by Penny Reid
I covered my face with my hands and tried not to laugh, mostly succeeded. Of course, Alex would never assume he was magnum sized. Of course.
He cursed, and I heard the rubber hit the wall when he threw it across the room. I uncovered my face to find him picking through the other condoms on the bed.
“Are they all the same size?”
He nodded, exhaled bitterly, didn’t look at me. “This is unbelievable.”
I paused, just for a split second, and considered my options.
This was my chance to put the brakes on his hijack attempt. If his condom had fit, we would’ve been rocking and rolling already. But now, the choice was truly mine. Granted, it was already mine, but now, it was truly up to me. I wouldn’t be able to claim swept away by passion or lustily insane—because I had magnum-sized condoms in the drugstore bag by the side table. In fact, I had all the sizes, not knowing what to expect and wanting to be prepared.
But then Alex said, “Fuck this.”
And he slid off the bed, tugging my hips to the edge as he went. One hand pressed against my stomach, the other gripped my thigh, and before I could comprehend what his actions meant, his tongue was against me.
I gasped, again. My toes pointed, my back arched, and my hands gripped fistfuls of the comforter behind me.
I was the honey-soaked fig, and he employed his master tongue and made everything within me ebb and flow as his mouth moved over the best inch of my body.
When he seemed sure I wasn’t going to push him away, he loosened his grip and traced light circles on my thighs, just above the backs of my knees through the stockings, then down toward my bottom where my skin was bare.
This lasted…oh…less than twenty seconds, because I came with the unexpected force of a car crash. I didn’t even have a chance to savor the sensations, the winding and tensing and warming. His textured tongue touched my velvet inch, and twenty seconds later, I had the female equivalent of premature ejaculation.
Tremors wracked every part of me, and my brain asked, What the hell was that?
He lifted himself from the floor, his pants off but his boxers back in place, his impressively sized penis now hidden, but still thick and insistent, tenting his shorts.
While I was dazed, he flipped me on to my stomach and unzipped my dress. His hands then moved under the hem and he pushed it up, exposing my bottom, back, shoulders, until it was over my head and discarded on the floor.
“Let me know when you’re ready to go again,” he said.
My body shuddered at the thought, with amazement and gratitude.
Then, as he caressed my bottom, squeezed it, he added darkly, “Because I’m ready now.”
Alex moved his hand lower between my thighs. I felt his middle and index finger invade me, and I panted like a German shepherd bitch…in heat.
Lustily insane.
“Over there!” I blurted, “Look…look in the bag.”
He moved his fingers in and out of my center. His voice sounded distant, distracted. “What?”
“I have your size, I think. Look in the bag.”
I mourned the loss of his hand, whimpered. I listened, but did not look, as he picked up the bag, opened a box, tore open a packet.
“You’re going to pay for that.” His voice was dark, menacing, but not precisely angry. In fact, it might have held a hint of appreciation.
I felt the bed depress behind me, his bare chest against my back, his knees nudging my legs apart. Anticipation cut through the remaining orgasm fog and my muscles tightened, my stomach clenched. I caught a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision, kneeling over me.
Then he lifted me so that I was kneeling and upright in front of him, and he whispered with his mouth against my ear, “Now you have to beg.”
I was still panting, but I managed. “That will never—oh!”
He slid his thickness against me. Now he was panting.
Quickly, I contradicted myself. “Okay. Please, please, please.”
His chest reverberated with a deep rumbly laugh, his hot breath against my earlobe as he pushed me over the line from aching desire to painful, insane need.
“No. Not good enough.” His erection pressed against my inch and I gasped. Every nerve ending, every cell, every atom reached out to him. Despite his words, I begged him with strangled moans and cries.
Alex pushed me down on the bed, my face to the mattress, my bottom still in the air, still kneeling. I tried to turn over; but he stopped my movements by settling half his weight on top of me, pinning me. I was trapped. His hands covered mine and I couldn’t move; I could only feel his bare chest against my back, his hard length pressing against my bottom. He rocked his hips, sliding himself against my center, the tip of his erection slick as it rubbed and stroked.
He continued in this way, torturing me, his languid movements meant to throw me into oblivion. Every time he came close to breaching my walls, he’d pull back, then slide forward, teasing my arousal higher, sharper, more desperate.
“Alex, please. Please….”
He bit my neck then licked the abused flesh. I shuddered, needing friction and penetration and a vaginal orgasm more than air. I managed to push myself up so that I was once more on my hands and knees.
“I love you, Sandra, and I love your body.” His hand moved up my arm. “I love your perfect round ass and your long legs and your soft, exquisite tits.” He palmed my breast, kneaded it, then stroked his hand down my stomach, touching, caressing, grabbing as he went. I stilled my ineffective movements, still panting, waited for his fingers to find my easy button. And he did. And it felt good, but empty.
I didn’t try to stifle my cry.
“Tell me,” he whispered, like the devil he was, goading me, hot and hard against my needy flesh.
“Oh, Alex….”
“Say it.”
“You know—you already know.”
“Say the words.”
So I said, “I need you to lose your self-control for once and just fuck the hell out of me, dammit!”
I’d never dirty-talked in the bedroom before because it always seemed so silly; and, honestly, it reminded me of my job during college—which was the opposite of sexy.
But here, with him, the madness of my desire pushed my brain into a third dimension where dirty thoughts and words seemed necessary, the language of the flesh.
“No.” His hand lovingly skimmed my bare stomach and smoothed its way to my breast. I thought I detected an edge of unsteadiness in his voice. He held my breast with reverence as though he were holding my heart. “Tell me you want me to make love to you. Tell me you want me to love you always. Beg me for it.”
I swallowed, readied my response. At this point, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to beg. I wanted him to give me the promise of forever.
Before I could, he surprised me by flipping me over; my back met the mattress and my eyes met his. He didn’t look in control. He looked like a man starving, greedy, selfish with need.
“Next time, Sandra; next time you will beg.” His words were a command, but the end of his rope had been reached. His descent into madness was as plain as his need. Alex positioned himself over me, his head pressed against my entrance, slippery with our combined desire.
“Alex, I….”
Then, with one hurried movement, he filled me.
I exhaled on a whoosh, thankful for the dampness of my arousal and the lubrication provided by his mouth moments earlier; otherwise, I would have felt pain with no pleasure.
Alex held himself away, his arms straight, his head thrown back, and he cussed—repeatedly. His head fell forward and his eyes were closed. In fact, they were squeezed shut, and his forehead was wrinkled as though he were confused.
He moved out. He moved in. He lacked the grace of experience.
Regardless, it still felt good. Despite the jerky stops and starts, it only took twenty seconds for it to feel almost earth shaking, mind blowing, soul shattering, and rockets–red-glare-bursting-in air goo
d.
The motion of the ocean needed work. But size mattered, length mattered, my feelings for him mattered—and he had all three.
This lasted…oh, less than thirty seconds.
Because he came with the unexpected force of a car crash. Despite the fact that I’d begun to feel the first sparks of my release low in my belly, I didn’t have time to catch up to him. He was lost to me, too far ahead, lost in his own sensations and—apparently—drowning in bliss, because he was no longer breathing.
I watched him above me—his mouth open as though stifling a scream, his face contorted as though in pain. He exhaled and fell against me, apparently his arms no longer capable of holding him upright.
I smiled to myself with wonder, and tears pricked my eyes. I felt like he’d just given me a gift, a piece of himself that I would be able to take with me, carry around when we were separated during our days—a piece of something he valued above all else: his self-control. And now it was mine.
Our hearts beat together, and his skin felt almost feverish to the touch. I stroked his hair, kissed his neck, and just generally loved him. Alex’s solid weight meant that breathing was difficult, but I didn’t mind. I couldn’t fathom that, eventually, he would have to leave me; eventually, we would be two separate bodies again instead of one.
And, eventually, it did happen.
I felt Alex tense, then a moment later, pull away. He slipped from me, yet didn’t move entirely out of my reach. His eyes found mine as his fingers threaded through my hair and pushed it away from my face.
“Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”
“No…yes…I mean….” I took a deep breath because I could, but I longed for his weight against me. “Yes, I’m okay. No, you’re not hurting me.”
His eyes moved between mine, a bit more relaxed. “Sorry I lost control. That didn’t go as planned.”
“It never does, but that’s okay. I liked watching you lose control. Feel free to do it again, anytime.”
His eyes narrowed. “I wanted to hear you scream my name.”
“Then you’ll have to last longer next time.”
A lightning bolt of intent flashed behind his eyes. “Any other tips?”
“Yes. Lots.”
He frowned. “Was it bad?”
“No!” I shook my head in earnest. “No, no, no—not bad at all. You are very good. So good, in fact, that I might have to write a sea shanty to immortalize the experience.”
He chuckled, stole a kiss, then pulled completely away. I missed the warmth of his body, so I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms around myself, my legs curled up to my chest.
I listened to the soft sounds of his feet against the carpet, and my eyes flung open at the sound of him pilfering the drugstore bag and condom box once more.
I drank in his tall, lean, beautiful naked profile and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Preparing for next time.”
“Next time? You can’t mean….”
“Yes. I do.”
He opened the wrapper and rolled the condom on his miraculous member—the one-eyed monster.
I swallowed again, sat up in bed. “How can you…?”
“Sandra, I’m twenty-one years old, and I’ve been thinking about doing very bad things to you for over two years. I’ll be ready every five minutes for the rest of our lives.”
Twenty-one?
He was only twenty-one. Therefore, he had the stamina of a twenty-one year old.
Yay me! and Holy shit!
He sauntered back to the bed, already sheathed and hard, his eyes glinting.
For the first time since we’d entered the bedroom, I realized that the overhead light was on. The realization made me smile. I raised onto my knees, assumed the Wonder Woman pose, my hands on my hips; his steps faltered, and I watched his face as his eyes devoured my body.
I found that I, too, was ready.
Round two—for both of us. Hopefully we’d be engaging in a marathon rather than a sprint this time.
Of course, if the race ended too early, we could always go for a three-peat.
CHAPTER 24
Sunday’s Horoscope: You wanted the Pandora’s box open; now you must deal with the consequences.
I WOKE UP alone, naked, in bed.
Only two situations exist in which a woman never wants to be alone and naked: in bed after making love and in a birthing room, pregnant, at a hospital.
The latter because the birth of a baby is likely imminent, and no one will be there to catch it.
The former because no feeling is lonelier for a woman than falling into a man’s arms after giving herself to him, and finding that he’s abandoned her sometime during the night.
Everywhere else, especially public places, if a woman is naked, it’s best to be alone.
I curled into a ball, hugged my knees to my chest, and thought back over the last several hours. I asked myself three questions:
Where are my clothes?
What time is it?
Do I have any regrets?
The first question was easy to answer. I’d packed an extra change of clothes just in case my plan to seduce Alex—first for information about his past, then his body—had been successful. My overnight bag was in the closet.
I could guess the answer to the second question. Likely it was between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. The sky was dark, but I felt well rested. The sun wouldn’t rise for another two hours at least.
The last question required deep consideration, a thorough replay of the evening’s events, and an analysis of all most likely future outcomes based on and due to the event. I decided to start the deep consideration now, and compare my present feelings against those of the night before.
I found that, despite my protests, he was right. I was in love with Alex, and I’d almost said it out loud any number of times during our love making—which didn’t make any sense because I still didn’t know anything about him. Therefore, I had no idea whether we had a future together.
Except, now I knew he left after making love. Despite all the things I’d mentally written in the pros column about Alex, this was going in the cons column.
The three-peat, mind-bending, fantastic lovemaking—despite his eager and early misfire—was going in his pros column. I didn’t expect to have any orgasms his first time at the rodeo. Once again, he’d surprised me.
I sighed dejectedly and uncurled myself, stretched, yawned, stared at the ceiling.
I loved him. I’d fallen for him entirely too fast. Stupid me; I trusted him even though he obviously didn’t trust me. He’d asked for my leap of faith—to love without knowing—but he was unwilling to take a similar chance on me. He wanted to be with me, but didn’t trust me to stay if I knew his past.
Stupid, stupid man.
Stupid, stupid Sandra, my brain countered.
“Stupid, stupid brain,” I responded aloud, and then I rolled my eyes because I was talking to myself.
I sat up and the sheet pooled around my waist. I stretched again, and that’s when I heard it: the sound of running water. I glanced at the bathroom door standing open, and saw that the light was off. Obviously, the sound originated from elsewhere in the apartment.
Wrapping the sheet around my chest because I was cold, I stood from the bed and walked from the room. I exited the hall and paused, listened for the water, and found that it came from the direction of the kitchen—not the other bedroom.
Curiouser and curiouser.
With the sheet gathered, I walked to the kitchen, squinting against the bright overhead lights. When my vision adjusted, I almost swooned. I know I gasped. And I was pretty sure I also moaned.
Alex was standing in his suit pants, but nothing else—no shirt, no shoes—and he was doing me a service. He was washing the dishes from dinner. My mouth watered as I watched the muscles in his back and broad shoulders flexing as he worked. His strong body made the simple movements artful, fluid, and completely hypnotic.
I was wrong. He was a hypnotis
t.
I mentally erased the mark I’d placed in the cons column from his leaving the bed after making love. I firmly set it in the pros column for leaving the bed stealthfully with the intent of washing dishes.
Nothing screams lady-mind-porn like a hot, shirtless, sexy man doing dishes after giving her a reason to be exhausted.
Witnessing this scene would complicate everything; I would have a great deal of difficulty trying to sort through my feelings with the solid objectivity required to make intelligent choices.
I could see it now. My brain would say, He doesn’t trust you! He’s a world-famous computer hacker! He’s emotionally damaged!
And I would say, Yes, but he does the dishes shirtless, and—have you seen his body? I want to keep him!
I was a mess. I moved my hand to my forehead and dreamily watched him feeling both despair at my loss of objectivity and glorious surrender to the lovely present reality of Alex.
Alex glanced around absentmindedly at first, as if he didn’t expect to see anything. Then he did a double take.
His eyebrow arched; he gave me a dazzling, nearly blinding smile, and he surveyed me over his shoulder.
“Hey.”
“Hey…you.” I punched the air. It was an extremely awkward movement. I closed my eyes and let my chin drop to my chest.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I was a functioning, intelligent, adult woman who turned into mushy corn flakes when faced with the man I loved.
I heard Alex turn off the water. There was a bit of a delay, presumably while he dried his hands, and then he was standing in front of me. His palms moved up and down my arms first then planted themselves on my bottom, bringing me against him.
“Why are you up?” His mouth was already on my neck, lavishing me with wet kisses.
“What time is it?” I leaned into him and couldn’t fight the soft sigh that escaped my lips.
“Two thirty. Did I wake you?”
I placed my hand against his chest, fought the urge to lower it to his stomach. I couldn’t believe it was only two thirty. All hail the restorative power of Alex’s penis!