by Roxy Wilson
“I can’t imagine you taking no for an answer to anything,” Riley muttered wryly.
“No, sir,” I said. “You get what you want in this life by working hard. All the obstacles that were in my way just made me stronger; better at beating the next one.”
He gave me an odd look, like I’d said something that shocked him.
“What?”
Riley just shook his head, though. “I couldn’t agree more, that’s all. I had to get knocked down again, and again before I got where I am. I still feel like I’m getting knocked down. But you’re right. Hard work—it’s how every battle has to be fought.”
We got to Riley’s place after a while; it was only about a half hour walk and the evening air chilled as it turned to night. He lived in a nice place, compared to my end of the city; at least on the front. The inside hadn’t been updated in a long time.
“Welcome to my home,” Riley said as we came through his apartment door.
It was not at all what I expected.
Riley had taste, and style. It was utilitarian, which I figured would be the case, but it was also classy. There was art on the wall, and when I saw it, I chuckled. A little abstract, but from a distance I could tell they were two paintings of trains. “Still dreaming?” I asked.
“I haven’t entirely given up,” he admitted with a wink. “You still have a tutu?”
The image of myself in a tutu at my age made me giggle more, and I shook my head. “But, I do have my old dance slippers. In a box with other stuff from back then. Birthday cards, old pictures, that sort of thing.”
“Do they still fit?”
I stared at him. “No; I was twelve.”
Riley was hiding his mouth.
“All your jokes,” I said, “are gonna cost you, mister.”
He laughed a little, and went to his kitchen. It was the kind with a breakfast window looking out into the rest of the main room. The place was a good size; comfy instead of smothering. Hard to find out here sometimes. “It’s a nice place,” I said. I sat on one of the stools at the bar.
Riley produced a bottle of wine, uncorked it, and poured us both a glass. I thought he might have asked first, but whatever it was, it was rich and sweet and I had to give him points for taste.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s been a long term project. So…you like your steak well done,” he said. “Allergic to anything?”
“Bad hair,” I said. “Gives me hives to look at it.”
He chuckled, and ran his fingers over the tight, trimmed hair on his head. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “In that case, sit back and prepare to be amazed.”
I have to say, I really was.
He cooked two New York strips while he fried up potatoes with some blend of chopped herbs and onions, finished them with garlic, and cut bread that he drizzled with some kind of home made olive oil blend. He did it with style, too, and the cutest look of concentration that he only broke occasionally as we talked.
When he was done, he set a plate that looked like the sort of thing that belonged on TV. Points for style.
“Now that is an Instagram worthy meal,” I remarked when he’d led me to the table.
Riley’s face was politely stiff. “You…wanna take a picture?”
“God, no.” I laughed. “I don’t remember the last time I was on social media. Back when Myspace was brand new, I think.”
“Thank God,” he said, and wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead. “I thought I’d made a terrible mistake.”
We shared another laugh, and ate over more small talk. Turned out Riley’s brother was a big part of his life, and I got the impression he had a strong protective instinct for him. It was sweet, imagining Riley sticking up for his little brother who he told me got picked on a lot in school.
He asked about my father, and I told him stories, and talked about my mother. I regaled Riley with her legendary cooking and he was surprisingly earnest when he said he’d love to get recipes from her. Recipes! It was like seeing Alice Cooper talk about knitting.
There was depth in Riley I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t exactly missed it before but…I hadn’t realized how much there was, either. I realized I was glad, really glad, that he’d shown up again and asked for a second chance.
When we were done, he cleared the dishes. I followed him to the kitchen for the promise of another glass.
Riley poured me one, and then set the bottle aside. He reached for the stove to clear away the pan that was still there and I saw the red light too late to intervene.
He hissed, and jerked his hand away. “Son of a bitch!”
It was under the water fast. He’d grabbed the handle too close to the metal of the pan and it was still on high to sear that steaks—probably close to five or six hundred degrees.
I rounded the kitchen fast, and switched the stove off for him, took the pan away from the electric burner. “Are you okay?” I asked.
Riley nodded, and pulled his hand out of the stream of cold water. “Just burned,” he said. He held up his fingers.
The first two were already red and smooth from being nearly melted. “That’ll blister,” I said. “Hope that’s not your good hand.”
“Nah,” he said, “I’m right handed. Grab me the butter from the fridge.”
I frowned at him, and sighed. “You believe that old wives’ tale?”
“I figure old wives know a thing or two,” he said. “Why?”
“Butter makes it worse.” I left the kitchen area and picked up my bag and poked through it for the little bottle of aloe I had in there. It was probably more than a year old, along with other first aid bits, but still looked usable. “Come here.”
Riley did, and held his hand out for me while I squeezed a bit of the cooling stuff onto his finger and then massaged it in. The burn was hot under my touch, but then so were his hands. They were thick at the knuckles but surprisingly soft. “I figured your hands would be rough,” I said. It came out in a whisper, and I cleared my throat. “What with the fighting and all.”
“I don’t fight bare handed,” he said, quietly. “Gloves or wraps.”
“Wraps?”
He shrugged. “Like for practice. Athletic tape. Not in a fight, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
We were quiet. I could hear Riley’s breath and my heartbeat. I massaged the aloe into the burn.
“It’s…probably good now,” Riley said.
I’d gotten lost in the touch. How long had I been holding his hand like a mute fool? Minutes. He had big hands. Wide, and hot, and sexy, if you were the kind of person who thought hands could be sexy. Apparently I was.
“Dinner was good?” he asked.
“It was.”
“So, I can see you again?”
“You can.”
“I’m gonna kiss you now, Zahra.”
I looked up at him, saw the hunger and heat in his eyes. Some part of me wanted to tell him that he didn’t get to tell me what he was going to do, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words, and when he leaned in I couldn’t bring myself to pull back. If anything, I felt gravity pulling me toward him, toward those lips. How had I not realized before, he was wearing cologne? Or was that just how he smelled? Sweet, almost musky, like cool sweat and sex…
His hand slipped behind my neck. I didn’t even realize he’d moved it. His lips brushed mine first, and I parted them for more before he brushed them again and smiled, laughing softly and quietly at the way I chased him.
Bastard.
But then he did kiss me, almost in slow motion, first my upper lip, then my lower, and then his tongue grazed my mouth and send heat racing through me; through my chest and stomach, down between my legs, and I think I gasped at the feeling just before he crashed into me and took me over entirely.
He pressed me back against the couch, and drew my thigh up with one of his strong hands. His fingers slid up my thigh when it was around his hip, trailing and caressing up under the hem of my skirt until he
found my hip and pulled us closer together. I could feel the swell of him pressed against me.
His hands grasped and tightened against my hips, exploring my curves and massaging me as his mouth devoured mine. There should have been sparks, and lightning; thunder that I could actually hear, not just feel. But it was all happening inside, a quiet roar of hunger like some animal had slowly woken up and realized it was famished.
Riley was strong, and handled me easily, shifting us again with his hand at the nape of my back so that I was laid down and he was on top of me, moving between my thighs, still dressed. His lips left mine gasping, and trailed a damp, quivering trail of suckling kisses down my neck, onto my shoulder, and over my chest.
The blouse I’d worn was a button up, and I hissed when I felt a tug and heard a button skitter across his floor. A second later, though, I didn’t care. Riley’s stubble barely grazed the sensitive skin of my breast, and his palm cupped me and squeezed before he pulled my bra aside and freed a hard nipple. His tongue flickered over it, playing me easily until I was panting, my fingers clawing, at his head.
Riley growled around the mouthful, and hunched against me, grinding his full jeans into my wet mound, through my panties. I had never thought of them as so damn inconvenient until just then. Whose dumb idea were these things?
He didn’t come up for air until I pulled his shirt up, sliding my hands over the hard contours of his muscles to get it off of him. He let me go long enough to sit up and pull it off. His hands took mine, guided them over his chest, down his stomach, through the thin, dark smattering of hair that gathered into a trail that disappeared behind his belt and over the bulge that strained against the fabric of his pants.
Whatever was in there, it felt dangerous.
I slipped my fingertips under the rim of his jeans and tugged. Riley fell forward, into another long kiss, and then stood, pulling my hand to follow him. He led me through the door to his bedroom, and turned me around so that he could back me onto the bed. It caught my knees and I sank backward onto it.
Riley didn’t follow me right away. Instead he sank to his knees and slide between my thighs. He pushed my skirt up to my hips and kissed my knees, and then began a slow descent, alternating licks and nibbles and damp pecks that took him down my thighs. My knees spread slowly on their own as he moved, opening to invite him in, until he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my skirt and panties and tugged them down.
He slid them off my legs, and I felt a sudden rush of shyness when his firm hands spread my legs slowly open. He looked down, surveyed the landscape before him, and a slow smile spread over his lips. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmured.
With a quiet chuckle, he leaned all the way down and massaged the inside of my thighs, while his tongue slipped through my entrance and fluttered over my lips,with the same painfully gradual pace he’d taken down my legs. By the time I felt his lips graze my nub I was wet and writhing, clawing for purchase over his scalp and begging him for more.
Nothing seemed to make Riley go any faster than he planned to, though. He was languidly relaxed as he licked me. Long, lazy strokes of his tongue sent trembling shock waves that made my back arch away from the bed and caught my breath in my throat between long moans and pleading whimpers.
When he finally released me, and crawled along my body trailing that wicked tongue, and kissed me, the taste of me was mixed with his breath. He bit my lower lip, sucked it, and muttered into my mouth. “I could eat you for days and nights.” His voice was a husky growl, and he thrust against me. “I want you so bad, Zahra. Say I can have you…”
I would have said anything, just then. It wasn’t hard. “Have me,” I moaned as his fingers slipped between us and turned my whisper into almost a howl. “Riley, please…”
He made just enough space between us, propped up on one bulging arm, to set himself loose. I reached for it, but his hand caught mine and pinned it near my head. He lowered his body against mine with the kind of control that said he knew exactly how to handle this, and I should brace myself for the ride.
When I felt him press against me and glide up and down through my slickness, the hard rod of him massaging my clit, I tried to roll my hips, catch him, and pull him in. No dice; Riley only smiled, pushed my head to one side with his cheek, and nibbled my ear. “You want it?” He breathed, his voice hot and moist over my skin. He punctuated it with another long, slow thrust that made me shiver from head to toe.
“Please, Riley,” I whimpered. “Inside me…”
He shifted his hips. His knees spread my thighs a little wider, and then by some kind of magic trick he pressed himself against my lower lips, worked himself back and forth a moment, and then growled against my ear as he sank smoothly in.
I hadn’t gotten a good look, but it was big enough to stretch my inner walls shaped to graze my hot spot as he drove into me. I opened my mouth, and started to let out a wail at the feeling of having him inside, but he caught my lips with his and stifled it with a long kiss, accompanied by some masterful movement of his hips that had him pulling out and thrusting into me with a smooth, rhythmic efficiency.
Those muscles were not just for show.
Somewhere along the way he took my blouse and bra off, but I barely noticed. It seemed like he might have more than two hands, more than one mouth, as we rolled sideways and I felt his lips on mine, on my ear, on my neck, again on my nipple when he drew my breasts up and craned his neck to taste them.
All the time his hips rocked and swayed, pumping his thick rod into me sometimes slow, sometimes almost too fast, until our travels ended with his hips under me, his red-faced, sweat beaded look of almost pained need looking up at me from on his back, and his fingers dipped down and played over me as I rode him.
“So close, Baby,” he groaned. “Come on…come for me Zahra, Baby… yeah, ride me home, Baby…”
I rocked against him, one hand over his hand where it worked me, the other behind my head. I ran my fingers over my neck and down my breasts, while watching him. We were both mesmerized by each other, and half of the thrill running through me was the look on his face as he watched me move on top of him.
The tight knot of pleasure between my thighs began to loosen, swell, and reach out to the rest of me, tendrils of shaky, nervous urgency that coiled through my spine and limbs, lighting nerves up as they reached up into my head and oozed over my brain, warm honey, and I panted through the ecstasy as that pressure built, and built…
Through my own wail of release, I heard Riley cussing and moaning; I felt his body stiffen under my touch as I fell forward in the throes of orgasm, my body jerking as his fingers continued to pinch, and stroke, and swirl while he pulsed and swelled inside me again and again.
“Zahra,” he was moaning, eyes closed tight, his face twisted in that precious mix of agonized delight. “Oh, fuck, Zahra…Zahra, Baby…fuck…”
I collapsed on top of him, our bodies so slick with sweat that I slid to one side of him when he moved to put his arms around me. The breeze from the window cooled us. Riley’s lips pressed to my forehead and then the rise and fall of his chest became slow and even. I lay my head in the crook of his shoulder, and each breath he took rocked me gently until the breeze, and the afterglow, and the comfort of that perfect moment started to snag at my mind and draw me into a doze that I went to, smiling.
Chapter Ten
Riley
I don’t know how long we napped like that, but it didn’t matter. It was still dark outside when I opened my eyes. We were naked on top of the covers, but dried off so it must have been at least an hour.
Zahra was still asleep. I could tell because she snored. Not loud, and not what had woken me up. It was actually kind of cute; more like a cat purring, than a grown woman making noise with her nose and throat. I had to piss, but held it. I didn’t want to wake her, and didn’t want her to move from where she was.
I had some crazy thoughts, laying there like that. I imagined things like what if I got her a
new pair of dancing slippers; would she dance for me a little? Would it make her want to take up ballet again? Probably not. It’s not like I would jump at the chance to drive a train. But I thought about how it might make her smile.
Most people had two smiles: real and fake. Zahra had a whole range of smiles, it seemed to me. One for when she thought something was funny, one for when something made her happy. One for when she was surprised, and one for when she was being polite. Now I knew she had one for when I made her feel good.
And holy mother of God; when I made Zahra feel good, I knew it. I could still almost feel myself inside her, held tight, her body pulling at mine, drawing me in when she came for me and squeezing me while she made the sound she made. Some women screamed. Zahra didn’t scream. She sang.
I turned my head to breathe her in. The smell of us was mixed together, but I could smell her most in her hair; still her, unmixed with me. On the breeze, I could still smell her on my lips, though. It would have been crazy to say I wasn’t looking forward to washing my face but, that wasn’t far off. I wanted to smell her, touch her, feel her, hear her voice, see that smile more. All the time. She was a drug I was still high on.
I’d only felt that once before and not with a woman. I felt it in the ring, after a fight. Adrenaline rush, and the adoration. Maybe I liked making people get loud; maybe that was what they had in common.
Or maybe in both cases, I felt like I was doing what I was meant to do. Fight hard, and make Zahra smile.
She stirred, and I went still. If she woke up, she might leave. She seemed like she wasn’t the type who would spend the night. Busy day tomorrow, I guessed.
No luck, though. She turned her head, and then smiled up at me. Another kind of smile. Maybe the best one so far—the smile for when she was happy to see me.
“Hey, beautiful,” I murmured into her hair, and then kissed her on the head.