Wicked Firsts

by Naughton, Elisabeth

  I haven’t been a pining nun in these past five years. I’m no sexual martyr. I’ve dated and had some good sex, and hoped that in time my need for Rush would dissipate. But it never did. Not for one moment. I don’t know if it’s because I lied to him and hurt him. I don’t know if my guilt rules my obsessive desire, but as his fingers move over my irritated skin, massaging in that healing ointment with such slow, sensual care, my insides flare with heat. Despite the pain between my shoulder blades, every muscle in my body is poised and ready, every inch of skin, every hair follicle, every wet fold inside my pussy waits for its turn to be touched, to be tended to.

  But will he? Does he even want to?

  “All done,” he says, placing what feels like plastic wrap over my skin.

  I don’t move. Not yet. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s beautiful.” His voice is dark, raw, pained. “I think the whole fucking thing is beautiful.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” I ask, though I think I know. I hope I know. I hope he’s feeling what I’m feeling and is just highly pissed off about it.

  He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. But I feel him, his nose, down near the left side of my waist. His breath brushes over my skin as he nuzzles me so damn gently I moan. My belly is clenching and my breasts are swelling against the leather chair, waiting, anticipating. Touch me, I silently beg. Wrap your arms around me and fill your palms with my aching tits. God, you used to love my tits.

  I feel his mouth, his lips drag across my ribs. They’re so soft and hungry. His tongue flickers out to taste me, dipping into the space between each bone. I gasp softly, my hands curling around the edge of the leather seat. My mouth is dry and hanging open as he moves higher, kissing each rib until he’s right beneath my arm. His hair tickles my skin. My nipples bead, and my pussy is so wet now I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m soaking the chair I straddle.

  And then he’s gone. His warmth, his skin, his mouth, his tongue. And I sit there, my brain screaming for his hands, his nose, his lips, to please come back, come back and touch me again before I die, before I explode. Before I come right here on this chair where you’ve punished me for an hour and half.

  “You can get up now, Addison,” he says. “There’s no more pain tonight.”

  His words slice through me, make me a little dizzy, make me think and worry. But I push off the chair and stand. It’s only when I turn around to face him that I remember I’m not wearing a bra. His eyes catch on my chest and hold, and I can see now that I’m not the only one who’s affected here. Still seated, Rush looks tense. His muscles and the veins in his neck are bulging. And his face, his expression…I swear I could come from that alone.

  His jaw hard, his lips forming a thin, stressed line, his green eyes flaring with hunger, he reaches out and grabs my hips and pulls me to him.

  “You want to see it, don’t you, Addison?” he says, his eyes dragging up to meet mine.

  At first I’m not sure what he means. It’s difficult to think when your heart is beating so fast and hard against your ribs. The same ribs he nuzzled and licked a second ago.

  “The ink,” he says to me. “You want to see it?”

  “You know I do,” I return, my agitated breathing making my breasts rise and fall noticeably. “Can I look?”

  He shakes his head at me.

  My brows drift together. “I don’t understand.” My voice sounds as breathless and on edge as I feel. “You said when you were done—”

  He yanks me even closer. “I’m not done. Are you?”

  I stare down at him. His chin, his mouth, are dangerously close to my zipper. “No.”

  His eyes bore a hole into mine. “Two hours, Ads.”

  I’m shaking now. I know he can feel it. I know he can feel his effect on me. “For what?”

  “Until the bandage needs to come off.”

  “Oh.”

  “Two hours.” He lifts one eyebrow. “There’s so many things I can do in two hours.”

  My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. He tracks it with his eyes.

  “I could clean up here,” he says, conflicting emotions flashing in and out of his gaze. “I could take you back to wherever you’re staying, get you packing and on your way home.”

  My chest seizes.

  “Or I could get your jeans around your ankles and fuck your soaking wet pussy with my tongue.”

  His raw words rip through me, stealing my breath. My knees feel weak, my blood is rushing crazy fast through my veins, and the wet heat he just mentioned fucking is snaking down my inner thigh.

  His eyes pinned to mine, he nods. “I can smell you, Ads. Shit, the scent of your juicy slit’s been inside my nostrils for the past hour.”

  “Rush, please,” I beg, only I have no idea what I’m begging for.

  “So, what should I do?” His hands, one tanned, one covered in ink, drift from my waist inward, and his fingers play with the button at the top of my jeans. “I know what I want to do.”

  “Tell me.” Please tell me. I need to hear it so badly.

  Even though his eyes remain locked to mine, he flicks off the button and slides down the zipper. “I want to taste you one last time. Suck your pink clit into my mouth one last time before you walk away again.”

  My throat goes tight. I hate that he says that. I hate that he uses it right now, when I’m so fucking hot and desperate I won’t say a word back. Because I didn’t walk away. Yes, I broke things between us in a shitty, unforgivable way. But it was him, it was Rush, who left. The very next day after the dance that ended it all. Quit school and disappeared.

  His gaze is straight ahead now. He’s pulling my jeans down, over my hips, and taking my drenched panties along with them. His nostrils flare and he sucks air through his teeth with every inch of skin he reveals. “Reach back,” he says, sending my jeans to the floor. “Hold on to the chair.”

  I glance over to the door. “Rush. What about—”

  “It’s locked.”

  “You knew,” I say, coming undone before he even touches me. There’s just been too much need inside me, too much anticipation. “What might happen?”

  His lust-filled eyes rise to mine. “It’s you and me, Ads,” he whispers against me, his breath fanning my wet, sensitive pussy. “We were combustible from the start.”

  As his hands rake up my torso, his tongue lashes at the outside of my sex. I gasp and squeeze the leather chair.

  “Oh, fuck, baby,” he says, squeezing my breasts in his large hands, rubbing his forehead along the top of my pelvis. “Nothing I loved more than going down on you.”

  He licks all the way through my slit. From the entrance of my pussy to the swollen bud inside my folds. And as he circles and flicks and laps at me, he moans and rolls my nipples between his fingers.

  I glance down, breathing fast, and watch him suck me, his gorgeous, full lips glistening with my juices. He’s so sexy, all that muscle and all that ink pressed up against me. I want him. All of him. Him inside me, him behind me, on top of me. So deep he can’t get out, ever, not until he forgives me.

  I’m so swollen now, so open and ready and desperate to come. I writhe and buck against his mouth. I feel insane and happy, and like I’ll break apart. But I’m not ready to give in to what’s surging through me yet, what’s beckoning me closer. To the edge. To mind-blowing perfection. Because…what had he said? One last time? If I come, it’s over. We’re over. For good. I’ve said what I came here to say, told him the truth, told him what a stupid, scared fool I was, even told him my feelings for him haven’t changed.

  His hands leave my breasts and slip down underneath his chin. He presses his thumbs into my flesh and spreads my pussy lips apart. Wide. So wide I jerk and cry out.

  And then his lips cover my clit and he suckles me. Over and over, drawing my distended flesh into his mouth.

  A low, pained, groan escapes my throat, and I know I’m done for. Crying out, grinding myself against him, I explode. Flashes of light hit
the backs of my eyelids as I shake and buck against his mouth, coming, creaming, feeling desperate for something, someone—RUSH—to fill me even as I linger in the shocking delights of release. I feel tears at the back of my throat. Long held tears that I have always refused to shed. And I push them back. I don’t want him to see me cry, see me utterly wrecked.

  Utterly vulnerable.

  Not when he’s going to send me home.

  Still gripping the chair so hard I’m sure my nails have left a mark, I watch, breathing hard as Rush drags slow, wet kisses all the way up my belly, my ribs, suckling at the tip of each breast before lifting his head and facing me.

  His gaze bears down on me. Those incredible green eyes eating me up like he just ate my pussy. He looks lethal and beyond sexy. “Where’s your friend?” he asks me, though it comes out as more of a growl.

  “Hotel,” I mutter.

  I’m dying—DYING—to reach out and yank down his zipper like he yanked down mine, but when I do, when I try, he stops me. He puts a hand over mine and steps away.

  Just that small rejection makes my insides bleed. He can touch me, pleasure me, make me come, but he doesn’t want my hands anywhere near him.

  He reaches for my tank top, hands it to me. “Put this on. No bra.”

  My hands are shaking from my orgasm and from my anger, but I do as he asks.

  When the tank is over my head, he moves back into my airspace and cups one of my breasts through the thin fabric. Instantly, my back arches and I lean into his touch. As he runs his thumb over the hard tip, I tell myself I have no shame.

  His nostrils flare and he looks at me with hooded eyes. “Do you want to go back to your friend, Addison?”

  “No,” I say without a moment’s hesitation.

  He grabs my bra and shoves it in his back pocket. “Good answer.”

  Rush

  She’s fucking unraveled me again. Screwed with my head again. Made me not only want her ass more than I’ve ever wanted it, but made me believe that maybe—shit, just maybe—there’s a possibility for…something. Clearly, I’m mentally fucked, because instead of putting her on the back of my bike and dropping her wherever she and her friend are hanging their hats, I put her on the back of my bike and set a course for home.

  She’s wearing my helmet, and her arms are wrapped so tightly around my torso I sort of can’t breathe. But I don’t give a shit. The moon is full, stars are blinking hard and bright, we’re alone on the desert road, and I just can’t get there fast enough. Get my mouth on hers fast enough. Get my tongue back inside her fast enough. It’s a real fatal flaw with me.

  My mom knew it. Knew I had no business slowing down. She named me Rush because of how I was born. I was her first baby, and I guess they say that first babies take forever. Not me. Twenty minutes from home to hospital to in her arms. And from that day on, it’s how I’ve lived my life.

  As I take a tight curve, Addison squeals behind me and clings to my back like a terrified monkey. I could slow down, if I was a nice guy. Or shit, I could pull over to the side of the road, let her breathe for a second. But that might bring about some trouble. I’d probably be inclined to turn around and have her straddle me, wrap her legs around me as I drop her zipper again. And mine. Shit, we don’t need to get all the way naked. Not for me to slip inside. I know how wet she gets. I can still taste it.

  I narrow my eyes and kick the chopper into high gear. I must be a fucking lunatic to be doing this. Or a masochist. Or shit, maybe both. But it’s been a dream of mine to have her at my place. Have her see it, walk around inside it. Without ever knowing that she was who I thought about when I designed it.

  I pull off the main road onto a dirt one that stretches up a ways and meets with my actual driveway. I bought this piece of land on the second anniversary of Wicked Ink. We’d been doing really well, and I’d been dying for something all my own, deep in the desert. It took a good year to build the contemporary stone, metal and glass structure, but it was worth the wait.

  I kill the engine under the steel carport, then wait for Addison to slip off before following her. She already has my helmet off by the time I face her, and it’s like holding back a bull when I see her bright eyes, flushed cheeks and sexy, just-fucked hair.

  But her eyes aren’t on me, they’re combing the exterior of my house.

  “Oh, Rush,” she breathes, sounding so entranced I feel a fucking kick in my heart muscle. “You designed this. I can tell.”

  I don’t say a word. I think my throat’s not working right. Or maybe it’s my lungs. I just take her hand and lead her inside the house. My gut is doing the knot dance again because as she stares at all the glass and metal, brick and stone, I wonder if she likes it or is overwhelmed by it. The place is pretty modern, maybe even cold to some.

  Standing in the center of the living room, staring out the wall of glass doors leading to the view of the Red Rocks in the distance, she turns to look at me. “It’s beautiful.”

  The knot inside me unravels instantly and I find myself grinning like an asshole. I take her around, show her every inch of my digs, preen like a douche every time she oohs and aahs over my shit. God damn, I don’t want to be this guy, this guy who feels giddy-ass relief that his girl approves of his pad. Because A: I shouldn’t give a shit. And B: She’s not my girl anymore.

  We end up in the kitchen and I remember she’s a guest and not a permanent resident who knows her way around and has equal control over the fridge and its contents.

  “You want something to drink?” I ask, grabbing the handle and pulling the stainless door open to see what I got.

  “Sure.” Addison leans against the counter all casual. She looks good in here, like she already belongs or something.

  My hand tightens around the handle. “Nothing with alcohol for you.”

  “Hey, hey,” she says on a laugh. The sound echoes through my house. I wonder idiotically if it’ll stick around, maybe cling to the walls after she leaves.

  “I’m over twenty-one, man,” she continues. “Granted, it’s just one year over. But that’s legal.”

  “Alcohol can do funny things.”

  “No doubt. Some of the shit I’ve see at school…”

  “I’m talking about tats.” I stare into the fridge, not seeing a damn thing, my skin going tight around my muscles. “Don’t want the area to start bleeding. It’s not likely, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Aww, you’re such a caring guy.”

  I close the fridge with just a little too much force and turn to face her. “No. I’m not.”

  Her brows shoot together and she pushes away from the counter. Her happy face, and that sexy but casual body language—both of which I seriously want to bottle and keep in my upstairs safe—go rigid.

  “Okay, what just happened?” she asks, shaking her head at me, her eyes confused. “We were chilling. Had a back and forth that was easy and light, and…” She shrugs. “You turn dark again. What’s going on, Rush? Did you bring me here to fight?”

  My body flares up and my dick knocks at my zipper. Why did I bring her here? Was it because after tasting her back at the office, I needed more? I needed all of her? Or was it something besides that?

  As I try to work out what I’m feeling, what I’m doing, my freaking intentions, my jaw goes so goddamn tight I’m worried about something snapping in there.

  She takes a step toward me. “Rush…”

  I back up like she’s made of fire. “Don’t want to fight.”

  “Okay, good.” She nods. “Then what’s up?”

  “What’s up?” I repeat, sounding a little manic. “Jesus…I’m such a fucking idiot.”

  “Why?”

  My eyes lock with hers. I’m going off the rails. I can feel it. Why did she have to do this? Come back here and start shit up again? Make me want her? Make me remember how I’ve never stopped.

  “Will you talk to me, please?” she says.

  “I brought you here because I wanted to show you�
�” Fuck! I start, but can’t finish. Because I’m a pussy. Because her eyes are trying to burrow into my chest and take a look at my heart.

  “Show me what?” she pushes.

  I turn away, walk away, head for the doors and for the Red Rocks beyond. I contemplate smashing the glass to bits, even though I can just open the fucking thing if I want out. It’s just…I don’t want her to peer inside of me. I don’t want her to see that once-wrecked muscle because she’ll see that it’s no longer wrecked. That it’s starting to look right and maybe open up a little.

  “Rush,” she calls, coming up behind me.

  “Not now, Addison,” I say, feeling nuts and out of breath. “Give me a sec.”

  “God, you’re killing me here.”

  “Good!”

  “What?”

  I round on her, my anger, fear and lust colliding. “I said good! Fuck you, Ads. Good!”

  Tears prick her eyes. She stares at me for one second, then turns around and heads to the kitchen counter and the small purse she’d dropped there earlier.

  I’d fucking loved seeing her shit on my counter.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, though it comes out harsh and demanding.

  “I need to call a cab.”

  My heart sinks into my gut like it’s made of steel and I hightail it over to her. “No.”

  Ignoring me, she digs in her purse and pulls out her cell.

  I take it from her. “You’re not going anywhere. Goddammit, Addison, I didn’t say that to hurt you.”

  She turns and glares at me. “Sure you did, and you had every right to. I deserve it. I know I do. I fucked up. I knew what I had—I knew!” Those tears start falling. “But I threw it away. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, Rush, but I was fucking seventeen years old. We’re morons at seventeen. We think everything we do is right—that nothing has a consequence.” She grabs my shirt, yanks me to her. Her eyes are wild and glistening and gorgeous. “I’m asking you, begging you to forgive me so I can move on with my life—”