Time Served

by Julianna Keyes

  “Not really.”

  He holds out his hands, showing me his scraped knuckles. “You know how this happened?”

  I stare at the scars on his hands, his face. “Fighting with Oscar Hall.”

  Dean cocks his head, surprised and not surprised that I know. “Fucking Oreo.”

  Now I laugh.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “the point is, sometimes you gotta work out your aggression so you can focus on more important things.”

  “Like what?”

  His dark eyes heat, making me shiver. “Let’s find out.” He sets the unopened bottle of water on the counter then takes a step forward so there’s just a foot or so of space between us. “If I’m Caitlin, what are you going to do to me?”

  I know what he’s getting at, but I’m not going to punch him. Even in my weakest moments, I’m not even sure I could punch Caitlin. I haven’t been in a fistfight since I was fourteen and Mitzy Lachlan stole my hair dye. “Dean,” I say awkwardly. “No. I—I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s weird.”

  He reaches up and unpins my hair, letting it spool down my back. “You worried I’m going to hit you back?”

  I laugh nervously. “No.”

  “Then what?” He steps forward, backing me into the counter, knee wedging between my thighs. “This?” Before I know what’s happening, he yanks on the collar of my shirt, sending the small pearl buttons flying. I open my mouth to protest but he pops off the button on my pants and soon has both items discarded on the floor. It’s so impressive I almost forget to be mad.

  “Stop ruining my clothes!” But the words lack any and all conviction because he’s stripping off his shirt so he’s bare-chested, golden and built and perfect. He pulls me to the floor, gathers my wrists in one hand and pins them over my head.

  “Remember that first night?” he murmurs, trailing his tongue across my exposed throat.

  “What about it?”

  “You know what to say if you want me to stop.” He slides his free hand between us and covers my aching core with his palm, the thin fabric of my panties an irksome barrier.

  Lawyer, I remember. And in my head I echo the plea, Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer. But I don’t say it aloud because stopping is the last thing I want him to do.

  “You remember, Rachel?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Lawyer.”

  He squeezes my pussy. “Good. Don’t say it again until you mean it.”

  “Dean...” I plead. “I don’t want to fight. I just want...”

  “What?”

  “I...” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what comes next. It’s hard to inhale, with his chest bearing down on mine. “I can’t breathe,” I gasp eventually.

  He lifts up slightly, letting me drag in air, then settles over me once again. “If you can’t ask for what you want,” he says, pinching my clit through my panties, “and you can’t fight for it, then maybe I’ll just do what I want.”

  He slaps the side of my ass so hard and so suddenly that I yowl. There’s no other way to describe the sound that comes out of my mouth. Pain, indignation, surprise. Rage. I’m not into pain; I don’t have any spanking fantasies. I don’t feel the heat spread across my skin in a sexy way; I’m furious. He knows this. Or he did; he’d tried it when we were kids and I’d flipped out until he promised never to do it again.

  I buck angrily, bite his shoulder, jerk one foot out from under him and kick down hard into the back of his calf with my heel. Dean’s surprise has more to do with the immediacy of my response than any pain, and his smug chuckle only makes me more irate.

  “You fight for what you don’t want, huh?”

  I struggle against the hold on my wrists and we both know I only break free because he chooses to let me. He slaps my ass again, the same spot, and tears spring to my eyes.

  “Don’t,” I gasp, swinging an elbow at his face and missing. The effort makes me weak; it’s still hard to breathe, he’s so fucking heavy. “Don’t. I’ll say it.”

  “Giving in that easy, Rach? Let me hear it.” He hits me again and I lose it, especially when one tear breaks free and trails down my temple to pool in my ear.

  “Stop!” I hiss, clawing at his face. He eludes me, just the tips of my nails finding skin, and even then only for a split second. I slide my hand over his skull, feeling the sharp ends of his shorn hair on my palm, missing the feel of the dark, silky strands he’d been so proud of. But there’s no time for reminiscing; there’s only now. I feel him lift his hand away and know there’s another slap coming, so I raise my head and cover his mouth with mine, stealing his breath for once. I pull his lower lip between my teeth, feeling him tense, that threatening hand falling to the ground for support.

  “Let me breathe,” I whisper softly, opening my eyes to meet his. Dean tugs his lip from between my teeth and pushes up with both hands, prying our sticky chests apart. I bring up my knee, hard, and jam it into his stomach. He sees it coming a nanosecond before the contact and tenses up; my knee doesn’t sink into soft flesh, bouncing instead off tightly corded muscles. But I still make my point.

  “How was that?” I ask, lips twisting into something that couldn’t quite pass for a smile. Dean’s breathing is raspy as he rolls us so I’m on top again. This time I don’t ask for what I want, I just take it. I shove down his sweats far enough to bare his cock to my greedy fingers and fit him against me, leaving my panties in place as I roll my hips, feeling his searing heat against my needy flesh.

  “Not bad,” he grunts, eyes glued to my inner thighs. “Get the panties off.”

  I ignore the command and lean forward to balance my palms on his hard chest. I rock against him and Dean reaches down to fist his cock, letting me use him, stroking me with his thumb now and then. His face is pulled tight, his dark eyes just slits as he watches the show. I use the rare opportunity to study unguarded Dean, the fresh bruises on his face, the faded scars on his torso. Even in the dim light his shoulders glow like gold against the pale floor tiles.

  I hiss when he rubs my clit, hard. “Dean.”

  “What?”

  “You’re so hot.”

  He rasps out a laugh. “Yeah?”

  “You know you are.” I lean down to kiss him, pushing my tongue into his mouth, feeling satisfied and strong when his meets mine, hungry and frantic. I do it because I have to; because I want to. Because I want him.

  One of his hands cups the back of my neck, holding me in place as his other hand delves between my legs. He pushes the wet gusset of my panties aside and curls two fingers into me, stroking deep. I sigh into his mouth but don’t stop kissing him until I have to break away, dizzy. He’s fucking me hard with his fingers and I can hear them plunge into me again and again, wet and filthy.

  “Oh God,” I groan into the side of his neck. “Please.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Make me come.”

  “Take this off...” Dean instructs, unfastening my bra and pushing it down my arms before flinging it away. “And lose the panties.”

  I sit up, awkwardly shuffling out of my panties as he watches. He flips us so I’m the one lying on the cold tiles as he looms between my legs, then lowers himself, forearms pinning my thighs to the floor, splaying me wide open for his hungry mouth. He lowers his head and sucks me in, hard, and goes to town.

  I groan, a long, low sound I feel vibrate through my chest, clawing its way out of my throat. Dean answers by wedging two fingers inside me, holding them still as my clenching inner muscles strain to accommodate him, then sliding them in and out, a methodical kind of torture. This isn’t the same Dean who first did this ten years ago, an enthusiastic, exploratory teenager whose only goal was my pleasure and the accompanying ego boost. I don’t know or care how or with whom Dean practiced this exquisite torment, I just know that I need it to end. Or begin. Whichever.

  He blows cool air on my swollen clit, fl
icks it with his tongue, laps around my entrance. His elbows hurt where they dig into the soft flesh of my inner thighs, but for once the pain is a positive, a distraction from the desperate pulse low in my belly, the primitive need for release.

  “Please, please, please,” I chant. One hand fumbles blindly between my legs, searching for something, anything. I find the top of Dean’s head but there’s nothing to hold on to, no way to control him. When he pulls away, I think it’s because I touched him, and it takes me ten full seconds to realize he said something.

  “What?” I gasp, lifting my heavy head to look at him. Between my legs he cuts a huge, intimidating figure that looks like the most necessary kind of absolution.

  “You seeing anybody else?” he repeats.

  A hazy discomfort spreads through me and I try to close my legs, a futile gesture when he’s got a grip on each knee, holding me open.

  “You’re asking this now?”

  Dean uses one hand to stroke me, hooking his middle finger into my pussy and pushing it deep. “Yeah.”

  “Jesus.” I writhe against that probing finger, not sure if I want to dislodge it or get it deeper. “Your timing could use a little improving.”

  “Answer me,” he orders, adding a second finger.

  “No!” I snap. “Why? Are you seeing someone?” The question makes me seethe.

  Dean doesn’t speak, just shakes his head no and presses his face back between my legs, fastening his lips around my clit and sucking hard, holding me down when my hips buck upward, fast and violent. He works a third rough finger into my clenching core, his fingers so big that the penetration rides the edge of pain, making me whimper and clutch at his hand.

  He turns his face to press a kiss to the inside of my thigh, a halfheartedly reassuring gesture.

  “Please,” I moan, when he leaves me on the brink again. “Please, Dean. What do you want?”

  He shakes his head, tongue working feverishly between my legs, and a low, possessive sound rumbles from his chest. He’s fucking me hard with his fingers, nudging that sensitive spot high inside, and I feel like I’m being tossed around a furious ocean, jerking this way and that, desperate to be pulled under. I lose my breath and feel the room fade away, too much sensation building between my legs, so much I can’t stand it. Then he pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks impossibly, painfully hard. And I come.

  My body follows his brutal mouth, lifting into the assault, begging for more. Waves and waves of terrifying pleasure beat down on me and I hear Dean groan, mumbling my name, cursing, encouraging. One of my hands fumbles helplessly on the floor, searching for an anchor, the other reaches for Dean’s head as he consumes me. I cry out and give him what he wants.

  Eventually my eyes flutter open and the world comes back. I feel cool air on my sticky inner thighs, hear the erotic lap of his tongue against my swollen folds as he helps me come back down.

  “Oh God,” I mumble, running a hand over my mouth, feeling it come away damp with perspiration. “Dean.”

  The oral ministrations cease and he works his hand out of my pussy, breathing hard. I lift my head in time to see him study his glistening fingers. I flush, both embarrassed and too spent to care, as he grabs a dish towel hanging from the stove and wipes his hand.

  Dean stands and towers over me. He shoves down his boxers to reveal the heavy erection straining desperately against his stomach. “Rach,” he says, bending to scoop me up before striding down the hall to my bedroom. “I gotta come. You up for it?”

  He places me facedown on the bed, cramming a pillow under my hips and spreading my legs. I nod into the covers, trying to convince my arms to lift me up so I can watch as he rolls on a condom and positions himself behind me, pushing in. I groan—despite my wetness I’m too swollen to accept him without effort.

  Dean freezes at my pained sound. “It won’t take long,” he promises, nudging his way deeper.

  “I want you to come,” I mumble into the blankets. “Do it.” I thrust up my hips, giving him better access, and he forges in all the way.

  “Shit,” Dean gasps. “You’re still so fucking tight. Grab the board.”

  I fumble over my head and wrap my fingers around the ornately carved wooden headboard, holding on as he pounds into me, cock driving deep, hips slamming against mine. I’d give anything to watch him, that muscled, gleaming body doing what it was made to do, even as I know I shouldn’t want it.

  After a few minutes the thrusts are almost unbearably hard, skin slapping against skin, sweat dripping onto my back. Dean comes with a growl, rearing above me, driving his hips against mine with each jerk of his release. When he’s spent he doesn’t pull out right away. He remains kneeling behind me, one hand absently stroking the small of my back as he stares down at our joined bodies. I watch him warily over my shoulder, straining to see in the rapidly darkening night. The whites of his eyes gleam, sweat glistens on his broad shoulders, pectoral and abdominal muscles tight.

  When he does pull out he watches that too, eyes fastened to his shining cock and then zeroing in between my legs, enjoying his handiwork. He pats me on the ass and heads into the master bathroom to clean up, giving me a few seconds alone to try to understand what just happened. How can one of the worst days in recent memory seem so insignificant in the face of the best sex of my life? And how is it that the previous best sex of my life happened last Saturday at Dean’s apartment, and before that on July Fourth, also at his hand?

  “Something ain’t right, Rachel,” Dean says, dropping onto the mattress next to me when he returns, tugging away the pillow so I’m lying flat on the bed.

  He turns his head to face me, silhouetted in the light from outside.

  I think I know, but still I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like your pussy sucks the life out of me,” he answers, making me jerk with laughter. “That funny to you?”

  “You ever consider becoming a poet?”

  His lips quirk. “All the time.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Before. When I asked if you were seeing anybody...”

  “Yeah?” I wait, watching as his gaze drifts across the ceiling, avoiding mine.

  “My timing could have been better.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Did you tell me the truth?”

  “There’s nobody else.”

  “That guy at the bar?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I fucking knew it.” His fist lightly thumps the mattress.

  “Did you think I spent the last ten years waiting to bump into you while buying empanadas?”

  “A guy can dream.”

  I smile and press a kiss to his shoulder, not sure if that’s okay, but overcome by the need to reassure him. “That was the best sex of my life.”

  He turns to look at me. “Oh yeah?”

  I nod, blushing, grateful for the darkness. I’d started to wonder if Dean was one of those men who enjoyed receiving oral sex, but not giving it. His mouth had found its way most places, but he’d never kissed me there. It had hurt my feelings a little bit, especially when he seemed more than happy to shove his cock in my mouth, but at the same time he’d been so good at making me come in other ways that I hadn’t seen the point in bringing it up.

  “I didn’t think you went down on women anymore.”

  I see him smile slightly, running a hand over his mouth, remembering. “Sometimes.”

  “I was worried you might be one of those guys.”

  “That I didn’t give as good as I got?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think now?”

  “I might revise my opinion.”

  Dean laughs, a real laugh, more than a little smug. “What time do you work tomorrow?”

  I glance at the alarm clock glowing beside him. It’s not quite ten. “Seven.”

  “Then get some sleep. I’m going to fuck you again before I go.”

  I hesitate. “You can stay until the morning.”

  A long pause, th
en, “You don’t mind?”

  I shake my head, suddenly shy, but Dean just slaps my ass, hard enough to sting. “Good,” he says. “Then you’d better eat something too, because I’m going to be at you all night.” The hand that slapped me delves between my legs and fingers me as though proving his point.

  As though I need any convincing at all.

  * * *

  Dean insists on walking me to the office the next morning, buying me a croissant and coffee on the way. I try to tell him I don’t eat breakfast, but he presses the food into my hand and steers me down the block in his usual domineering way.

  “Do you have to go for training today?” I inquire, sipping the coffee. “For work?”

  Dean shakes his head. “No. Once a week.”

  “Do you have the day off then?”

  “I work at three.”

  We reach the King Building and stop, glancing at each other awkwardly. I don’t know how two people who were wrapped around each other mere hours ago can seem so distant, but we manage it.

  “Well,” I say. “This is me.”

  Dean rolls his eyes. “I know that.”

  “Thanks for last night,” I tell him. “For helping me work through my rage.”

  His lips twitch. “Anytime.”

  “Are you going to fight tonight?”

  “No, why?”

  A sea of people flows around us, Dean the big island in the middle, forcing everyone to conform to him.

  “It seems like you needed to beat on somebody after our last two...encounters.”

  He runs a hand over his mouth. “I’m all right this time.”

  We linger for a second, then Dean adjusts his gym bag and prepares to go.

  “I think I might go to Cranston this weekend,” I blurt out, making him stop. He arches a brow in inquiry and I add, “For my mother. To visit her...grave.” I haven’t seen Renee in ten years; she’s been dead for seven. I’ve never really felt anything when thinking about her life or her death, but somehow the words are hard to get out. Maybe because I’ve never said them aloud.

  Things could get even more uncomfortable, but Dean just asks, “You want company?”

  A wave of relief passes over me. “Do you mind? I mean, I don’t even know if I’ll go. I have to rent a car and—”