SEXT

by Penny Wylder

  He keeps it up like that, fucking me, then slowing down to tease me, stroking my clit alternately whenever he pauses. It's not long before I feel desperate, crazed with desire. I try to thrust against him, but he spanks my ass once, hard enough to sting. Then he keeps fucking me, hard but slow, driving me wild.

  Finally, just when I feel like I'm going to lose it, going to go crazy from the urge to truly fuck him, he grabs my hips and starts to fuck me in earnest. It feels so good after all the teasing that I cry out. That shifts into a low, throaty moan as he keeps fucking me, his cock spearing me with every thrust, thick and tight inside my pussy.

  He bends me in half, fucks me so hard that I lose track of anything but his body against mine, his cock in me, my hands fisted in the sheets. When I finally come, he's right there with me, both of us crying out with pleasure at the same time as we finish.

  He pulls out, still breathing hard, and rolls onto his back cursing under his breath.

  "You are positively addictive, Clove Walker."

  "I could say the same about you, Zayne Pearson."

  We move to the shower, ostensibly to clean off. We are covered in sweat, after all. Among other things. But he insists on washing me, and when he lathers up his palms with soap and runs those rough, strong hands over my body, slowly, head to toe, I can't help it. The fire starts to build in my belly again, this lust, insatiable, impossible to please.

  Finally, when it feels like too much, I spin to face him, half-covered in soap that he's massaged into my body.

  "Let me suck your cock again. Please."

  He half-laughs, eyes hooded and dark with amusement. "Who am I to deny a lady what she wants?"

  He steps back, and I kneel before him in the shower. Let the hot water run over my back and shoulders, rinsing me off even as I part my lips and suck his cock into my mouth.

  He tastes just as good as I remember. And this time, when I build up a pace, sucking him in and out of my mouth until he starts to thrust into my throat, losing control, he doesn't stop me. He throat-fucks me, slams his hips into my face, the tip of his cock sliding down my throat with every thrust, until he's gritting his teeth and groaning loudly.

  I keep going, my hands wrapped around his balls, tugging at them, toying with them as I suck him into my mouth. He fucks my face, slams against me, and I relax, opening myself to him fully. I let him take control and fuck me how he wants, until he's right at the brink.

  "Swallow my cum," he groans, just before it hits him. When he comes, I tighten my lips around him and press my tongue along his length. He comes hard, deep in my throat, and I swallow it all, savoring the taste, the particular, unique flavor that's all him. I keep going, keep sucking until he moans my name, and only then do I lean back to lick his cock clean, slowly, an inch at a time.

  I stand up, and I'm amused to find him red-faced and breathing hard, leaning against the shower wall. Now it's his turn to struggle to stay upright.

  "How was that?" I ask innocently, batting my eyes.

  He shakes his head, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on mine. "You were definitely still thirsty," he points out, and we both laugh a little.

  Eventually, we do manage to clean off. Then we stumble out of the shower in towels and he gestures for me sit on the couch.

  "I can help," I protest as he sets about making breakfast, puttering around the kitchen.

  "You can, I'm sure," he admits. "But you aren't allowed to. You're only allowed to sit there and relax." He shakes a spatula at me, threatening. "You're my guest, Clove, you don't get to cook."

  I groan in faux-protest and sink back against the cushions. "Fine. But only because I like it when you boss me around." I stick my tongue out, and he laughs, then turns to finish flipping the omelets he started.

  As he does, I catch a glimpse of the book on his kitchen table. “1Q84?”

  “Just started it. Have you read it?”

  I sit up straighter, grinning. “Oh yeah. I love Murakami.”

  “Kafka on the Beach is one of my favorites.”

  “You’ll love this one. Especially…” I bite my tongue. “Damn.”

  He laughs. “No spoilers! That’s cheating.”

  “Okay. I’ll just say you’re gonna love it, that’s all.” Now that I’ve noticed the one book, I let my gaze drift to the shelves beside his TV, chock full of others. “What kind of stuff do you normally read?”

  “Little bit of everything. A lot of dystopian, literary fiction. You know, the depressing shit.” He laughs, a little self-deprecating.

  “Why do you like depressing books?”

  He shrugs. Pauses to flip the eggs on the stove. “I guess it just makes me feel like my problems aren’t so bad. No matter how much shit I might be dealing with, it could always be worse.”

  I snort. “Very optimistic world-view.”

  “Well, could be worse. I could think my problems are the absolute worst. Then how annoying would I be?”

  I grin and roll my eyes. “Fair point.” I can’t help letting my gaze drift to his bookshelf again. I spot at least three of my favorite authors there, along with more than a few who have been on my radar for ages.

  Well-read, good taste in music, hot as hell, and he cooks…

  He joins me on the couch a few minutes later, two plates of perfectly cooked omelets in hand. I take one bite and my eyes go wide. He added spinach and cheese and bacon and something else, some spices I don't recognize but that go perfectly.

  "How are you still single?" I ask, once I've washed that bite down with a sip of the coffee he brewed.

  He laughs. "What do you mean?"

  "What do I mean?" I gesture wildly around the room with my fork. "You're hot, you're smart, you're fucking fantastic in bed, and you cook? That's ridiculous. How has some lucky hot girl not snatched you up already?"

  "Is the omelet really that delicious?" He shakes his head. "It's only eggs and some veggies. You should really try cooking more, Clove."

  I narrow my eyes. "I cook! I make a mean ramen noodle soup."

  "Packet ramen doesn't count."

  I roll my eyes now. "Yeah, well. My ineptitude in the kitchen aside, you're still a catch. So my question stands."

  "Which question?"

  Now I frown. "The why you're single one, obviously."

  "Oh, you know. Same reason anyone is single."

  "That's not exactly an answer," I point out.

  "Maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet."

  "The fact that you're so obviously dodging the question makes me think there's more to it than that," I reply, shaking my fork at him.

  He sighs and takes another bite of his omelet. Takes his time chewing it and drinking a long sip of coffee before he answers me. "I don't trust a lot of people," he finally admits. "I haven't exactly had the best history when it comes to dating."

  I snort. When he looks hurt, I spread my hands. "Sorry. I just meant... I mean, obviously I don't have the best track record either. You had to beat up my most recent stalker of a first date, for Christ's sake. I can relate."

  "Yeah, he seemed like a real winner. Dating in this town..." Zayne shakes his head.

  I frown at him. He's still dodging. There's something he's not telling me. But then again, how long has he known me? A couple of days? No wonder he doesn't want to go too deep into his backstory. So, fine. He can be weird about this if he wants.

  "What's your weekend look like?" he asks, and I let him change the subject this time.

  "Dunno. I was going to use the time to catch up on some reading for work, but..."

  He grins at me. Raises an eyebrow. "But?"

  "But, I could be persuaded to be naughty and slack off. If, you know... a more interesting opportunity presented itself."

  He takes my plate, the omelet already mostly devoured since I couldn't help but inhale the deliciousness. Then, gently, he sets it on the end table, his own plate with it. "Is that right?"

  "Yeah, I guess I'm easily influenced." I grin.
/>
  He leans toward me. Places one hand on either side of me, and stares down at me. "So, if some other plans came up that involved, say... spending most of the weekend naked and splayed across my bed..."

  "I wouldn't object. No." I raise an eyebrow.

  He breaks into a grin too. Then he grabs my hands and pulls me upright. Without warning, he hoists me up, tossing me back over his shoulder and slapping my ass on the way up. "Good. Because I had some plans of my own in mind. And they do not involve letting this sexy little minx get away just yet..."

  I squeal and kick my legs in faux distress as he carries me back to the bedroom. Frankly, I could get used to this.

  6

  By Monday morning, I'm starting to wonder if you can get addicted to orgasms. I've had more than I can count on both hands in the last two days. Between Zayne tying me to his bedposts with a couple of T-shirts to eat me out, then him fucking me bent over his kitchen table, and finally against his balcony window, where half of New York could probably see if they looked up at the right moment, and where our neighbor across the street could definitely see if they opened their windows, I had no idea I could get so turned on so fast by someone.

  In between fucking, we took breaks to watch a couple of movies. He's got great taste in films, preferring older film noir above all else. We watched a few I'd never seen, like Double Indemnity which involved some hot-as-hell hookup scenes that led to us getting distracted and fucking again before we switched to watching Chinatown.

  Our conversation after Chinatown was almost as good as the fucking, though. He spent an hour dissecting the movie with me, savoring all the minute details, letting me rewind to gush over certain scenes. I love doing that when I watch movies—it makes me feel like they last longer, like they’re books I can slowly digest. I’d never met anyone else who was interested in doing that. Mostly my exes just humored me when I insisted on it.

  But Zayne? Zayne not only enjoys it, but after that, he encouraged me to do it with every movie we watched afterwards. We spent hours on each one, and while that would normally make me feel like a total nerd, with him it just felt normal. Like comparing these movies to our lives and dissecting each one was a perfectly cool, natural thing to do.

  He cooked the whole time too, and I swear, each meal tasted better than the last. He made me a veggie curry for lunch, then steaks for dinner, and leftover steak and eggs for breakfast the next morning. Who needs NYC brunch when you have your own personal chef and sexy sex master in house?

  But Monday arrived, as it always does. With it came the responsibilities I'd been avoiding. A shit ton of reading that I'll need to catch up on all morning, plus all the work drama that led me to complaining to Zayne last Friday, which I still need to handle.

  But somehow, after this weekend of retreating into the Zayne bubble, I feel more ready to face it than ever. I feel energized, recharged, ready to tackle the whole world if I need to. What could possibly go wrong? I’ve finally found a decent guy who's in my corner– and in my bed, for that matter.

  When I leave that morning, Zayne walks me downstairs. “Back on the clock?” I ask him in the elevator. I already know this was one of his rare weekends off.

  He nods. “Going to have to work a double today to make up for skiving on Sunday.”

  My cheeks flush. He skipped because I asked him to. Not that he complained too much. But as I realize now what it’s going to cost him, it makes me feel guilty. Schedules here are crazy. I can’t believe how little time off he gets, either. Someone should really complain to the management company about that, I think as we step into the elevator. I make a mental note to do that later.

  “Sorry again that you’ll have to make up time.”

  “Please.” He scoffs, and stops me before we reach the main lobby, and any other prying eyes. “Clove. I cannot explain to you in words how worth it it was to skip that day.” His eyes bore into mine, and I let myself sink into them. I close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me softly. “I would skip Sunday again and again. I’d work every double from now until Christmas if it meant I could spend more time with you in between.”

  My cheeks flush, a not unpleasant sensation. I lean up to kiss him again, and savor the way our lips meld together, so naturally. “Well. Next time I’ll make sure to work around your schedule instead, how’s that?”

  “Deal.” He laughs softly before kissing me once more. Then we lock hands, and head for the main lobby.

  We pass Paul downstairs, already in uniform. He eyes Zayne, clearly wondering why Zayne isn't dressed for work yet or ready to take over the desk when he should be starting in just ten minutes.

  "Be back down in a jiff, Paul," Zayne calls as we step outside our building.

  Then, on the corner of the street, still in full sight of Paul and anyone else we live with who might be passing by, he kisses me full on the lips. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back hard, savoring it. Savoring the way he makes me feel.

  When I climb onto the subway train toward work, it does not feel like a Monday. There's no slog in my steps, no despair about going back to work again. I'm just... happy.

  It's a strange feeling.

  I reach the office with plenty of time to spare before my first meeting. I wave cheerily to Sara at the front desk as I stride past her to the coffee room.

  She frowns and watches me from the corner of her eye. But I get it. It's still Monday for most people. For anyone who hasn't discovered a secret hottie living undercover in uniform in their own building, whose cock is huge and thick enough to make them see sparks when they come...

  I shake my head to clear out the cobwebs, and pour myself a cup of coffee. Beth and John are leaning against the water cooler chatting, but they fall silent the moment I step into the room.

  "Hey guys." I smile at them, and after a beat, they smile back. But it's strained, forced.

  What's with everyone this morning?

  Ignoring the strange stares, I fill my coffee mug and head back to my desk. This time, though, the whole office feels like it's tracking me. I catch Becky from accounting making eye contact and spinning around almost immediately, a faint snicker escaping her. Carl from IT winks at me and pats his chest appreciatively. I scowl back at him. Gross. And also, what the hell has gotten into everyone?

  I spot that new girl again, Hannah. She has her arms crossed and her chin lifted. She’s glaring at me too, judgmental, just like all of them. What the hell?

  Even my boss is frowning when I walk past her, eyes darting to me and away again quickly as though they were rocks skipping across the surface of a particularly distasteful pond. I swallow hard. What now?

  I thought I was catching up on all of the deadlines we talked about on Friday. And I know that we had a pretty rough day, but it's not like we haven't had those before...

  I shake my head as I return to my seat. I'm probably just imagining things. Blowing this out of proportion.

  I take a seat at my desk, and almost immediately, a new chat window pops up. "Girl" is all the message says. It's from Andy Slate, my best gay at work.

  Clove: What?

  Andy: How did this happen?? Did your phone get stolen by bikers or something? Tell me it's Photoshop.

  I steal a peek over the top of my monitor at Andy's side of the office. He sits on the far side, at least fifteen desks away from mine. But I'm still close enough to make out his signature WTF face which he's wearing at full tilt right now, directed straight at me.

  Clove: What the H are you talking about?

  Swearing, alas, raises flags on our company servers. Otherwise, I'd already be cursing up a storm to threaten him into telling me what's going on.

  Andy: ... Shit. You haven't seen it.

  Clove: You know I hate suspense almost as much as I hate surprises, Andy. Out with it.

  Andy: It's not exactly SFW, if you know what I mean.

  Clove: I own a phone, dude.

  Next thing I know, said phone buzzes with a text. There's no explanat
ion, only a link from him. I click on it and hold my breath. I don't know what I'm expecting. Nuclear apocalypse news? A letter from my boss explaining that we're all being let go? I don't know, but somehow, what I find is simultaneously worse and more personal all at once.

  The page finishes loading, and it takes me a moment to comprehend what I'm staring at.

  Tits, obviously.

  But not just any tits. Familiar tits.

  A pair of breasts I see in the mirror every single day. Not to mention the face attached, fully visible, because oh my god what was I thinking when I took that photo, I didn't even crop it, didn't even think that someone might be able to get a hold of it.

  It's me.

  Naked.

  In front of, I can only assume, my entire office.

  Underneath the photo, much to my chagrin, there's a caption. And below that, a few hundred comments. The caption is short, sweet and to-the-point.

  Slut for hire, it reads. Willing to do whatever you ask, as long as it's dirty as hell.

  The comments are even worse. I only make it through the first few.

  Fuck yeah, I'd fuck up that filthy slut.

  $100 says she's the cheapest whore in town.

  Now there's a cum-slut if ever I've seen one.

  My stomach churns. I'm going to be sick. Sure, it's fun and a little hot when Zayne gets all possessive and calls me his little slut. But that's in private, behind closed doors, where we can have fun without anyone seeing or judging us. This?

  This is something else entirely. I shut the window, unable to look at it anymore. Andy saw this. How many other people?

  I grab my keyboard so fast it screeches against the desk, a horrible plastic on plastic sound.

  Clove: Where did you get that? Who sent it to you?

  Andy: It circulated through the whole office this morning. First there was a spam email, then another message online.

  Before I can ask for more details about the second message, though, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I suck in a deep breath and look up to find my boss, Stacy, standing beside me, arms crossed, a subtle frown on her face.