak.”

  He taps his chin. There are only a few white hairs there. Enough that a woman would be inclined to drape her fingers against them and giggle. But I get a feeling that our older friend here isn’t looking for a sugar baby. Based on what Mr. Klein has said to me so far, he’s completely over women who are only into his money. He’s been burned a few times. Not ungrateful enough to hire a professional heartbreaker, but jaded toward the dating scene. He doesn’t want to hide his wealth, but he also doesn’t want to advertise a big target on his back. These waters can be tricky to navigate if you’re a man like him.

  That’s where I come in.

  “You seem to know much about this, considering your age.” He sits back in his chair. A waiter in a tie and tails comes forward to offer us refills of refreshing cucumber water. Mr. Klein flashes him a genial smile before the man is on his way again. All around us is the refracting sunlight of a Seattle’s autumn day. Probably the last one we’ll get for the rest of the year. Then again, when you’re this high up in a well-to-do restaurant that offers you a whole room to yourself – and your client – the sun is always within your reach. “Forgive me. I’m not used to younger men such as yourself having this all figured out.”

  “To be fair, Mr. Klein,” I say with one of my characteristic, devil-may-care shrugs, “sometimes it’s easier to take care of other people’s lives than your own. A healthy distance, you know?”

  “Too true. It’s why I’m so good at investing in other people’s businesses, but often lack the mind to start my own. Besides, I hear you’re not doing too badly for yourself these days. Am I correct in saying that you’re dating a certain Ms. Lieberman?”

  I should let my little smirk do all the talking. Instead, I open my big mouth and say, “She’s practically my wife, sir.”

  I don’t know his history with Cher. For all I know, he’s one of her exes. Or he knows one of her exes. Either way, he definitely knows her name well enough to remember that I was dating her. That’s probably a mark against me. Openly dating Cher hasn’t exactly been… easy. Only because her reputation fiercely precedes her. When you’re with a woman who has a history of breaking hearts and pilfering the heavy wallets around the region, men either look at you with great envy or great pity.

  “I’ve known a few men who have said that before,” Mr. Klein says, “but you’re certainly different from them.”

  “Let me guess. I’m a bit younger?”

  He laughs. “The proof will be in your relationship’s pudding, it seems. Well, I won’t say no to help from a young couple who know a thing or two about dating in this age. You know my parameters. You know that, even with my money, the men in my family tend to age early and leave this world earlier. Perhaps genetics will be kinder to me, but I don’t desire to spend the last couple of decades of my life utterly alone, if I can help it. Nor do I want them to be flittered away on someone who is only biding her time until I’m gone. I want a proper family, Mr. Benton. I would like a partner who understands that concept well.”

  “I understand. I think you’ll find you’re hardly alone in that sentiment, Mr. Klein.”

  “Ah, well, the company I keep there isn’t the kind that can help me. Unfortunately, I don’t swing that way.”

  It takes me a moment to realize that’s a joke. When I finally laugh, it’s with an unfortunate snort that echoes in our little room. He must be pleased with my reaction, though, for he reaches his hand across the table for a shake.

  Mr. Klein becomes the first official client of Benton & Co. Matchmaking Services. Naturally, it’s been a hard sell, since many of my would-be clients are aware of what I used to do. Those who didn’t know are not expecting to see a thirty-year-old man sitting behind the desk. If they catch me unawares, it’s in a trucker hat, flannel, and jeans. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in this gig, it’s that sometimes being the last thing a client expects works for you. They’ve already worked with the people they’re expecting. Maybe it’s the wild card who will finally get some results.

  Since he’s the first client, however, he’s paying me a comparably small retainer fee. For the low cost of five grand a month, I’ll be on the lookout for potential matches. You see, part of this gig is networking with men and women who are looking for their forever soulmates. (Or forever enough to get me a good review.) In theory, we will eventually have enough women in our roster of “potential mates” that we can start referring from the moment a male client makes his first payment. Which will be much higher than what Mr. Klein is paying now.

  It will be exhausting, to be sure, tapping my networks like this. Most men my age have no interest in a matchmaking service, and the women I know tend to be of the… women you get away from type. Yet that’s why I have a secret weapon to draw in female matches that will make my client
s happy. Because Mr. Klein may say he simply wants a family-minded woman who knows how to budget and not take things for granted, but he totally wants her to be pretty, too. Oh, yeah. She better be pretty.

  We finish our meeting with another handshake and promises to meet up again in two weeks, assuming I don’t have anything lined up before then. Mr. Klein is from the area, which gives me time to head back to Portland and interview people there as well.

  Until then, I have someone else to meet.

  ***

  CHER

  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s smacking gum between one’s teeth.

  Thank God I never did that. I’d punch myself in the face before I ever did something as socially heinous as smack gum during a meeting! Seriously, who raised this girl? Was it in a barn? A dress barn? Look, I’ve met some very lovely women who came from a dress barn. I’ve also met some real winners who make me want to denounce my entire gender.

  Liiiiike this dumbass right here.

  “I gotta be taken care of, you know?” Fried blond hair twirls around Missy’s finger. That’s right. Her name is Missy. Missy! Did I believe for two seconds that was her real name? No! Yet she insists it is, so I guess it must be. She definitely sounds like a woman who has been called Missy her whole life. “Listen here, Missy,” I can imagine her mother saying, “you don’t get to huff your tits and make a damn scene in this here Nordstrom. Stop it right now or we’re going home!”