by Ashley Hall
Life is hard, but this? This is easy. It's something that he understands, something that he's good at. Gabe uses her mouth like it's something he's just bought, like she's nothing but a girl off the side of the street.
Small hands flutter around his waist. Fingers curl into the side of his jeans. Isabella's nose is pressed flush against the parted fabric of his jeans. She gags and coughs; spittle runs down the side of her face, spilling out around her parted lips. The head of his cock slams into the back of her throat and continues even farther.
Gabe's head tilts back. His breath twists in his throat. “Shit,” he says, and the word gets dragged out like it means something more. “Holy fuck, Izzy. That's what I was talking about earlier.”
Her hands finally still. She gags again, and the sensation goes straight to the tight knot at the base of Gabe's spine.
He almost spills himself right then and there. At the last moment, though, Gabe physically pushes Isabella backwards. He curls over himself, trying to catch his breath, to push down his arousal even just a little bit.
“Shit,” he pants. A hand moves to his dick, curling around it. “I could do that all fucking day.”
Isabella goes to say something, but her throat is fucked raw. It comes out as a cough, this ragged, breathless thing.
Gabe gives her a crooked grin. “Yeah? That's what I thought. You liked it too, didn't you? Go on, let me hear you say it.”
“I liked it,” says Isabella. The words are rough and low, almost husky. “I liked it.”
“You know what else you're going to like?”
Isabella shakes her head. She rubs at her mouth with the back of her hand. Spit smears over the flushed skin. “What?”
“Having something else split open. Get up here.” Gabe pats the mattress.
Isabella hesitates. But then, with a deep breath, she gets up and sits down on the edge of the bed, right next to Gabe. Their shoulders brush. The act is so innocent that it's almost funny, but it's not because even that makes Gabe's heart flutter.
This is supposed to just be a one-night stand, the perfect way to get his mind off Renee. And yet, when he looks at Isabella, it's hard for him not to smile. She's more than just a pretty face— she's got a good attitude, acts like she has a good heart.
A part of him knows, even then, that Isabella isn't the sort of person to sleep around. But the rest of him, he doesn't care. There's a beautiful woman sitting in front of him. More than that, there's a good woman.
And he wants her.
Gabe wants to have something good in his life again, even if it's just for a little while. Hands grab at Isabella's shoulders, pushing her back onto the bed. Her legs hang over the edge of the mattress. The skirt of her dress is a rumpled-up mess.
In that moment, she looks beautiful.
Chapter Six
The bed springs creak in protest as Gabe shifts around. Isabella has never actually gone this far. She's never gone past the point of her own fingers, of something small that she found sitting around her room at night.
Fear and excitement mingle in her chest. She tries to smile up at Gabe, but the action is stilted, yet he doesn't seem to notice. A dark shadow has fallen over his face, as if his mind is suddenly far away, like he's thinking about something completely different from the present.
Gabe's hand grabs Isabella's skirt and pushes it up even farther, until he can slip a hand under it. Fingers grab and grope at her undergarment; the other hand stays on her shoulders. He's lying on the bed next to her, more kneeling than anything else. A finger strokes over Isabella's silver, panty clad pussy, drawing forth a quiet sort of moan.
He’s not hurried, which is strange because Isabella always imagined that picking a stranger up from the bar would be a rushed affair. At the same time, it's lacking the romance that has always been present in her dreams of losing her virginity.
This is just something completely different, something completely amazing.
Gabe's motions are slow and languid. He slips one finger under the band of her panties, then a second. They're larger than Isabella's own. She quivers and shakes beneath his touch, senseless mewls and pleas falling from her mouth.
He stops at three.
The stretch is ridiculous, insane, yet perfect.
But then Gabe says, “Deep breath now, honey,” and he starts trying to wedge a fourth finger into her pussy, too. The air is muggy. It curls in her chest, clings to the inside of her lungs. It's a struggle to breathe, to think. Pain mingles with pleasure and Gabe says it again. “Come on, Izzy. A pretty girl like you, I've bet you had more jammed in this pretty cunt.”
She opens her mouth to say something but is cut off by a fourth finger pressing harder against the outside of her cunt. Her eyes flutter because this is most certainly new. Gabe moves the three fingers inside Isabella, shifts them about, and presses them even tighter together.
His pinkie finger presses with a little more force. Isabella's muscles protest; her stomach flutters. She lets her head drop backwards, just as Gabe's fingertip breaches her.
“Fuck,” he says, spitting out the word. Pain shoots along Isabella's spine, overwhelming the pleasure, just for a moment. “Fucking shit. Is that blood?”
Isabella gives a warbling sort of moan. Her hands grab at Gabe's wrist, trying desperately to hold him there. “G-go on,” she says. “It's fine.”
“Are you a fucking virgin?”
The words don't want to come. Isabella doesn't want this to stop. But at the same time, it's actually sort of a lot.
Isabella nods anyway. The word falls from her lips like water from the faucet. “Yeah. Yeah, fine, good. Go on.”
Gabe goes still. “Fuck. Why the fuck didn't you say anything?”
“Does it matter?” Isabella's voice is a trembling sort of thing. “I don't want… oh, shit, please. Come on, Gabe. This doesn't matter. This doesn't matter!”
“It does matter!”
Isabella shakes her head. She closes her eyes, too, because the world around her is starting to blur.
There's no lube. Would he have used lube if she'd said that she was a virgin?
Maybe.
Isabella is having a hard time getting the world to really sync up. Nothing wants to click together. Each breath is harder than the last, and she doesn't know why, just knows that she doesn't want this to stop, that she doesn't want Gabe to stop.
“Please,” she moans again.
Finally, finally, Gabe does. It's pressure and heat and a constant resistance, and then it's not; it's just full.
That's the only thing that passes through Isabella's mind.
Full and hot and lovely and horrible.
She moans, and Gabe takes that, rightfully so, as a cue to start moving. He's good with his hands, and the strange position does nothing to change that. It's only a matter of minutes before Isabella's teetering on that familiar edge.
Up until now, she's only ever gotten here on her own. Fingers beneath silken sheets, fingers that feel nothing like this.
But then Gabe's pulling his hand away, and nothing but emptiness takes its place. Isabella opens her eyes, just a little bit. “Gabe?”
His face is flushed with excitement. Isabella can feel his cock pressing against the side of her thigh. He’s grinning, a smug flash of teeth and curled up lips. “Yeah?”
“You, uh...” Isabella trails off, waiting.
He waits, too. Then, finally, he gives her the slightest smile. “I'm just waiting on you, miss virgin. Isn't there something that you want to tell me?”
The seemingly off-topic question throws Isabella for a loop. She's tired and horny, and her mind isn't working as quickly as it usually does. The alcohol was never enough to get her flat-out drunk, but it mingles with the exhaustion, excitement, and fear until it's become a completely new thing all its own.
She feels distant. It's like her mind and her body aren't in sync any longer. “What?”
“There's something you want to tell me. Come on, pretty t
hing. I'm all ears.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.
“Sure you do,” says Gabe. “You're blushing. Come on, you can say it.”
Say it?
Isabella blinks.
Does he want her to say something specific?
“Just once,” says Gabe, almost beseechingly. Already, the smile is starting to slip off his face. He's excited and horny, biting at the bit to stop himself from just rolling her over and fucking her right then and there.
Isabella can tell. It's a look in his eyes, something almost feral. Gabe demands, “Say it once, and we can move on. Otherwise, I'm out. I don't mess around with virgins.”
That seems like a strange rule. Distantly, Isabella wonders why. But then Gabe's hand shifts, fingers stroking along the length of her already abused clit, and the thought vanishes.
“Tell me what you want,” insists Gabe. He catches the hood of Isabella's clit between his fingers and gives it a sharp pinch. She squeals in response, body jerking against the, strangely erotic touch. “I want to hear it.”
Isabella's blushing for an entirely new reason, now. She presses her face against the side of Gabe's neck, trying to hide her heated skin. “Oh. Okay, yeah. I guess that I do have something to say. Do you, do I really need to?”
Gabe's hand pulls away entirely now. He shifts, pushing himself up onto his knees. Firm hands guide Isabella to do the same, and then they twist her around until she's facing the headboard and not her biker boy. “Say it.”
“I wished you would fuck me,” says Isabella, the words coming easier than she thinks they will. “I saw you at the bar earlier tonight, and that's all I could think, that I hoped we would come back to your place, and you'd pin me to this bed and fuck me.”
There's a beat of silence. Isabella's words sink in a moment too late—pin me to this bed—and she's already floundering for a way to change that around, make it seem a little bit less. There's no chance, though, because suddenly it's not Gabe's fingers pushing into her cunt but his dick. A hand settles between her shoulders, pushing her down.
The touch is unrelenting. The feel of his cock pushing into her cunt is overwhelming. She hits the mattress, hard, arms splayed out and face against the dark blue comforter. In a matter of seconds, a hand has curled into her hair and pushed down, preventing her from shifting even a little bit.
Gabe drapes himself over her back, his body a warm and unforgettable presence, and there's no time at all between start and go. It's just a constant pounding motion. Each buck of his hips sends him farther inside Isabella, presses her harder against the mattress. Thighs slap against thighs.
“Fuck, you're a hot piece of ass.” He might not make much noise in comparison to the mewling mess of a woman under him, but Gabe is known for a mouth that won’t stop running when he fucks around. “Just listen to you, practically begging for it.”
“I am, I am, please, please, Gabe.”
“Please what?” Gabe accentuates the last word with a particularly brutal thrust. It feels like he's trying to break her, trying to get so far inside of her that there's never going to be a way to come out.
Isabella loves it.
She loves it, and her body is lost somewhere in ecstasy, working hard at dragging her mind there, too. Isabella's mouth moves against the sheets as she tries to find the right words.
They won't come.
Gabe doesn't seem to really mind. He just keeps talking, keeps urging her on, telling her these horrible, awful, and wonderful things.
“Please,” begs Isabella. “Please.”
“Fuck,” pants Gabe. “You're so damn wet. I cannot believe no one's ever had this ass, cannot believe no one's ever spread you out like this.”
Isabella mewls in response. She shifts, trying to press back against Gabe but finds that there's no way to get any leverage. Gabe is utterly in control here, pinning her down, keeping her exactly where he wants her.
“Say it again,” growls Gabe, tongue darting out to draw a line down the side of Isabella's sweat-stained neck. “Tell me what you want.”
“This,” moans Isabella. “This. I want—”
“Say it.”
“I want whatever you want,” blurts Isabella. Her eyes are blurring. Tears run down her face, but they're of the best sort. Ambrosia runs through her veins, and each breath seems tainted with sickly sweet drugs, pushing her ever higher into that cloud of euphoria.
It's hard to breathe and hard to think and hard to recognize that anything exists except for the cock pounding into her hot cunt.
“That's what I want to hear,” pants Gabe. His words are hot and dripping. “You know what I want?”
Isabella blathers into the mattress. Her whole body quakes beneath the man's weight.
“I want to fuck you into dust,” says Gabe. “I want to use you until you cannot walk tomorrow, until all you know is my fucking name.”
Isabella is almost afraid of how badly she wants that, too.
Chapter Seven
Morning sunlight filters into the room. Isabella has been up for almost an hour. She's counted every last line on the ceiling by now, has run through every last scenario.
It's boiled down to this.
She's made a bad choice. No, more than that, she's made a horrible choice. Breaking out from under her mother's thumb, that's still something that she wants to do. But this? Sleeping around and getting close to someone like Gabe?
It's not a good idea. Isabella is a princess, and that means that she's going to be held to a higher standard. No matter what she does here, in Georgia, it's going to make no difference. Isabella is still going to have to get on that plane. She's going to have to finish her tour through the States. And then, when she returns home, she's going to have to get married.
Slowly, Isabella sits up. She's careful not to move around too much, lest she wake up the slumbering biker beside her. The dress is a mess. The skirt still bears the mark of the night before, and her purse is nowhere to be seen.
It takes almost three minutes to find her high heels. Her purse turns out to be sitting on the coffee table. A quick search through it reveals that everything is right where it's supposed to be.
This is for the best, thinks Isabella. I have to make choices, and they have to be good ones. Last night...was not a good choice.
She debates, for a moment, about leaving a note.
In the end, Isabella decides that the best thing to do is just leave. This isn't right. She cannot do this to Gabe. She cannot do this to her parents. More importantly, she cannot do this to herself.
All of her life, Isabella has craved freedom. More than that, though, she's craved love. That's what she's fighting her mother for, after all—love, not a cheap fling from a bar.
Isabella takes a deep breath. She smooths down the front of her ruined skirt and steps out into the flickering, fading light of the apartment hallway.
There's a dog sitting outside of one of the nearby doors. It's a large thing, with wide eyes and gray fur around his eyes. Isabella smiles at the thing; she's not allowed to have a pet due to her father's rather severe allergies.
As such, she resists the urge to pet it.
Again, another sacrifice made for her parents. Isabella wonders aloud, “Do they even know how much they ask of me?”
Of course, no one answers her, and she has no choice but to make her way down the stairs on her own. A gray-haired man has settled in behind the front desk. He glances up at her when she walks into the lobby and gives her a nod. “Morning. Need anything before you go?”
“Directions would be nice,” admits Isabella. “I had a friend drive me here last night, and I'm not entirely sure how to get back to my hotel.”
“Where are you staying?”
Isabella gives the man her address. He types a few things into the computer, keyboard clack clacking beneath arthritis twisted fingers.
Finally, he nods. “Alright. You good with your memory, or do you need me to write it down?”
<
br /> “No,” says Isabella. “I'm good at remembering.”
# # #
The walk back to the hotel seems more like a walk through a battlefield. It's longer than she expected. By the time she gets to the front lobby, there's going to be no way to avoid her parents, partly because the sun is up in the sky by now and partly because her father is standing there in the lobby.