Burn Down the Night

by M. O'Keefe

  I wanted to snarl and bite and claw my way past that calm face into whatever he had for a heart.

  He must have seen it because he smirked. “Get inside before I fuck you against this wall.”

  Yeeeeees.

  I walked past him, through the open door, and into the dark condo beyond, but my fingers brushed his cock, hard as a rock beneath his jeans.

  I heard the door slam and then he was behind me. Not touching me, but there. Solid and warm against my back. I stopped moving, bracing myself for some kind of impact, but he stopped just short of touching me.

  There was no pretending anymore. I wasn’t going to put on some kind of game face. I didn’t want to play. I wanted him to put me right. To smooth these broken and jagged edges that were slicing me to ribbons.

  So, I stepped backward and our bodies fell into each other in pieces. My ass against his cock. His chest against my back. My head against his shoulder—we were like magnets that had been flipped and as hard as we’d repelled each other—that’s how hard we came together.

  His hand touched the bare skin of my thigh and I felt it like electricity all through my body. He was breathing hard in my ear and I was holding my breath, waiting for more. Wanting more.

  But his hand stayed there, on my thigh, spread wide, like he was cupping the muscle. The callouses at the base of his fingers and on his thumb were not enough. Not close to enough. I pushed back hard against him, until he gave me something in return. A sigh. A muffled “damn.”

  His hand on my thigh dug into my skin, the pleasure/pain of a harder touch just the beginning of what I wanted. His hand slipped to the inside of my thigh, pushing up my skirt until his thumb was up against the wet crotch of my panties.

  On his shoulder, I turned my head away from his face. So he couldn’t see me, maybe. I don’t know.

  Again, his hand stopped, touching me but nothing else. A feather light touch more agonizing than anything. I curled my hips forward and then back, seeking out some friction but again. Nothing.

  “Max,” I groaned.

  “Turn around.”

  “No. Just—”

  He grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me to face him. I reached forward to put my arms around his neck, but he held me back.

  Finally, sensing that was what he wanted, I looked at him with a scowl.

  “There you are.” He smirked and I wanted to smack him. He was fucking this up. He pulled me toward him slowly, and finally he was kissing me.

  His beard prickled and his lips were chapped. Dry. But soft. His kiss was soft, too.

  This was all wrong.

  I did not want careful.

  I kissed him harder, opened my mouth against his and licked at those chapped lips. I pulled that decadent lower lip into my mouth and bit at it with my teeth. I pulled and groaned, arching up into his body as best I could considering he was literally holding me away from him.

  But then his mouth opened and he was drawing me in. Sucking me in. Biting me and kissing me with his whole mouth. It was hard and it hurt just a little, but a woman didn’t make out with an MC president without wanting to be hurt.

  I strained against his hands, wanting to be against him. Wanting to feel how hard he was. I reached out and put my hand against the fly of his jeans and the wide stiff cock beneath it. My hand pressed flat against it, squeezing him between my touch and the hard muscles of his abs. He pushed into me, seeking more and I smiled into his mouth.

  Between my legs I was so wet. So hot.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling at the button of his jeans.

  “Hold on.”

  “Why?”

  He leaned back from me and I caught the look in his eyes before he could shutter it.

  Pity. Or something far too close to it. Sympathy maybe?

  Oh, fuck no.

  I smacked him. Across the face with the flat of my hand, I smacked him as hard as I could. Hard enough that his head snapped back. His lip must have caught on his tooth because he wiped his mouth with his thumb and it came away bloody.

  I stood there panting, shaking. So on the edge of myself I couldn’t feel anything anymore. Not fear or desire.

  “Don’t fuck me like you’re some soldier going off to war.” I snarled at him.

  “You want me to fuck you like you are the war.”

  Yes. Exactly. I didn’t have to say it. His blue eyes blazed and he stepped forward and I held my ground, not moving until he was pressed up tightly against me.

  “Remember,” he whispered. “When this is all done—you asked for it.”

  Literally.

  And then he kissed me. He kissed me like I needed to be kissed. Like we were both fighting for the same air. The same space. Like we were each on fire and wanted to burn the other down, too.

  He caught my hair in his big giant fists, pulling it until it hurt. I gasped, tears stinging my eyes. And I put my hands under his shirt, slipping them up over all that smooth, silky skin until I had his shoulders in my palms and dug my nails in until he hissed.

  “Fuck you,” he gasped.

  “Now you get it.”

  With his arms around my waist, he lifted me, walking me backward until we hit a wall. Then he turned around and held me up, squeezed between the wall and his weight. His chest and the slow push of his hips. I arched forward against him, reaching down to yank up my skirt, until it was the damp silk of my underwear pushed up against the ridge of his cock.

  He was kissing me so dirty. So wet and wild and fierce. I tasted the blood on his lips and sucked more onto my tongue. He growled and bit my lip until both of us tasted the blood, the pain a bright light in all the dark pleasure.

  I shook my shoes off and put my toes on his boots, bracing myself so I could grind against him.

  He pulled back, his mouth wet, his lips shiny. His eyes all dilated and mean. He put his hands back in my hair, resting his elbows against the wall.

  “Fuck yourself against me,” he said and I arched again, sliding on the wet silk against his jeans. I shifted on his boots when he hit my clit so I could stay right there, throbbing against him.

  “Take off your shirt,” he said.

  I was sidetracked by the hard pressure on my clit. The pleasure/pain radiating out in my body.

  Max leaned back, taking that hard pressure away, and then he leaned forward and through the thin silk of my shirt, he sucked the whole of my nipple into his mouth.

  “Oh my God!” I cried out, my feet scrambling against his boots. Trying to find some way to support myself or he was going to hold me up by my hair and his mouth on my breast. He closed his mouth, raking his teeth across me through the fabric until he had the point of my nipple in his mouth. I held my breath waiting for him to let me go.

  But he bit harder and I jerked between him and the wall.

  “Take,” he said into my ear, “your shirt off.”

  “I can’t…” I gasped, swallowing air. “Your hands…they’re in the way.”

  “Lift it.” His tongue traced the curve of my ear, a light, ticklish touch that after the pain of my nipple in his teeth felt like too much, and at the same time not at all enough. “Show me, baby. Show me your tits.”

  I lifted the shirt and my black bra up over my breasts until they were all bunched up in my armpits. My breast, the one he bit, was red. And wet.

  I groaned, arching forward with my hips, trying to find that hard pressure of his cock, but he stepped back. Out of reach.

  Clit tease.

  “I hurt you,” he murmured, a sort of assessing kind of whisper. He was looking at my breast, that red mark. The indention of his teeth, that as we both watched, were fading.

  “I like it,” I told him. “I want more.”

  “More,” he said like he was considering it. Like it was an avenue he might take, but he just needed persuading.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked. His eyes flared and he looked right at me. Right into me. Held up by my toes and his hands in my hair, I lifted my shirt to
show him my tits. My skirt was lifted, so he could see how wet I was—there was no way for me to hide. Nowhere to run.

  I had to simply stand there, spread out for him, and let him see me.

  Let him see every filthy and wrong thing I wanted.

  Every dark and dangerous thing I needed.

  His hands untangled themselves from my hair and he carefully let me go. My feet fell securely on his boots. He put a hand at my hip and stepped back, pushing me off him as he went. Holding me against the wall. His eyes raked my body, stopping at the hot-pink silk between my legs that was wet and skewed from the way I’d been rubbing myself against him. He put his hand over the silk, covering it completely with his palm and I gasped, arching into his rough, warm touch.

  Slowly he closed his hand, his fingers slipping into my wet slit, the heel of his hand pushing down on my clit. It was like he was making a fist around my pussy.

  I opened my mouth to say something; what I had no idea. But only a long, slow breath came out. I was pinned to the wall by his eyes, and held there by his hand. He squeezed and I nearly screamed.

  “I’m gonna fuck you,” he said, his voice a hot, burnt whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “But first I want you to suck my dick.”

  “Yes.”

  “On your knees.”

  He let go of me and I fell to the floor at his feet, my hands braced on his denim-covered thighs. His hand, wet from touching me, lifted my chin so I was looking up at him. Then he slipped his fingers into my mouth and I licked and sucked the musty taste of my pussy from his skin.

  He undid his pants and pushed down his underwear with one hand until the long hard length of his cock was free. I moaned against his fingers, the muscles of my pussy clenching hard at the sight.

  One by one he pulled his fingers free. “Suck me good,” he said. “And I’ll let you come.”

  Beyond gentle, I grasped him in my fist and pulled him down while I raised up on my knees. I licked the head with the whole of my tongue, tasting the salt of his come and sweat. I moaned low in my throat, liking everything about him. Liking how I could feel his heartbeat in the thick throb of his cock. I liked how the head filled my mouth and when I took him deeper, he stretched my lips.

  “Look at me,” he groaned and I did, lifting my eyes to his as his cock slowly, so so slowly filled my mouth. He braced one hand against the wall and the other came down on the side of my head, cupping my chin and my cheek, his thumb tracing my ear.

  “More,” he said and I took more. I felt him at the back of my throat. A burn and a pressure.

  “More.” Breathing deeply through my nose, I did nothing. Instead, I teased him with my tongue. Squeezed him with my hand with my eyes still on his. If he wanted more, I wanted him to take it.

  And as if he knew it, that gentle hand against my face speared into my hair, holding me still while he pushed deeper. And deeper.

  I loosened my throat, relaxed my mouth. My eyes burned with tears and it was hard to breath but I took what he gave me.

  Total surrender. Exactly what I wanted. Those rough edges sanded down by rougher edges.

  “Look at you, baby,” he whispered, easing out a little so I could breathe and then pushing back in deeper and harder. Pushing the pleasure into pain and then back again. Muddying the line until it wasn’t there anymore. Everything was just feeling.

  He pulled out again, all the way out this time, my spit on his dick and on my face and then he pushed in again. He controlled the tempo. He controlled everything. Short and fast or deep and slow, I didn’t have to worry or think. It was him. And the spiraling painful pleasure filling my body.

  “Look at you suck my cock. So good. So fucking deep. You like this don’t you? If I put my hand between your legs, you’d come, wouldn’t you? What if it was my cock between your legs? Fucking you.”

  I stretched up on my knees, aching and restless and ready to come just from his words. Just from the look on his face. His heavy, lidded eyes. His cock stretching my throat.

  “Yeah,” he said with the dirtiest, sexiest smile I’d ever seen. “I want you to come all over my dick.”

  He pulled out of my mouth and I fell forward, weak and gasping for breath. He lifted me with rough hands and pushed me face-first against the wall. He held me there with a hand in the middle of my back.

  “Condom,” I said. “I have one—”

  “I got it.” I heard the rustle of something. I saw his wallet fall to the floor out of the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes and waited, holding my breath.

  “Spread your legs.”

  I did. All the while my heart beating—yes, yes, please, yes.

  “Your ass,” he said, shoving my thong down between my legs far enough that I could wiggle it off and drop it to the floor. “You weren’t lying. It is something special.”

  I smiled even as I was dying.

  He grabbed my hips, popping them out, and I shifted, bracing myself against the wall. I felt his hand between my legs, holding his cock so he could notch himself against me.

  “You’re so wet,” he breathed. “You’re gonna take me so deep.”

  I was. I was going to take him so deep. Deep enough to hurt. Just a little. Just enough.

  “Ready?” He breathed.

  I could only nod, full of anticipation.

  He slammed into me all the way. His hips against my ass. I screamed past what felt like the head of his dick all the way up in my throat. I pushed myself up on my toes to change the angle. To alleviate some of the ache.

  I felt his head fall down on my shoulder and I pushed back into him, not wanting to catch my breath. Not wanting to get used to the stretch. Just wanting him. All of him. And all of me. I was on fire at this point. Beyond thought.

  This time he braced himself and I fucked myself against him. Long, smooth strokes, no power, just depth. My hands made fists against the wall and his hands bit harder into my hips. But what I was doing was far from enough.

  “Please,” I begged. “Please, Max.”

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Let’s do this.”

  And it was on.

  He grabbed leverage where he could. My hips, my hair. I held on to the doorframe of the kitchen. And he pounded into me. The slap of his skin was loud against mine. We were wet and sweating and I kept screaming until he put his hand over my mouth, yanking me up into his body.

  I didn’t like that, it made the pressure all wrong and I shook off his hand, my body against the wall again.

  “You gotta be quiet, Joan.”

  “Fuck you, Max.”

  That made him laugh and I wasn’t expecting it but he smacked my ass. Nothing playful. Real. Hard enough to leave a stinging hand print against my skin.

  I gasped and rocked into him.

  “Of course you like that,” he murmured and did it again. And then once more. Until finally I was mindless and rocking against him. Fucking him as hard as he was fucking me. And it was game over. I slipped my hand from the wall to between my legs where I barely had to touch my clit before I was blissfully, radically coming apart.

  Everything was obliterated. The sun, the sky, the landscape. Every fear I had. Every hope. All of it vanished in the wild seething storm of my orgasm. Nothing mattered but this completely overwhelming pleasure.

  Gratefully, I gave myself up to it. Shuddering where he had me. Crying, where he couldn’t see me.

  “Joan—?”

  “So good,” I breathed, and it was enough like permission that he grabbed my hips and fucked me in short shallow strokes, his breathing ragged. I had only enough wherewithal to brace myself, my body still pulsing and sighing with pleasure.

  “Yes!” he cried. “Yes. Fuck, God—”

  I reached beneath my body to where he was driving into me, just to feel us together like this. I touched his balls and he shook so much, that on the next thrust I grabbed them and he shoved into me so hard my head nearly hit the wall.

  “Joan,” he cried, jerking into me whi
le I stroked his balls until he was done. When he twitched I knew it was over. Too sensitive.

  I felt exactly the same way.

  Slowly, I eased forward as he eased back until he was out of me and we were suddenly back to being ourselves. Separate.

  “Jesus,” he sighed, and all but staggered into the kitchen to get rid of the condom.

  Utterly replete and boneless, I rearranged my clothes, covering myself up as I made my way to the love seat, where I collapsed.

  He came to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, watching me with his unreadable eyes. I had a boyfriend once ask if he hurt me, which only seemed to prove how little he’d been paying attention. And I wasn’t interested in some big heart to heart with Max. He’d seen what I needed at that cocktail party and he’d given it to me.

  Which only seemed to prove how much he had been paying attention.

  Don’t trust me. Don’t like me. Don’t…care.

  Fully clothed and a room away from him, I felt more than naked under his gaze. I felt like he’d fucked at the cracks and seams and pulled me apart so he could see all the things I kept hidden. And now they were all over the room. Scattered across the floor, splashed over the walls. My father issues and my mother issues. My guilt and my fear and regret. My insecurity. My belief deep down that everything everyone ever said about me was true—I wasn’t any good.

  And he saw it all. I know he did.

  He opened his mouth and I braced myself for him to say something nice, I prepared myself to start a fight in the face of his kindness. Or to burst into tears. Or to ask him to stay with me. To help me, even if that wasn’t the best thing for him. Because I wasn’t sure I could do all of this on my own.

  And maybe he saw that, too, because all he said was: “Want to go get a beer?”

  Chapter 25

  Max

  We went across the street to the Conch Republic, a busy restaurant on the main drag. It reminded me of every other restaurant in Florida, with its fishing net décor. It was pretty comforting, actually. Or maybe I’d just been fucked into complacency. I’d find prison comforting at this point—that’s how chill I was.

  Joan sat on the barstool to my right and that whole side of my body was tuned to her. I felt when she moved. When she glanced away to look at the specials board. When her eyes lifted to look at the side of my face, still bruised from the beating a week ago.