by Penny Reid
I nodded, strangely out of breath.
We’re alone.
“Where to?”
BLARG! We’re not alone!
“Old Town,” I blurted before Abram could speak, announcing the precise address to our driver as I fumbled for the button that would lift the privacy screen. “Once you get there, drive around the block until we tell you to stop,” I hastened to add before the screen completely closed.
But as soon as it did close, I turned to Abram, prepared to fling myself at him. I was too late. He’d already grabbed my arm, tugged me forward, and fused his mouth to mine. Off-balance, all I could do was hold on to his shoulders, open my mouth while awkwardly straddling his leg, and take the hot, ardent invasion of his tongue.
One hand pressed me forward at the small of my back, urging me closer. His hold rough, determined, his fingers digging into my hip, like he was worried I might disappear or flee. I felt the palm of his other hand on my thigh, equally rough and frenzied, pushing my dress up until it bunched at my waist, his fingers sliding between my legs and cupping me firmly through my lace undies.
I gasped. He cursed. The sound a deep, rolling rumble as he pushed the scrap of fabric to one side and stroked my opening.
“Your mouth tastes so sweet,” he growled, biting my upturned jaw as I struggled to breathe. “Your skin is sweet.” My hips rolled instinctively, seeking his circling strokes, his breath hot against my neck. “I bet this tastes like candy.”
An overwhelmed, inelegant sound sprung from my lips as he entered me, stretching me with two fingers, making me pant, scattering my wits.
I couldn’t think. I had plans, ideas, things I wanted, things I hoped for, but they’d vanished from my mind, leaving it blank. I’d become a creature of reaction. I wasn’t used to this. Yes, the last time we’d done something, Abram had been in control. But in all my previous encounters with men other than Abram, I was used to calling the shots. I was the one who mapped out the course, set the boundaries and goalposts.
But this—the imbalance, the dizzying lack of control while he took and touched as he pleased—felt so good, so right and essential.
And yet, also mildly terrifying.
I loved it. I loved that I could smell him and me, his sweat and my sex. The fragrance pungent, and sweet. His mouth was at my breast, nuzzling, searching, and when he found my nipple, he caught it with his teeth, a sharp sting of pain making me cry out. And just like the last and only time he’d touched me, I was already close.
“Abram,” I moaned, my brain paralyzed as I gripped his shoulders, frustrated with myself because I hadn’t touched him anywhere. Yet my body was in motion, my back arching, pushing my breasts forward, my hips rolling, riding his fingers, everywhere heat, lava, fire.
And then his hand was gone.
“Come here.”
“What? Where?” My eyes flew open. I hadn’t realized they were closed.
“I want this off,” he grunted to the strap of my dress, biting it and moving it off my shoulder, his stubbly beard scraping my skin. “Take it off.”
Jerking at the hem, I pulled it over my head, only struggling slightly to free my shoulders before he was there, helping. I reached around my back for the hook of my bra and he covered my hands, stopping me.
I looked up and found his eyes on the swells of my breasts. Abram licked his lips. “No. Leave it. I like it, for now.”
Moving me off his lap, he slid to the floor, opening my legs and kneeling between them. His mouth feasting on my neck, he reached inside the cup of my strapless bra with his index and middle finger to pinch and then pluck my nipple.
I cried out, surprised, and I felt him smile against my chest, bringing my breast completely out to soothe the offended peak with his hot mouth and tongue.
Oh. My. God.
“Abram.”
“Hmm.”
I cleared my throat, my body vibrating. “Will you do that again? Please?”
“What?” He tucked the abused breast back in my lingerie while reaching inside for the other. “This?”
Rougher than the first time, he pinched me, tugging harshly, and I gasped. Just like before, he soothed it with his tongue, drawing it into his mouth and sending churning, languid heat low in my belly, twisting between my legs.
Setting me to rights again, I whimpered, wanting more. He slid lower, holding my sides, kissing my stomach, swirling his tongue in my belly button and making my hips buck off the seat. Bracketing them, he used my position to pull down my underwear.
I tried to grab his fingers, but he was too fast.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?”
“I need you.”
“Abram—oh—oh—oh God.”
His hands had moved under my thighs, gripping my bare bottom and pulling me to the edge of the seat, his mouth there. Right there. Between my legs, licking, lapping, loud indecent sounds that made me wild.
Abram groaned, flexing his fingers on my backside and then slipping them from beneath me, down my legs to my ankles. He bent my knees, lifting my feet to the bench, spreading me wide, exposing me completely.
My fingers were in his hair, mindlessly grabbing and releasing, kneading and massaging his head and neck. I was so close, so close, so close.
“So close,” I moaned.
Abruptly, he removed my hands from his hair and replaced his mouth with his fingers, a light touch. I heard a click just before the darkness was replaced with a flood of light.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded as I blinked, endeavoring to adjust to the brightness, and caught the tail end of him pulling off his shirt, tossing it over his shoulder and advancing forward again, pulling me off the bench until I was kneeling with him on the floor.
His mouth fastened to mine, demanding, hungry. I tasted myself. I’d never tasted myself before and it made me crazy, making me feel reckless, naughty. Maybe a little vulgar. His hands moved over me, kneading, massaging and stroking my backside, lifting to unhook my bra and palm my breasts as it fell away. He groaned against my mouth, lifting the soft mounds.
“I’m tired of waiting,” he said, a growl, and turned us both to set me on one of the long side benches that ran the length of the stretch limo. His touch grew frenzied as he grasped and caressed my naked skin. “I’m so fucking tired of waiting.”
I wanted to say, Me too, but the words caught in my throat because his hands were everywhere and mine were fumbling stupidly for purchase. I reached for his pants, awkwardly unbuttoning and unzipping his fly, reaching my hand inside to cup him. Before I could feel the full, hard length, he pulled my hands away, freeing himself.
Abram shoved his pants down and I sucked in a breath, my hands hovering between us, not touching him even though I longed to do so. He was so beautiful. Thick and long and hard, his erection curved slightly upward, and—as a fan of anatomy—I knew that meant really good things. Really. Good.
My mouth watered in anticipation and a swirling heat pulsed between my legs. Entranced, I watched as he grabbed himself, rising above me, his immense, powerful shoulders and chest and arms filling my vision.
“Lie back,” he ordered, spreading my legs with his knee, stroking my opening with his erection before guiding himself inside and thrusting.
I gasped.
Thrusting.
I gasped again. My body arched off the seat as he withdrew and then immediately pushed deeper, rougher. Repeating the motion, his fingers laced with my fingers and he held them over my head, against the leather of the seat, biting and sucking on my neck.
I felt like I was being devoured. Possessed. Dominated. It was all so familiar, but this time we were naked. This time he was inside me, deep inside, skin to skin, damp and slick, the sparse hair of his chest friction against my breasts. His hips rolling and pushing, stroking my body with his much larger, more powerful one, holding me down, covering me.
I can’t breathe.
That same little fissure of fear ignited in my belly, making everything sharper,
the sight of his glorious form brighter, more vivid. I loved it. I craved it. I welcomed it. He grunted, moving faster, the slap of his thighs against mine echoing in my ears, a purely carnal sound of sex and surrender. Taking, seizing, wild and rough, yet he moved with a skillful rhythm that matched my racing heart.
“You feel so good. Like heaven.” His mouth was at my neck, biting and sucking, sending ticklish shivers down my spine just as he hit the right spot, the tight, aching center of my body, and I cried out.
I cried out, chanting yes and please, panting, splitting apart.
I cried out and the world disappeared except for where he moved, hitting the tender, twisting, secret place, my walls clenching, pulsing, until I completely shattered apart.
I can’t breathe and it’s so perfect and beautiful and wrong. You like this? What’s wrong with you?
“Mona.”
I barely heard him. He sounded far away, but I knew he was still there even as the stars continued to burst behind my eyes, even as the little whisper of fear became a louder voice of doubt, guilt.
You can’t like this. You have no control, you can’t like this.
Waves of pain and pleasure rolled through me as he moved faster, pushed harder, his body heavy, pressing me down.
“I’m losing my mind. I can’t—I can’t—” He groaned, tensing as his hips broke their elegant rhythm to pound deep, hard, covetous and mindless, and the force of his thrusts pushed me up the bench.
Abram’s body curled, bowing forward, forming a cocoon of bronzed skin and sinewy muscle, and I breathed him in, raptly watching his face as he came, desperate to see his loss of control, tears pricking behind my eyes as I asked myself, if he can lose control, why can’t I? Why is it wrong for me?
He’s not afraid.
His eyebrows stitched together, he exhaled roughly.
Like it hurt.
Like it cost him.
“God. Fuck.” His arms shook as he lowered himself to touch my forehead with his. “You’re perfect. So perfect. I love you, I love you so much.” His mouth crashed to mine and he released my hands, cradling my face, stroking my hair. Still inside me, he slid his hand lower, fondling my body, petting me.
“I love you,” he said.
Or maybe I did.
I couldn’t be certain.
“It’s never going to be enough,” I said.
Or maybe he did.
I couldn’t be sure.
But I was certain that I sucked in a hitching breath as he gathered me to him and cradled me lovingly. And I was sure that the air I held within my lungs was to halt the beginning of a sob.
14
Time and Space in Special Relativity
*Abram*
Something is very wrong.
I’d held her, leisurely kissing the silky skin of her face and neck, fondling her luscious breast, enjoying the decadent softness and weight and the feel of her in my hand. The earlier desperation had morphed into elation, I was wholly and completely enamored. I’m talking fucking stars-for-eyes, cartoon-heart-beating-out-of-my-chest euphoric, convinced that this, being with her like this, so close, just us, exposed and vulnerable to and with each other was my heaven on earth.
In the moments after, thoughts of her happiness consumed me. I wanted and hoped I’d made her feel what I was feeling. I wanted her happiness, her laughter and joy, her contented sighs and smiles. But, almost immediately, it became abundantly clear that she did not feel what I was feeling.
She didn’t push me away. She said nothing as I touched and tasted. In fact, she lay perfectly still. Even her chest didn’t move. Slowly, much slower than I’d like to admit, I became aware that she was holding her breath, the beats of my heart ticking off the seconds.
I stopped kissing her, a prickle of unease between my shoulder blades. I waited, listening, certain I was being ridiculous. She’d been right there with me. She’d said yes and please, and when she’d come—God—she’d been so fierce, so beautiful.
Something is very, very wrong.
Abruptly, she breathed. Exhaling slowly, carefully, and then drawing in another breath to hold it. What the hell?
Lifting myself up, I searched her face. She wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were glassy, dazed, focused internally, her expression completely impassive. The warmth of euphoria was replaced with icy dread.
“Mona.”
She seemed to give herself a little shake, her attention shifting outward, and she pressed her lips together. She was still holding her breath.
“Are you—what—what’s wrong?” I wasn’t going to panic. I wasn’t. I won’t.
“Nothing.” She shook her head, her lips curving into an unconvincing smile, but her eyes betrayed her. They looked frantic. Sad, angry, confused, scared.
She was freaking out.
“You’re lying,” I thought and said at the same time.
The corners of her mouth turned down, her eyes shuttering, growing cold. “Can you give me a little space?” she said, her voice quiet and firm, laced with impatience, like I’d irritated her.
Space.
She wanted space.
She wants space.
I stared at her stupidly, feeling as though I’d just been slapped. The last time she’d asked for space, it hadn’t been her. It had been Lisa. But since I hadn’t been aware of that fact, I’d experienced the very peculiar sensation of feeling my heart fracture in real time.
This is all so familiar.
I remembered this. I remembered what this felt like, like being her garbage.
Except, this, now, this was her, and we’d just . . . I’d just . . . shit.
Stop. Don’t panic. Just take a minute. Think.
Easier said than done.
Pushing myself off and away, I dropped my eyes to the floor of the limo, a balloon of confused dejection swelling in my chest, a rush of heat moving up my neck. I fought against both, telling myself to slow down. Think.
An object near her bra caught my attention and I squinted at it, something that looked like a piece of wrapped candy, or—no. Condoms. Two foil wrappers, glinting under the overhead light. I doubted they’d been left behind by a previous customer, the rest of the limo was too clean for them to be overlooked.
Mona brought condoms. Why would she bring condoms? Had she changed her mind about using a condom? Was that why she was upset now? Did I—shit.
I pushed a shaky hand through my hair. I’d been selfish. I’d been so desperate to have her. I must’ve pushed her or—
No. Wait. That’s not how it was. She was just as desperate. What am I missing?
Mona was moving and I numbly lifted my eyes, watching as she searched the limo, her arm covering her breasts. Finding her dress, she turned away and pulled it over her head. Not looking in my direction, she held my jeans and boxers out to me, her eyes on the floor of the limo.
On autopilot, I took them, pulled on my pants, my preoccupied mind combing through the last twenty or more minutes, looking for a sign, for what I’d done wrong, or what I’d missed. What the hell am I missing?
Mona sat on the bench across from where we’d made love, frowning down at herself. She was moving her underwear between her legs, like she was trying to wipe herself off, like the evidence of what we’d done frustrated her.
Doing my best to ignore the flare of pained anguish in my chest, I spotted my shirt crumpled by her feet. I moved toward it, wanting to help, wanting to fix this, make it right. She turned her head at my approach, flinching as I came closer. The small action made me stop as a renewed wave of dejection filled my lungs.
I couldn’t quite see. My senses weren’t working as they should. My brain in disorder. All tools of perception were focused on the pain caused by every heartbeat and trying to figure out how to get through it. God, this hurts.
I cleared my throat, and I swallowed, and I moved back to where I’d been sitting, opting instead to tell her from a distance, “You can use my shirt, to—to clean up. If you want.”
/> Mona stared at me, like she was trying to make sense of my words, and then she blinked several times, her back straightening, her mouth opening and closing. I watched her gather a deep breath, and then in the next moment, her chin wobbled.
Totally confused, but also absolutely fascinated, I studied her as she covered her mouth just as a sob escaped, tears filling her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. She shook her head. Her face crumpled, and she curled forward, bowing her head as she cried.
Stunned, I stared at her, completely at a loss. She’d just been so cold, aloof, composed. She’d wanted space. But now she was crying. Crying. Body-wracking sobs. My heart thundered between my ears, bouncing wildly against my ribcage, as though trying to reach her.
Did I hurt her? Fuck.
I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know what to do, but I had to do something. I had to. I couldn’t watch her like this from afar. I’d rather chew glass.
Carefully, slowly, keeping my eyes on her, I lowered to my knees. “Mona.”
She hiccupped, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I ruined it.”
What?
Fighting the instinct to just grab her and hold her close, I gathered an unsteady breath, as deeply as the ache in my lungs would allow, shifting closer. “Can I hold you?”
Instantly, she nodded. And then, before I could move, she flung herself at me, her arms wrapping around my neck, nearly strangling. Because I sensed she needed it, I held her tightly, leaning back to cradle her on my lap.
I second-guessed myself. I couldn’t read her. I’d been wrong before. I couldn’t trust that I knew what she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want to be held tightly. Maybe she just wanted to hold someone.
“Hold me tighter,” she demanded, as though reading my mind. “Please. Please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
I immediately complied, relieved for the explicit direction, and stroked her. “Is this okay? Can I do this? Does this—is this bothering you?”
My questions and uncertainty seemed to only make her cry harder, and then she growled, the sound frustrated. “Please, just touch me like you want. Don’t—don’t ask!”