“You look scared,” he says.
“Scared?” I laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” He smirks, that sexy, casual, confident smirk. “Okay, then.” He walks across the room in a few large strides, and then stands over me, making me feel small. But not afraid; I wasn’t lying about that part. I am not afraid of this man. I am just horny, devilishly horny, hornier than I have been in my entire life. What’s come over me?
When he reaches down and lays his hand gently, teasingly, against my panties, I know what’s come over me. He stares at me as he lightly caresses my clit through my panties, hand between up my dress. He presses down on my clit with his middle finger, pressing firmly, and then—with that cocky smirk—pushes aside my panties and lays his finger against my bare clit.
“Oh,” I moan, unable to stop myself. “Oh, fu—fuck.” I breathe heavily.
He rubs my clit faster, harder, around in circles, this stranger from the bar rubbing my clit now so fast that already I feel an orgasm coming. How is that possible? Usually, it takes me a while to reach climax. But that is with other men, men I know, men with baggage, needy men. Roman is nothing to me right now but a man made for my pleasure. Selfish, but if you can’t be selfish when a man is rubbing your clit, when can you be? I reach down and grab his wrist, twist my hips, ride his hand as he massages my pussy. Shifting up and down, I ride him until his middle finger slips, maybe by accident, maybe not, into my pussy. Fuck, but I’m wet, soaked, so wet that when he slides his finger into me, it slides all the way to my sweet spot without pause.
“Fuck!” I cry, sitting down on his finger. “God—there—right there.”
“You givin’ me orders now?” he grunts, slipping another finger inside of me, pushing against my hot spot.
“I—”
But then I can’t talk. When his second finger pushes against my sweet spot, something which I’ve only heard about from Carol happens to me: I’m come instantly, and hard. I come so hard it feels like my hot spot is a bomb and he has just pressed his finger down on the detonator. I find myself burying my face in his chest, biting down on his muscle through the shirt. I am aware of people walking to and fro in the hallways, the sounds of the restaurant below, people in the room beside ours. A stranger, being fingered by a stranger in a hotel room . . . and that just gets me off even more. I stand on my tiptoes, and Roman drives into me further with his fingers. The orgasm explodes once, twice, over and over, shimmering through me, making my toes curl. I shift my hips here and there, angling and aiming the pleasure. Finally, the orgasm peters out and I am left leaning into this man, panting for breath.
“Do you think we’re done?” he asks, and then laughs grimly. “No fuckin’ way.”
Before I can so much as let out a whimper, Roman grabs the hem of my dress and pulls it up, over my head. It’s so refreshing to have a man do that, rather than tug timidly at the dress to indicate that he wants me to take it off. I let out a whimper now, as the dress is pulled over my head. Roman stares for a moment at my breasts, eyes wide with lust.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re somethin’ else.”
“So are you,” I say, reaching for his shirt.
I pull it over his head, revealing his ridged, bulging muscles, and then he unbuttons his pants and pulls them down to his ankles, along with his underwear. I’m reaching around to undo my bra as he does this, but when I see his cock, a massive eleven inch rod of rock-hard steel, bursting and huge, intimidating, I pause. It is by far the biggest cock I have ever seen, monstrous, and wildly attractive. Dangerous, and wildly appealing. I wonder if I can take it, and the fact that I’m not sure sends another thrill of risky pleasure through me.
“Don’t stop for me,” Roman says, leaning across and undoing my bra in one expert motion. When my breasts spill free, Roman falls upon me, picking me up the shoulders and carrying me to the bed. He drops me onto my back. I lift my legs, and Roman reaches down and tears away my panties. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, looking at my pussy.
“Are you going to just stand there?” I say, sounding way sassier than I normally do. It seems this night has transformed me, for now, at least.
He grins, and then the grin dies as he collapses forward. He stops himself with his hands, resting beside my head, but his hard body presses against mine, compressing my breasts. His pectorals are like sheets of rock with no give whatsoever. Then he reaches down, hand brushing my belly, and takes his cock in his hand. I realize I’m holding my breath in anticipation and let it out. He guides himself to me. The tip of his cock presses into me, a massive bulge with feels more like a fist, opening me with equal parts pain and pleasure.
“Oh,” I moan, as he slowly eases me open. “Oh, fuck.”
Then he thrusts, and I feel my pussy spread for him, a rush of wet heat replacing the pain. He pushes up, up, until the tip of his cock is way past my tender spot, and then he slides out. What follows next is the craziest, quickest, wildest sex I have ever had. We are both overcome with animal pleasure. I can see it in Roman’s face, twisted now, no longer smirking, completely consumed with me. And I can feel it in myself, in the way I reach up and dig my hands into his back, lift my legs and fold my ankles to lock him inside of me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I cry, as this stranger, this fucking stranger, rams into me so hard that the bed creaks and rocks back and forth. I bounce up and down on him as we fuck, loving the way my ass smacks against his balls, loving how vicious and urgent it is, loving how he doesn’t stop and ask me if I’m okay. He can’t, I can tell; he’s too consumed.
I take one hand from his back and grab his chest, feeling the massive muscles, feeling the way they tense as though to break out of his skin. He angles his hips upward, his cock sliding against the front wall of my pussy and hitting my sweet spot perfectly. Over and over, he thrusts into me, and I hear myself moan, louder and louder. I moan so loud that people in the surrounding rooms must be able to hear me, but I don’t care. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck me, screw me, fucking screw me!” I squeal, my pussy getting very hot now, wetter, slicker, tingles moving around it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Come for me,” Roman growls, thrusting into me so hard he lifts me off the bed for a moment.
When he slams me back down, I feel my pussy tighten, gathering energy. The tingling intensifies. He slams into me again, lifts me up, slams me back down, driving into me with all his strength, which is a considerable amount, more strength than I have ever felt in a man. My pussy gets even tighter, so tight he has to shift his angle to slide back inside of me. When I lean up and bite his chest, my pussy releases. Tasting him in my mouth, sweaty and manly, the orgasm explodes from inside of me, just like it did with his fingers but five times more intense. I bite down so hard on him I draw blood, but I don’t stop, and neither does he.
His cock keeps slamming into me like a hammer, hammering into me, fucking screwing me hard and fast in this hotel room when we only learned each other’s names an hour ago. The wetness and the heat of the orgasm spread onto the sheets. I am squirting on him, squirting hard, and I keep on, not embarrassed. It’s impossible to be embarrassed when pleasure like this has taken hold of you. I lift my hips, and he sees what I want and grabs my ass, holding me up to better position his cock inside my pussy. One last wave of orgasm, surging out of me, spreading down my ass and dripping onto the sheets, a wild release of sudden pleasure.
And then I lay back, breathing quickly, body aching and yet still hungry. Roman leans over me, burying his face in my neck, and comes, comes so hard he makes a loud growling noise deep in my flesh, sending shivers down my body.
“Fuck,” he says, rolling away, breathing just as quickly as me.
“Fuck,” I agree.
We lie like this for around half an hour, growing cold and dry, and then I lean up and begin collecting my clothes.
“What are you doing?” he says, leaning up beside me. As he moves, I can’t help but look at the way his ab musc
les tense, layers and layers of them.
“Getting dressed,” I say, but then I look down and see his cock, once again rock-hard, once again ready to burst.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says.
“Oh,” I say, smiling, nipples hardening, and I drop my bra to the floor.
Chapter Two
Lily
When I wake up, the first thing I notice is my body. It’s an odd thing to think, that you notice your body, but I usually do not notice mine but for the aching of a long, long shift. Normally when I wake up, my arms and legs are infused with the dull, never-ceasing ache which most nurses I’ve spoken to can sympathise with. You get used to it after a while, however, and so you stop noticing it. But this morning I notice my body all over again, even if the aches are now in different places. Nipples, neck, in between my thighs, ass cheeks . . . all of them ache, burn, with the feel of Roman’s pleasure-giving body. His hands gripping my ass cheeks, his lips on my nipples, his rock-hard cock driving wetly and hotly inside of me. When I think of that, I want to reach across the bed and grab him . . .
And so the second thing I notice is the emptiness of the bed beside me. I claw for Roman, wanting to feel his tight, sculpted muscle, but instead my hands find nothing but sheets. I lean up, squinting against the early-morning sunlight which shines through the curtains, and look around the room. My clothes lay in disarray, my dress a crumpled pile on the floor, my panties hanging off the back of a chair, my bra dangling from the corner desk, one of my heels wedged between the bathroom door, the other upside down balancing preciously on the television. I listen, but there’s no sign of Roman, just the general noise of a Vegas hotel coming to life, and the distant ding-ding of slot machines.
I rub the sleep from my eyes and check my phone. It’s half past seven o’clock, which means I have around four hours to get back to my apartment, showered, changed, and into work. I open my and close my mouth, which is dry, lips cracked, and wish for the first time in a long time that I was off today. I rarely think that. Nursing is not just what I do; it’s who I am. But I would like just one day to recover from a steamy night with Roman.
As I go about the room collecting my clothes—none of Roman’s clothes are in sight—I wonder if I am angry with him. And then I realize that the very fact I even have to wonder means I’m not.
“Watson, this is a very odd turn of events, is it not?” I whisper to myself as I pull on my panties. “At first, we have a committed nurse, a nurse who would never, never sleep with a man she does not know. And then we have a woman—not a nurse, because her mind had changed by that point—throwing herself into bed with a man. And now she is the nurse again, and yet she is not angry with the man. In fact, she feels a certain degree of warmth toward him. Hmm, yes, strange, one could say. Very suspect .” I giggle, thinking that maybe I’m still a tad drunk, and put on my bra and then wriggle into my dress. “Let us peer into her mind. There is no resentment. No hatred. No anger. Just a woman who is glad that she had the experience. Just a woman who enjoyed herself mightily and will cherish the memory, will go into her life holding the phantom of Roman . . . oh yes, and now we get to the crux of the matter, Roman, she does not even know his last name! Oh, this won’t do—”
“Will you keep it down in there?” a man roars from the next room, voice slurred with drunkenness. “Some of us are trying to sleep!”
I giggle again, and then go into the bathroom and splash my face with water. I can’t stop smiling. I feel like the silliest woman in the world, grinning like this. Perhaps part of it is because I know there’s a real possibility that I will see him again. He is Carol’s boyfriend’s co-worker, so if the memory of the hot, steamy, wet, close, animal sex grows too difficult to ignore, I can always ask Carol to get me his phone number. Even if he has made it clear he doesn’t want to exchange numbers, I can always take that step.
I’m about to leave when I remember that I’m in a hotel room. What if Roman hasn’t paid for it?
I go to the phone and dial down for reception. The woman who answers is chirpy and bubbly. “Hello, how can I help you this morning?”
“Uh, hi,” I say. “I was just wondering . . . um, this is going to sound strange, but—”
“Your room has been fully paid for, Ms., eh . . . Sherlock. Wow, cool name!”
I grin to myself. “Thank you,” I say, and then hang up.
Perhaps it’s the nurse in me, but I find I can’t leave the room without first giving it a quick tidy. With that done, I leave the room and make my way downstairs to get a cab. I’m in such a good mood, such a step-bouncing, ear-to-ear grinning, giggling-randomly mood that I don’t even feel embarrassed when people look at me. And why should I? I’m not doing the Walk of Shame. I’m doing the Skip of Shame, the Spring of Shame, the Dance of Shame. Once, I even start whistling a tune, something I never do. Was the sex really that good? I wonder as I climb into the back of a cab and give the driver my address. I look out of the window, at the neon signs and towering buildings, all dull now in the rising sunlight.
Was the sex really so incredibly that it’s going to put me in a good mood for the rest of the day? The answer is in my body, in my burning nipples, the aching between my thighs. I curl my toes in my heels and remember how my toes curled last night, endlessly, as orgasm after orgasm surged through me. I close my eyes, see his muscular, chiselled body, leaning over me, tight, tense. Then, as the cab comes to a stop, I shake my head, try and shake the memories loose. Soon I’ll be at work, with no room for Roman in my head. I pay the driver and go into my apartment building, up a flight of stairs, and into my one-bedroom apartment.
The place is neat, which is a product of me somehow dragging my double-shift-tired body around the apartment and tidying when all I can think about is sleep. Even now, when I need to shower and change quickly, I undress and put my clothes in the wash basket neatly, and then stand in the shower. Last night and this morning is strangeness stacked upon strangeness, because as I stand here, the water cascading down my body, I am slightly annoyed: annoyed that the water cleanses away Roman’s touch as well as the sweat and the grime of last night; annoyed that now I cannot pretend I still feel his lips on my nipples.
I step from the shower, dry myself off, blow-dry my hair, and then get dressed in my scrubs. I think about applying makeup—I have a whole bag of it, just in case—but I can’t really be bothered. Some of the girls come to work plastered in makeup, eyes all black-ringed and panda-like and sexy, cheeks blooming red (not flustered red like mine often are), painted nails, the works . . . But that’s never for me. When I go to work, I go to work, not to walk up and down the hallways pretending it’s a catwalk.
By the time I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, it’s difficult to accept that only a few hours ago I was writhing around with Roman in the sheets. And it really is only a few hours ago; we were touching and kissing and screwing until around four o’clock in the morning. This woman, with her hair scraped close to her scalp in tight no-nonsense ponytail, her scrubs like a military uniform on her body, sneakers battered and needing to be replaced, does not look like the moaning conquest of a yin-and-yang tattooed man. I shrug. That woman will always exist in memory, and, anyway, I can always ask Carol for his phone number. A bit stalker-ish, perhaps, but he did walk out on me without a single word.
I take the bus to work, as I usually do, and despite what I consider to be my world-rocking experience last night, the first five hours of my shift proceed as normal. I deal with patients, surreptitiously help some doctors diagnose illnesses, treat the patients, comfort them, bathe them, change their sheets, talk to them, make them feel like humans instead of half-lives with their tubes and beepers and wires. And then, with my feet aching and my forehead damp with sweat, I go into the breakroom and tuck into my lunch/dinner: a microwavable pasta bake.
I’m sat at the corner table, some soap opera playing on the small wall-mounted TV, when Carol comes in. Even now, after years of knowing her,
it can be a shock when she walks into the room. For a second, I think: why is somebody carrying a mirror in here? Then I grin at my stupidity. Carol, looking like my slightly more carefree twin (her ponytail is a little looser) drops into the seat opposite me.
“So I heard,” Carol says, her face difficult to read as she tears open a yogurt container with her teeth.
“You heard? Really?” I’m so surprised by this that I drop my knife and fork. So we had the best sex I’ve ever had, and then he snuck out, and then he . . . what? Went and told Carol’s boyfriend, who then told Carol? Why would he do that? “Oh,” I say, but still, I’m not annoyed. It was fun. I don’t regret it. And I was going to tell Carol, anyway. So I guess it’s okay. As long as he doesn’t go around telling everybody who’ll listen, in which case we’ll need to have words. “Yeah, well—I know what you’re going to say. I told you so . You said I needed a good time, and you need to hear the words, don’t you, you psychopath? Fine, Carol, fine, I’ll play your wicked game. I had a good time. Okay? Understand?” I lower my voice. “I had a great time, if you get my meaning.”
HITMAN’S SURPRISE BABY Page 2