by Alexis Angel
I'm going to slide in between my warm blankets and read my Kindle.
At least that's a place where men don't leave.
38
Sanders
I'm walking around Midtown when I see her from across the street. It's Stacy.
What are the chances? Here I am, trying to forget about this woman and I can't. Everywhere I turn, I'm reminded of her, and now here she is.
She's dressed in a short, black skirt and blouse, and she looks fantastic. Really fucking fantastic. And as I look around, I see I'm not the only man who thinks she looks good either.
She quickly walks underground, into the subway station, her heels tapping the ground at a quick clip.
I feel the protective urge to follow her, and then I stop myself. Why do I always feel the need to act as this woman's bodyguard? But once she disappears down the subway steps, I can't contain myself. I'm compelled to follow on a hunch. After all, this is Midtown, near 8th Avenue on the West Side in Far Chelsea. It's not the safest part of town.
Quickly looking both ways for oncoming traffic, I seize the opportunity to run across the street. I don't necessarily want her to see me, so I'm careful to keep my distance and slowly descend the steps.
Once downstairs, I scan the subway station. At first, I don't see Stacy. My eyes are darting back and forth. I see a stream of people hustling about and on their way to various locations—old, young, and everything in between. Then, the stream of people fades, and the platform grows quiet.
The musty underground air is thick and humid. At first, it's a sound. I hear a scream that causes my pulse to race. And then something catches my eye—a scuffle—the flash of black, and silver, and shadow.
My hunch was right.
Standing slightly off in the distance, I see Stacy and another man. He's big and wearing a black, hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head, so it's hard for me to get a good look at his face. It's shrouded in shadow and obscured from my angle.
"Stay away from me!" Stacy yells, swinging wildly. I can hear the panic bubbling up in her voice.
The man firmly grips one of Stacy's arms. With her free arm, she's frantically digging into her purse. She's putting up a good fight, but she's still no match for this man. He's taller and bigger—I'm guessing he outweighs her by about a hundred pounds.
Then I see him push her against the wall.
Her head snaps back and hits the wall with the force of his push, but this doesn't slow her down. She's still struggling and putting up a good fight, and finally has what she wants from her purse.
"I have mace and I'm not afraid to use it!" she screams, and I can almost hear the man laugh as he slaps it out of her hand.
The can hits the ground and rolls out of sight. I can see the desperation etched into Stacy's face. The man has her cornered, and begins to lift up her skirt, sliding his hand on her thigh, and just as he's about to reach for her breast, I intervene.
I rush forward and grab the man by the throat. If I wanted to, I could end his life right now, with the grip I currently have on him, but I decide that'd be too easy.
The man's caught off guard. I can see the surprise in his eyes, but that emotion is short lived. Now it's fight or flight, and he's decided to fight me.
Wrong choice.
He struggles underneath my grip, and I watch as he raises an arm. His massive fist is balled and heading toward my face, but I duck just out of it's path. He misses and instead, connects with the wall behind me.
He winces with the crushing impact, and a red gash opens up on his knuckles. Now it's my turn. I swing and connect with his lower jaw. This time, the impact splits his lip, and blood spills down his chin.
My heart is racing, and I can't see or hear anything else beyond this man. The target. Suddenly, this has become a mission I have to see through to the end.
I'm seeing red.
The rest of the world doesn't exist at this point.
I hit him again and watch the man stumble back. He's on the ground now, struggling to get up and I give him a quick kick to the ribs. He winces and grits his teeth.
Who does he think he is, assaulting women in subway stations? It's unacceptable. This man doesn't deserve my pity.
I reach down and am about to grab him by his jacket and throw him on top of the subway tracks when I hear Stacy scream.
"Stop!" she yells. "Sanders, don't! That's enough!"
I'm breathing heavy, but hearing her voice calms my rage. I feel my pulse start to slow.
I release my grip, take one final look at the man, and let him go.
39
Stacy
I can hardly believe my eyes. Just when I thought Sanders was gone for good, he's in front of me, and he's saving my life … again. How is this happening?
Sanders has the man in his grip, and I watch as he delivers blow after blow. It's as if he's in a rage trance and the world around him has melted away.
He has one thing on his mind, and that's to beat the shit out of this man. I watch as he grabs the man by his jacket. It looks as if he's going to throw him on the subway tracks, and when the realization dawns on me that this is his intent, I panic.
As much as I hate my attacker, he doesn't deserve to die … and I don't want to see Sanders go to jail for murder.
I look around for my can of mace, which my attacker had knocked from my hands. I find it on the ground and grab it in my trembling fingers.
Pointing it toward the attacker and Sanders, I can feel a scream bubble up my throat.
"Stop!" I yell. "Sanders, don't! That's enough!"
It works. My words have the desired effect, and it's as if Sanders comes out of trance. For the first time, his eyes lock on mine, and I watch as he releases his grip on the man. The man drops to the floor, and realizing that he's free, he seizes the opportunity to scramble to his feet and run.
I've never seen a man run so fast in his life. I can hear his sneakers slap the pavement, and before we know it, he's simply a dark smear in the distance, growing smaller and smaller by the second until he's completely gone.
I'm still trembling. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins.
I'm holding the can of mace as if my life depended on it, and I don't know why, but I'm pointing it at Sanders. It's as if my arms are frozen in this protective position.
He looks at me and walks over. There is a soft concern pooling in the depths of his eyes.
"Are you going to spray me with that?" he asks. But even my posture doesn't worry him, and he continues his slow walk toward me.
The can is still trembling in my fingers like a leaf on a tree, but I don't change my position. "I should spray you … after the way you left me," I say, and the words just tumble out of my mouth. My eyes are still locked on his.
"I never left you," he replies.
"What's that supposed to mean? One minute, you where there, and the next, not."
"You're wrong. I was always watching you, at a distance."
"Who told you to be all creepy like that?" I ask. It's just an odd thing to admit … that someone's been secretly watching you when you had no idea. "I never asked you to protect me like that."
Sanders doesn't respond. He just continues to step closer. I still have the can of mace pinched between my fingers, and my fingers are on the trigger. It's now just inches from his face. But even that doesn't phase him. He's undeterred.
Finally, he steps up so close to me that his body is inches from mine. I can smell him … the smell of a man I realize that I deeply care about. I can now feel his warmth, his body reaching for mine, and my resolve crumbles.
I can't stay mad at him. He just risked his life for mine. He saved me. If he hadn't have been here, I shudder to think where I would've ended up.
With that realization, I feel my arm unfreeze, and I drop the mace. It hits the ground with a metallic ting, rolling away and out of reach.
I embrace Sanders. I feel his strong, warm body on mine as he wraps his arms around me.
He delicately places his hand on my cheek, and brushes one finger across my lips. I lean in and bring my mouth to his. The moment our lips touch, there's an electric hum that courses through me.
And that's when I know that I want to be in his embrace for as long as humanly possible. I never want him to disappear again.
40
Stacy
Sanders has a Midtown apartment that's so nice I do a double take when I step inside. Herald Towers is classy as shit, how on earth does he afford this? Well, I'm not here to shake out his wallet, I'm trying to get him out of his pants.
I am not tentative now. After how he left before...well, I was starting to question a lot of things. But he's back now. I am here, now, at his place. I know what we're going to do.
I take in the sight of him, heading to the kitchen. The elegant one bedroom is surprisingly spacious for Midtown, but that's more of a negative than a perk right now. I want to haul him off to the bedroom. Or, really, anywhere where we are significantly less clothed. A repeat of our last sexual encounter would be more than welcome. I lick my lips and let my eyes wander to the sheer size of his bulging biceps while he fills the cocktail shaker. No man has ever looked so good as he does right now squeezing a lemon.
"Whisky sour?" He asks with a slow drawl to his voice. It sends a shiver up my spine and I know I detect lust in his voice, radiating off my skin now in shared arousal.
The cocktails are teasing us both. We're both adults...but after what happened last time, and the time between...I guess we both need to space out the night so neither of us is sneaking out in the middle of the night.
"Sure," I say with a smile. Simple can be good. Delightful, even. I don't need a fancy bar drink. Something with some edge is sure to lighten this tension I sense in him. The tension I sense in him that I am trying to keep from having my own misgivings about. Everything should be fine. I walk towards the kitchen, taking the drink he offers with a grateful swipe before I turn to head back to the chaise on his sofa. I slip off my shoes and recline my feet, watching him now take a drink of his own cocktail before I sip mine. His body is the most powerful thing I've ever laid eyes -- or hands -- on. I wouldn't be surprised if he could crush a tree trunk with his bare hands. That is, if he could. He never would. There's something so powerful yet gentle about Sanders that intrigues me. He's strong yet caring. That's what made his escape so painful for me, if I'm being honest with myself.
I take a bigger sip of my drink. That's what even internal honesty calls for. The slow burn in my throat and down to my belly coils within me and I blink slowly. When my eyes open, after just a second, Sanders is sitting down before me on the chaise. I hold onto my drink a little tighter. My lips part, which I don't realize until I follow his vision to them.
"Drink your own whisky," I tell him with a silly grin.
Sanders takes a final swig, and then he places his glass onto a coaster on the coffee table. "I know that slipping out like that wasn't my proudest moment. I hope you'll stay tonight."
There's something almost pleading in his voice. I take another sip of my drink before I say anything. The truth is, because I want to stay despite my misgivings, and the oddness of this place...I just don't know what to make of Sanders. I will stay the night, but I won't say it. Some cruel part of me knows he needs that answer, but the part of me that guards myself demands that I don't give that answer. "You assume that I'm going to sleep with you?" I say, allowing my voice to be coy. I'm not trying to torture the man. I just want to keep from answering that particular question.
"Well," Sanders leans closer to me. I almost taste his breath now, laced with the whisky, and I want him to kiss me. He is hovering over me like this precisely so I will feel this way. "Yes, I think I am going to kiss you, then I'm going to carry you off to my bed and spend the night making love to you."
Making love? Oh god, who says that? And he's going to carry me off to his bed? I can't even mock this because...god that's the sweetest damn thing anyone has ever said to me and Sanders does have that whole knight in shining armor thing going on, and it is completely not ironic or cheesy from him.
This is exactly how I know I am in too deep.
"Are you going to throw me over your shoulder again?" I say, and I hope I don't sound too eager.
"I want to work with, not against that whisky sour in your belly," Sanders says. His voice is gruff and sensual. If a voice could drop panties, this one, Sanders's voice, would undo my bra and bend me over.
I reach for my drink because I don't want to lick my lips right in front of him like this. It is practically lewd. My fingers connect with the glass, but I don't get a chance to lift it up to my mouth just yet.
"Put the ice cube in my mouth," Sanders says of one of the two cubes in my tumbler.
I reach my fingers inside my glass and grab one, bringing the slippery little devil to Sanders's parted lips.
His tongue comes out to catch it and draws it in his mouth. I am about to lick my fingers clean myself when Sanders circles my wrist and licks off the wet parts of my fingers.
I have the burn in my belly from only him, a fire that doesn't need booze to stoke the flames. I watch his mouth now, mesmerized as it releases my fingers and his tongue works over the ice cube.
Sanders rises and puts his knees on either side of my body, leaning over me and closing his mouth over my neck. His lips are hot but then his cold tongue shocks me. He licks and kisses down my neck and to my collarbone.
I'm shivering, and only part of it is the hot/cold sensations he's inflicting on my skin.
His hands grip my arms and pull me closer to him. I feel that strange power yet gentleness in play with the way he's holding me.
He's all raw power and muscle but he doesn't want to overtake me when he touches me.
His claim is giving, his need is to share pleasure.
It echoes something without words to verbalize themselves inside my own being.
Sanders brings his mouth lower down my collarbone, to the exposed vee of flesh from my blouse. The tiny cold sliver of the remaining ice flows right down my cleavage. I shudder at the cold, wet sensation.
Sanders grinds his hard cock against me, clothes between us but keeping very little to our imaginations. I know now that he's not going to rush, though, and that's both promising and infuriating. I want him. I want that cock I feel against me buried inside me until I shout out at the sheer pleasure of that massive cock filling me up with every inch of it...but I want every minute of the delicious minute of whatever else he has in store for me. He said the night. Could I take a whole night of anything he has planned?
I guess we are both about to discover that. I'm going to do my best. Part of the reason is because I'm already wondering if tonight is the last night that I will spend with Sanders. Part of me just genuinely wants to enjoy whatever he intends to do tonight. If I can trust nothing else, I can trust him with my body. That, he knows oh so well, even with so little time to get acquainted. Not that he didn't pack it in before. Ha ha. Right. I can't follow any more mental diversions. He removes my shirt and his teeth are on my bra. He looks up into my eyes and then removes the clasps. I thought for a moment that he might tear the bra right off of me with his teeth. It sent a wicked thrill through me. But that moment of eye contact when Sanders did the gentle thing but let his power hang in the air? That's downright addictive. I took a hit of that sensation and let it rush to my head.
My head that falls back in pleasure that instant the coolness of the air on my now bare breasts is replaces by his hands and mouth, exploring my flesh with the sensual thrall that only his touch on my skin can offer. I want to beg him for more but I can't. I focus on breathing and how it feels when he touches me. The heat that rose in my belly crawls to my toes and arches through my back. Tickles along my spine and plants wicked urges in my mind.
"You taste so good. I could lick your whole body all night, if I didn't have even better plans," Sanders growls against my skin. There's something commanding in eve
n this compliment that sets my breathing crooked, hitching in my throat and making me tremble a little beneath him. I want so much more. My pussy is flooding my panties and I can't believe how wet I am already.
Sanders must be able to feel it against his cock, because he trails a hand down, beneath my skirt and hooks up to reach into the thin strip of what passes for panties nowadays. More lace than function, and more wet than dry now. His fingers run the full length of my slit and tease around my opening. I am completely melting now, shuddering in his arms and aching for him to increase what he's offering. A moan grows low in my throat and I want to be able to capture the heat that he's offering. My clit twitches. I bite my lip.
Sanders seizes one of my nipples in between his teeth and again the threat of so much more hangs in the air. The nibble on my nipple is then met with tongue and I simmer beneath this touch. The moan is breathy and slowly leaving my lips when he brings his thumb up to my clit. The air behind my moan pushes out into a low groan and I am ready to beg. I whimper a little as he picks up the speed with which he's circling my clit with this thumb, but it is still so maddeningly not fucking me hard that my greedy body find itself still unsatisfied. I am shaking beneath his touch. My legs squeeze against him, my hips angling to urge him for more.
But Sanders lets out a small laugh that tells me that not only does he know exactly what I want, but that he knows exactly when he plans to give it to me and I will not alter his timeline.
Sanders drags his mouth up my neck, making me sigh and reach out for him, before his lips crash over mine. A thousand brush strokes of lust paint over our mouths as our kiss deepens, our tongues flowing together and exploring each other's mouths with raw need. He moans into my mouth, his knuckles grazing over my pussy folds, and I am quaking in his hold, kissing him like a drowning woman hanging onto her life raft.