Thank god for vibrators.
I laid down on the bed and twisted it on, closing my eyes and trying to get lost in the sensation. Trying to ease the aching desire. But ten minutes later, I brought it into the bathroom, dropping it in the sink and running the water over it. My O was not going to make an appearance.
I blamed Hunter.
I went back to my closet and picked out a quick outfit: a plain tight black club dress, black tights, and a pair of polka dotted shoes. I wouldn't go back to the same club as I was at last night. It just didn't feel right about it. I would go back eventually. Maybe in a week or two. Besides, I usually didn't do the same place two nights in a row.
I pulled my hair out of its braid, grabbed my wallet, and went to the door.
“That's a little overdressed for pasta and movies, don't you think?” Hunter asked, standing in the open door holding a brown bag in his arm.
I thought it was canceled. I really did. I wouldn't have gone through the work of getting changed if I thought we were still on for the night.
“I didn't think we were still doing that.”
“Why?” he asked as if genuinely perplexed as to why I would think that. So kissing your neighbors was totally normal for him then.
Well, fine. I could play the 'who can pretend to care less' game. And what's more... I would win. I had been playing this particular game my whole life. “I heard you leave,” I said, shrugging a shoulder.
“Yeah, to buy groceries, remember?” he asked, holding up the bag. “Why don't you slip into something that doesn't look like you could work a corner in it and come back out to help me?”
I rolled my eyes, letting him pass and closing the door. Sliding all the locks. “I hope you can cook in the microwave. I don't have the stove hooked up,” I informed him, making my way back toward my bedroom.
What outfit would make the absolute best barrier between me and him and my still throbbing desire? I slipped into a pair of tight jeans and an oversize gray long-sleeved t-shirt. I pulled my hair back again. I might not have been a cook, but I knew hair in the food was generally frowned upon.
When I walked back into the kitchen, he was already boiling water on the stove. Across my counter was an assortment of vegetables and herbs, a box of whole wheat pasta, a small carton of heavy cream, and a plastic container of Parmesan cheese.
“I hooked up your stove. I mean... you seriously have never even made mac and cheese in here in...”
“Two years,” I supplied, walking over to the cherry tomatoes.
“Two years? You order takeout every night?”
“And morning. And sometimes afternoon. So what do I do?”
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Slice those tomatoes in half.”
“Oh, no,” I said, sounding serious. He turned around, brows drawn down. “I don't think I can handle something that complicated. I might... chip a nail or something,” I added, reaching in the drawer for a knife. “So what are you making?”
“We,” he corrected. “are making fettuccine alfredo with tomatoes, broccoli, and mushrooms.”
As little as a half an hour, we were both sitting on my sofa in the living room, some random comedy he brought over in the DVD player, heaping plates of pasta on our laps. He had even brought drinks for us. Lemonade. Because we were eleven.
I had to admit, the food was probably the best I had had in months. And it really hadn't taken all that much effort to prepare either. Maybe cooking was a habit I could pick up after all. Hunter finished his food in a flourish, then reached over and started stealing the tomatoes off my plate. “Not a fan, huh?” he asked, popping one in his mouth.
I scrunched up my nose. “They look like they'd be delicious. But then you see the insides and squishy and seedy and... no.”
Hunter laughed, shaking his head. “So... how is this going so far? With the not going out thing?”
I glanced at the clock, it was barely eight. I had another eight hours to kill if I wanted to get through the night without more scars to feel embarrassed about. “So far so good.” I glanced at the two other DVDs he had brought. “That isn't going to do it.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “There are other things to kill the time,” he said and I knew what the suggestion was. And I knew that I needed to nip it in the bud.
“What? Braid each others hair and play MASH?”
“Sure,” he said, grinning a little. “I don't think I would end up in a mansion though.” I knew I must have given him a look because he smiled. “I had a lot of female friends in grade school.”
“Sure you did,” I said, sending him a disbelieving look. “I think it was just you under the covers with a flashlight praying you ended up with Billy, not John.”
He ignored everything I said. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Don't we know each other well enough for neighbors?” I asked instead, watching the TV. But he just patiently stared at me until I gave in. “A brother,” I told him knowing there was venom in my tone.
“Sore spot?”
I snorted, reaching for my lemonade. “You'd have a hard time not finding a sore spot.”
He looked down for a second, but came up with a devilish look in his eyes. “I think I found a spot earlier that wasn't sore.”
Little did he know. I took a quick breath. “Hmm?” I asked. Feign ignorance. Nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen.
One of his eyebrows raised and I knew he knew what game we were in the midst of. “What? Need a little refresher?” he asked, leaning forward.
“Wasn't that good the first time, Casanova,” I said, reaching for both of our plates and walking into the kitchen. It was going to be a long night if we were going to keep being close and not touching. And we absolutely, positively would not be touching. I scraped the plates and walked to the sink wishing I had the foresight to turn down his offer of hanging out. I really couldn't see this working out in the long run.
I mean... how many movies can you really sit still and watch in a row?
I heard him get up and walk to the bathroom. I exhaled the breath I had been holding until I remembered...
There was a loud, deep chuckle from behind the closed door and I brought my hands up to my face, touching my too-hot cheeks and closing my eyes against the knowledge of why he was laughing.
My vibrator was still in the sink where I left it.
Holy fuck.
After I just told him the first kiss wasn't good.
Way to go, Fiona. You totally just lost the game. And made a complete fool of yourself. Good job. I heard the door creak open and quickly turned the water on in the sink, rinsing the plates off. Ignoring his lingering presence in the doorway. Silently praying to a God that I didn't believe in that he wouldn't bring it up.
Please, please let him have a little tact.
By the time I had washed and dried the dishes, carefully stacked them away, I felt enough time had passed that he wasn't going to say anything. It would fall flat after so long. So I turned back around, face calm, pretending I wasn't dying a little bit inside.
His face was blank for a excruciatingly long moment. And then he pulled his hand from behind his back and there in his hands, in all of its bright purple glory, was my vibrator.
If there was a devil, I wanted him to rip a hole in the Earth right that moment and drag me into hell. I would rather spend all of eternity having hot pokers stabbed into my eyes by Hitler than have to face the man in my kitchen with my vibrator in his hand.
He opened his mouth to say something and I knew it was my chance to try to save at least a little dignity. I just needed to speak first. “For you?” I asked, trying to sound calm, breezy. “I probably would suggest a cock ring. But if you're dead set on the vibrator thing, I think a less... thick one would probably be best. I believe the ass can be a rather painful place to stick things that size.”
“So does this guy just... live in the sink?” he asked as if I hadn't e
ven spoken, a habit I was finding incredibly infuriating. “Or maybe you were a little more impressed with our little kiss than you had let on.”
Little? Little kiss? More like earth-shattering, knee-knocking kiss. But he wasn't going to know that. “Don't flatter yourself,” I said, rolling my eyes.
His eyes darkened, the half-teasing smile slipping from his lips and setting them in a firm line. Somehow he was sexier when he wasn't smiling. Which wasn't right. “Come here,” he said, his tone deep, firm.
No. Nope. No way in hell. I was not, was absolutely not going to walk over there. Except that, even as I was thinking that, my feet were carrying me over toward him. Just when I was within a foot of him, he turned and walked toward the living room. Expecting me to follow behind like a little lost puppy. Which I wasn't going to do. I was a strong, independent, no bullshit woman. I wasn't going to do it.
Except I was. Into my living room, onto the cushion next to him which he patted very much like you do for a fucking dog. But I sat right down, looking at the TV which was on the home screen of the movie, playing the same fifteen seconds over and over. The most annoying loop in creation.
He just sat there silently, my vibrator still in his hand like it was something as innocuous as a remote control instead of something I routinely pressed up against my naughty bits. Each second that passed made my body get more tense, my thoughts raced from here to there and back a hundred times.
“Hey Fee,” he finally said, quiet, almost like a question.
I turned to face him automatically and found him a lot closer than I thought he was. His free hand snaked around to the back of my neck, massaging for a second before grabbing it and pulling me forward.
This kiss was different. Slower. Lighter. Lingering. I felt the tension slip out of my shoulders as his lips whispered across mine, touching, retreating, then pressing again a little harder. I turned my body toward his and the hand at my neck pulled me closer until our chests were touching. I fisted my hands in the couch cushions, my lips begging for more than he was giving me.
He pressed his body forward, until I felt myself sinking backward against the fabric of the couch. His body followed mine, his hand slipping off my neck to brace his weight off of me. His head tilted and his lips moved slowly down toward my neck, touching my skin softly, making me arch up into him. My head fell back, giving him full access, my eyes closing. His hand grabbed at the collar of my shirt, pulling it to the side so he could kiss along my clavicle.
I nearly found my O right then and there, his lips pressed into the dip of my collarbone. I felt my hips thrust upward toward his, needing the relief like I had never needed anything before. A strange strangled whimper escaped my lips and he pulled upward, sitting back a d off of me. His hand went toward my crotch, reaching for the zipper.
I nearly flew off the couch. Like someone had dropped a bomb. Like there was another person in my head screaming out “NO!” as loud as their lungs could allow. He couldn't unzip my jeans. Because if he unzipped my jeans, he would reach in. And if he reached in, he would feel them. The scars. And if I was particularly unlucky, he would see what they spelled out.
If my life had taught me anything, it was that I was very, very unlucky.
My hand slammed down on his, but my words caught in my throat. Caught somewhere between mortification and desire, my voice and brain and body couldn't decide what to say.
His eyes went to mine, heavy with desire for a moment before he registered the panic. “No?” he asked, watching my face. I shook my head emphatically side to side. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward again, taking my lips, slowly, patiently stoking my desire to a point where it pushed past the worry.
Then I felt it. His other hand had moved, sliding my vibrator up my leg and placing it between my thighs. It just sat there for a minute, making my body tense in anticipation. Making me feel suspended in a indescribable nothingness for a second. He lifted his head from mine, his blue eyes opening slowly as he quickly flicked my vibrator on.
My legs shot out, one of them slamming into his hip in the process. My arms reached out, grabbing the front of his shirt and holding on like my life depended on it.
Where was this feeling earlier?
But if I were being honest, it had never felt like this when I had taken care of myself before. Maybe it was his presence that was making my thighs shake and my back arch up off the couch. Maybe it was Hunter that made me feel like the only thing that existed in the world was the sensations he was giving to me.
I moaned and it was nothing like the moaning I did for work. It was nothing like the exaggerated, screaming sound of ecstasy I faked for the callers. This was a hushed, desperate sound.
“Does that feel good, sugar?” he asked, his own voice a husky timbre.
“Yes,” I cried out, twisting my hands into his shirt. God, I was close already.
“How about this?” he asked, started to move the vibrator in circles.
My thighs clamped around his waist, my fingers dug into his skin beneath his shirt. I guess it was the change in tempo, but all that was coming out of me was strangled noises.
“Come for me, baby,” he urged. “Just let go.”
And, with that, I did. A fast, frantic throbbing deep inside that had me crying out loudly, springing up and burying my face in his neck as my body shuddered. He kept working the vibrator in circles, drawing every last second out of the already completely overwhelming orgasm.
I kept my face buried in his skin, breathing in his sawdust and soap smell, blinking furiously at the tears I noticed had found their ways to my eyes. The vibrator shut off and I struggled to slow my breathing.
“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath. “that killed twenty minutes.”
I shot backward, my eyes wide. When I saw the smirk on his face, I broke off into a fit of giggles. Literally. Like... school girl giggles. I wasn't a giggly kind of girl. But there I was on my couch in my living room, a hulking man above me, a vibrator still pressing into my thigh, and I was curling onto my side with a hand over my mouth, laughing.
“Now all we have to do is do that... twenty or so more times and we will be seeing the sun,” he added, moving up off me and onto his side of the couch.
If we did that twenty more times, I would be seeing the face of God. I pushed myself back into a seated position, my legs feeling heavy and wobbly as I placed them on the floor in front of me. Hunter silently got up and slipped another movie into the player, placing the vibrator in the middle of the coffee table as if that was a totally normal place for it, before he settled back in.
A few hours later, I felt my eyes getting intolerable tired. Checking the clock, I noticed it was barely past two in the morning. Which wasn't possible. There was no way I was so bone deep tired at two in the morning. I pulled my legs up on the couch, turning slightly to the side so my face could rest against the back cushion. No, I couldn't be tired. But I was. My eyes fought against the heaviness for a long time and I felt my head falling forward, then jerking it back, trying to stay awake. I needed to stay awake. Just a few more hours. I could make it a few more hours.
My head fell forward again and I pulled it back, my eyes finding Hunter's on my face. “It's okay,” he said quietly, his eyes looking a little heavy too. “I'll stay. Until the sun comes up. I'll stay. You can sleep.”
I believed him.
And then I slept.
Ten
I woke up alone. I blinked at the sun shining brightly through my balcony doors, moving to a sitting position. I glanced at the clock with a sense of utter disbelief. It was after seven in the morning. I had slept through the darkest part of the night. I sat there for a moment, half expecting to hear Hunter shuffling around. To smell coffee brewing or breakfast cooking. But there was nothing.
He was gone.
Taking a deep breath, I stood up, cringing at all the aches in strange places from sleeping on the couch. I made my way to the kitchen and made cof
fee, heading back toward my bedroom. And that's when I heard him. Not in my apartment, but in his own. Steadily hammering as loudly as he pleased.
I stared at the wall between us, smiling a little. But only because he couldn't see me. Because he couldn't know there was a feeling of victory in me. A feeling of relaxation. It was the closest to at-ease I could ever remember feeling. Because I had let him touch me, and I hadn't felt like I was going to melt into a pool of anxiety. I had touched him without a fear that he would ask for more. And then I had slept. I had friggen slept. In my own apartment. At night.
This was as close to happiness I might have ever felt.
I showered, packaged panties, and starting taking calls in my ridiculous criss cross black panties and a black wifebeater.
“I've been a very bad girl,” I teased into the phone, laying on my bed and staring at the ceiling. “Yes, sir,” I agreed.
“I am going to take off these ropes and you are not going to go anywhere. Because I own you now,” he growled at me. “Say it.”
“You own me now,” I repeated.
“Good girl. Now take off your panties and lay over my lap.”
“Yes sir,” I agree, grabbing the wooden ruler off of my nightstand. It would give the closest possible sound to hands on flesh I could manage.
“I am going to hit you four times and you are going to tell me each time that I own you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, switching the phone onto speaker. Dominants were the easiest to please. Well, in the realm of phone sex that is. It was all agreeing and yes sirs. A few bright red marks on my skin for a day or two. All in all, it was easy work. I didn't have to think of dirtier and dirtier things to say. He told me what to say.
“One,” he instructed and I slapped the ruler against my thigh, starting slow to create a build up, perhaps enjoying the smiting a bit more than was normal.
“You own me,” I said, sure. Confident.
“Two.”
Harder. Making me a little hotter than I expected. I pushed my thighs together
against the rush of wetness. “You own me,” I said again, sounding more breathy.
For A Good Time, Call... Page 5