Time Served

by Julianna Keyes

  “Still here,” he says, stopping a couple of feet away.

  I exit the pizza shop and unfold my umbrella. “I’m leaving.” Even though the cab is supposed to be meeting me here, I begin to walk, figuring I can just loop back in twenty minutes.

  Dean follows. “How?”

  “I’ve got a cab coming.”

  “When?” He’s beside me now.

  I throw his words back at him. “What do you care?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t, I guess.”

  The rain picks up and so does my pace. Despite the fact that his hoodie is already soaked, Dean doesn’t seem concerned, matching me step for step, not speaking. I’d have succeeded in ignoring him completely if we hadn’t come upon a group of young men gathered in front of a boarded-up laundromat.

  Tattoos and red bandannas, low-slung jeans and angry stares abound. A couple glance at Dean and look away, but most eyes, as always, are on me. I am never coming to Camden without Jose again. What was I thinking?

  Just as we approach the men I feel something on my lower back, warm and possessive, and realize with a start that it’s Dean’s hand. He’s moved closer, guiding me past, staking a claim the young men recognize and seem to respect. He’d done the same thing a hundred times when we were teenagers, and a hundred times I’d swatted his hand away and sworn I could take care of myself. And every time I’d secretly swooned inside, happy to have someone who wanted to stand up for me, even if it wasn’t really necessary. All the looks fall away as we pass, and no one makes a sound. Not even me, until we’re a full block away and Dean’s hand is still resting on the curve of my ass.

  “You can stop touching me now.”

  “It bother you?”

  “Yes.”

  He flicks his fingers forward and he’s strong enough that it makes me stumble a few steps in my heels, and drop my purse. I snatch up the bag and whirl around, furious. “Why are you such a dick?”

  Dean just shrugs, unmoved.

  I take a shaky breath and try to compose myself, unwilling to acknowledge just how little that beer brought me down from the edge. Another exhausting day has taken its toll, and I need to get home, eat cherry Popsicles, and...relax. I feel my throat tighten, telling myself it’s frustration and not sadness and not guilt. If he hasn’t forgiven me by now he’s never going to. And he hasn’t. He won’t. Who else doesn’t kiss the girl he’s fucking? Who leaves on all his clothes, taking out just his dick so they’re touching no more than absolutely necessary to complete the act? Who fucks her in the front hall, keeping her close to the door so he can kick her out when it’s all over?

  And who lets him?

  All week I’ve been wrestling with these thoughts. Sure, they’re interspersed with shockingly explicit memories of how good Dean’s hands—and the rest of him too—felt but they mostly come at the expense of my pride. He’d wanted to fuck me out of his head and I’d shown up asking for it—I can’t very well cry when I get it.

  “You gonna wait in the rain?”

  I realize then that we’ve stopped in front of Dean’s apartment building. In the daylight I see that it’s a converted warehouse, the red brick facade dotted with new windows and fire escapes.

  I fold my arms and peer back the way we came. I’ll have to pass those men alone to get back to the pizza place; maybe I’ll call the cab company and have them pick me up in front of Dean’s apartment. Again.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Dean sighs and settles in against the brick wall, folding his arms over his chest, mirroring me.

  “Go inside,” I tell him.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You already did, remember?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  He laughs, a mean sound. “You want a reminder?”

  “No.”

  “How about you showed up at my place in a little black dress and fancy shoes, begging me to fuck you like you’ve been needing it for years?”

  My cheeks heat at the retelling, but I force another shrug and keep my back to him.

  “No? How about I had my fingers in your pussy and your ass and you were panting for more?”

  I bite my tongue at that factual inaccuracy.

  “How about you were so dripping wet you’d have done anything I told you, just to get my cock where you wanted it?”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “Is it?”

  I jump. Dean’s standing right behind me, under my umbrella. I can feel the heat of his body against my back. “Knock it off.”

  “You want it again, just say the word.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You need it again, come upstairs.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Fine? That good enough for you?”

  “What else is there?” I regret the question as soon as I ask it. Regret how much it says about me.

  Dean laughs softly, fingers stroking up the side of my tailored jacket, making me tremble. “There’s good,” he says, warming up. “There’s great. There’s fantastic. There’s amazing. And then there’s coming so hard you claw the skin off my back, shaking and creaming on my cock like it’s the last one you’re ever going to get.”

  I whip around and slap him so hard it stuns us both. My hand throbs and tears well up, pain and shame and too many other unsavory emotions swirling through me. Dean’s head jerks slightly at the contact, just a few degrees, enough to show me his cheek and the stark white imprint of my fingers outlined in rapidly reddening skin.

  His eyes flash. “Do it again,” he dares me.

  I shake my head and drop my hand.

  “Do it again.”

  I inhale sharply and start to turn my back to him, but he grabs my still-stinging hand and folds it in his fist, tight enough that I can’t pull away, but not so much it hurts.

  “I can take it, Rachel, if that’s what you need.”

  I feel a tear snaking down the side of my nose and reach up my free hand to wipe it away. “I don’t need anything,” I lie.

  “Come inside, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing for shit.”

  “You’re so angry at me.” I can’t look him in the eye when he’s this close. “I can’t let you...”

  “What?”

  I take a deep breath, but it just sounds like a sob.

  “Did I hurt you last time?”

  I shake my head no, but I mean yes. It hurt, it felt good, I don’t know what the hell it was. I don’t like being confused. I had the right idea ten years ago: don’t look back. Dean Barclay is a drug and control goes out the window where he’s concerned. That’s why it’s better to keep him out of sight and out of mind. That’s why I should be fighting like hell to get away from him right now.

  “You shoulda stayed.”

  My eyes flicker to his face.

  “You come in this time, you stay the night. I don’t want to wake up and reach for you and find the bed cold.”

  “You didn’t show me your bed.”

  “You didn’t stick around long enough to see it.”

  “You didn’t want to kiss me.”

  He sucks in a breath. “I didn’t want to make out. I wanted to get you outta my head.”

  “Did you?”

  His eyes darken. “Not even close.”

  I tug on my hand to see if he’ll release me and he does, stepping out of the cover of the umbrella. I glance over my shoulder to see a cab drive past, looking for its pickup.

  Dean grips my chin lightly and makes me look at him. “You want to fight or you want to get fucked, Rachel? It’s your call. But if you walk away now, don’t come back. I want you outta my head, but this time I’m going to be the one who decides when you go.”

  My heart is pounding. My body’s taking his threat seriously, screaming at me to follow him inside, use him the way he wants to use me. But my brain is telling me to turn a
round and flag down that cab, drive away and never look back. Again.

  It worked once, didn’t it?

  I twist my jaw free of his fingers. “My ass is off-limits.”

  He tosses back his head and laughs. “Fine.”

  “Don’t try to degrade me.”

  He looks me from head to toe, chignon to Prada pumps. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “And don’t tell anyone.”

  Dean slides a hand up the back of my neck, squeezing a little too hard. “You might call the shots all day,” he says, “but I call ’em at night, got it?”

  I swallow nervously.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he relents. “Not unless you want it like that.”

  I shake my head.

  He leans in so close his lips brush mine when he speaks. “Then what are you afraid of?”

  Chapter Eight

  I feel surprisingly calm as I follow Dean to the building, folding up my umbrella as he digs out keys from his pocket and unlocks the door, holding it open for me to pass through. I step inside and take in the large lobby, a cavernous space with the same brick and polished concrete as Dean’s apartment. Mailboxes line one side, there’s a bright green potted plant in the corner and a bulletin board with a single notice about a missing cat occupies the far wall.

  We ride up in an elevator I hadn’t noticed on my earlier visit, and thirty seconds later we enter his apartment. I take three steps, lean my umbrella against the wall and hear, “That’s far enough.”

  My pulse pounds at the realization that he’s keeping me by the door again, guarding his apartment like it’s his heart and I’ll only tear up the place if he lets me in. He walks up behind me, cups my breasts and pulls me back into his body, letting me feel his erection against my back. “Get on your knees,” he whispers, releasing me.

  I rest one hand against the wall and unbuckle my shoe, then repeat the gesture with the second. As I step out of the heels I hear a dull thwack and see that Dean has tossed his wet hoodie on the ground for me to kneel on. Like a gentleman. I’ve never really been bossed around before, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. All I do know is that I want this—whatever it is—for today, at least, and I’m going to do it, common sense be damned.

  My tight skirt makes it a little difficult, but I finally follow orders and get on my knees, Dean’s hand instantly curling around the back of my head as though he expects me to change my mind. I anticipate him unpinning my chignon again, but he surprises me by murmuring, “Nah, I think we’ll leave this. Look up at me.”

  I do, sex swelling as I imagine the tableau: me, barefoot in my black pencil skirt, navy blouse and cream-colored blazer, kneeling before Dean, lips parted. I don’t need to imagine his reaction to the scene—his cheeks are flushed, eyes glazed and he can’t look away from my mouth.

  “Take out my cock,” he orders.

  I lick my lips and stroke him through the damp cotton of his sweats. The feel of his searing erection through the fabric makes something deep inside me clench, and a slow ache starts, one that only Dean can ease. We’d done this a thousand times in the past, fumbling our way past awkward introductions to insidious, addicting pleasure. And though Dean had usually been the one to take the lead, coming up with new ideas he swore he hadn’t read about in the dirty magazines I knew he kept in his closet, our sexual evolution always felt like a journey we were taking together. The performers in today’s little show may be the same, but the roles are considerably different. He doesn’t view us as equals now. Out on the street, in my suits and heels, I’m in control. But in here, it’s Dean who will decide how the story unfolds, and what my role in it will be.

  “I didn’t say play with it,” he interrupts, trapping my fingers in his own. His hand is so big that mine is completely obscured.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ll see.”

  The threat just makes me wetter. I tug down his pants and boxers to reveal his erection, so thick and heavy I should be afraid, but I’m not. I didn’t have much of an opportunity to study him like this last time. It had been more of a forensic examination after the fact, using the tenderness that lingered between my legs for days to gauge his size. Sure, he’d been big years ago, too, but like everything else, it feels different now. Our dynamic has been drastically altered, and it’s as nerve-racking as it is exciting.

  Dean fists his cock and jerks himself roughly, showing me how he likes it. I’m expecting him to let go and tell me to take over, but instead he cradles my head in his free hand and brings my face forward, rubbing the weeping slit over my slightly parted lips. I can’t help it. I moan.

  “You want it?”

  I bite my lip and nod.

  “Open wide.”

  I open my mouth as wide as I can, knowing it’ll take all that and more to fit him in.

  “Look at me.”

  I roll my eyes up to meet his fervid stare as he pushes the tip of his cock past my lips. I lave him with my tongue, tasting his salt and his heat, and I swear my clit triples in size. I’ve given head before, hell, I’ve done precisely this before, but it’s never turned me on the way it does now. Dean has hardly touched me and I’m almost ready to come. I’d be embarrassed if I weren’t so aroused.

  He pushes in a couple of inches, continuing to stroke himself, bumping my chin with his fingers.

  “Suck,” he orders.

  I fasten my lips around him and suck hard, mimicking the aggression of his fist. He groans, a sharp, startled sound, and the fingers in my hair tighten painfully for a second, then ease.

  We find a rhythm, Dean holding my head but not forcing it, stroking his cock as I take as much as I can into my mouth, swallowing when he bumps the back of my throat, occasionally struggling to breathe. I pull away to cough, and Dean stills, releasing my hair.

  “You wanna stop?”

  I almost laugh but don’t, opting instead to shake my head and grip his cock in my own fist, jerking him the way he’d been doing, showing him I’d been watching. Learning. This is different than how we used to do it. It’s surer, meaner. Dean’s head falls back and he moans, hips thrusting. I catch him in my mouth, swirling my tongue everywhere, rubbing the tip under the head of his cock, feeling a pang of smugness when he gasps and grips my head in both hands, holding it still.

  “Just like that,” he grunts, fucking my face with shallow thrusts. “You okay with me coming in your mouth? Tell me now if you’re not. I don’t got long.”

  I offer a muffled, “Not a problem” and Dean growls, letting loose with the first pulse of his release. The salty spray fills my mouth and I swallow fast and hard, trying to catch it all. His hand covers mine, showing me how he wants it when he’s coming, tight and rough and relentless until the final spasms pass and he shakes, the beast in him briefly appeased.

  I stay on my knees, waiting, watching as he tucks his cock back in and turns away from me, gathering himself.

  “Fuck, Rachel,” he mutters a moment later, striding over and crouching before me. He uses his thumb to swipe a drop of come from my chin, pushes the digit into my mouth and watches me suck him clean. “You like that?” he asks.

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about sucking his thumb or tasting his come but I nod, since the answer’s the same for both.

  “It turn you on to suck my cock?”

  I nod again.

  “Lift your skirt up over your hips.”

  My heart pounds as I shimmy my skirt up my legs, leaving it bunched around my waist, pale pink thong exposed to Dean’s heated stare. He sits back to study the soaked scrap of silk, molded to my drenched folds and confirming everything I’d just told him.

  “You get this wet for everybody?”

  I feel the blood drain from my face and jerk back as though he’d struck me. Is he insulting me? Was part of fucking me out of his head convincing himself that I’m a whore? Not just a sell-out for money and designer shoes, but a cocksucking slut?

  Dean catches my expression and interprets it correc
tly, snagging my upper arm when I make a move to stand. “Simmer down,” he says mildly. “I just want to know it’s me that turns you on like this.”

  My heart’s battering my rib cage. I believe him. I believe the question was for his ego, but still I’m reminded of how little we know each other now. And how little we trust each other. Dean sighs, but doesn’t press the issue. “Rachel,” he sighs, reaching between my legs and squeezing my pussy. “Take your clothes off.”

  I close my eyes, equally confused by how much his bossiness is turning me on and the fact that it doesn’t bother me now like it would under different circumstances. I slip off my blazer and let it fall to the floor, then unfasten the button at the back of my neck before tugging my shirt from my waistband. I risk a glance at Dean’s face and my heart gallops eagerly around my chest, spurred on by the lust and fascination in his dark eyes. He’s staring at my chest, rapidly rising and falling as I slowly peel up my shirt with trembling fingers.

  “Rachel,” Dean grounds out. I’ve just gotten the shirt over my head when he snags my wrists, trapping them in the silky fabric and pinning them behind my head, elbows pointed to the ceiling. I watch his eyes lower to my lace-covered breasts, jutting forward in a vaguely uncomfortable position, and color rises in his cheeks. My breasts are a little bigger than what would suit my frame, but nothing extraordinary. The look on Dean’s face, however, makes me feel like a centerfold: he’s entranced, a flash of pink tongue appearing as he wets his lips. He’s seen it all before, of course, but had given himself just a glimpse last week. I remember his early fascination with my breasts, cajoling me into letting him peek, touch, taste. My trailer, his trailer, the front seat of whatever car he was driving that week—nothing had been off-limits where Dean was concerned. He asked and I answered, every time, a threat to my autonomy I was almost too late to recognize. And yet here I am, ten years later, in the same damn position, the same pulse between my legs, the same insatiable curiosity keeping me in place as he reaches up with his other hand and undoes the front clasp on the bra, letting it fall open. My nipples are already hard and aching when Dean covers one breast with his rough hand, squeezing and fondling, watching himself. I arch into the touch and he tugs my hands back, forcing me to stretch farther. The position hurts a little but all thoughts of pain flee my mind when he lowers his mouth to a straining nipple and latches on.