by Meg Maguire
You’re jumping the gun again, brain.
Whatever. You love it.
The weight of Mark’s hand found her waist, strong and sure, exactly how she hoped the heft of his body might feel one night in the not-so-distant future, the confident push of his thighs spreading hers.
She wondered a dozen things in a single breath. How he’d sound and what he might say, if he’d order or flatter or plead, or if he’d simply moan and pant, abandoned by words. If he’d be as giving and thorough as she suspected, and how desperate or greedy he might grow when his turn came. How his tongue would feel, taking her pulse at her jugular, teasing her ear, taunting at the crease of her innermost thigh. How he’d smell and taste, what his face would look like in sleep if she woke first to find him beside her in a bed, hers or his. Smooth cotton sheets? Worn flannel? Jersey? White or striped or some unexpected color? Coffeemaker or French press or a quick run to Starbucks or Dunkin’? So many questions she wanted answered about this handsome stranger. But none she could reasonably ask.
His mouth broke away. “You all right?”
“Oh my, yes.”
“Okay, good. You went sort of…distracted there.”
She bit her tender lip, brain not quick enough with a smooth reply. “Just thinking about stuff. Sorry. You’re an amazing kisser, I promise.”
He pressed his lips to her jaw. “Can’t be so amazing, if your mind’s already wandering.”
She laughed softly, vulnerability taking hold. Might as well own it. “If you must know, I was thinking about how bummed out I’d be if you never wound up calling me after all this. Because making out in the bowels of the Orange Line may not be the classiest move a potential date could make.”
“What does that say about me, then?” he asked with a smile. “Plus this isn’t the bowels of the Orange Line. The nostril, maybe.”
She grinned. “I guess that’s a bit better.”
“But if this is starting to be too weird for you, we can stop. It was a nice diversion while it lasted.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
Mark squinted thoughtfully and recited her phone number. “Right?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, unless you kiss me into some kind of brain damage and I forget, I plan on using those digits very soon.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me too.” He reached over and handed her the half-empty bottle of champagne. She tilted it to her lips, the fizz igniting her excitement all over again. Mark took a drink as well and set it aside. His lips were cold as they grazed hers, his tongue sweet with wine.
Between kisses he murmured, “Classy women are overrated, anyhow.”
She swatted his arm, their mouths already reconnecting.
Goodness, she’d forgotten how lovely all this was. Not just a man’s newness and that nervous spark of this-could-really-be-something, but simply being this way with anyone—familiar or completely unknown. Her libido hadn’t disappeared during her and Kevin’s neglectful spell. If anything, it’d been angrier than usual, starved and left to pace around her belly, hungry and irritable. But having those feelings stir and actually getting them stoked by someone were so different. She’d nearly forgotten. She memorized every caress of Mark’s lips and tongue and cool fingers lest she ever make the mistake of underestimating the awesomeness of this nonsense again.
She snuggled closer, sliding a hand under the collar of his sweatshirt to knead the hard muscle of his shoulder. The image of his pumping hand and strong, flexing arm from their Red Cross encounter revisited her, unlikely an arousal trigger as it was. If only they were someplace warm, someplace private. Then she could get him down to a T-shirt or less, get down to good old-fashioned man-ogling. He was welcome to ogle her in return. That gig’s erstwhile overseer had slacked something terrible of late.
“You feel nice,” she murmured. Their gazes flicked in the shadows.
“So do you.”
She kissed him, hard and deep, stealing the reins for a minute or two. His hands stroked the back of her neck and her shoulders through her damnable coat. Her body wanted to know his—what it looked like, how it felt and might fit with hers, what it was capable of and how to make it react.
No longer caring what some dating coach might make of her eagerness, she reached between them to undo the top button of her coat. Mark took the hint, fumbling with the remaining two. She felt the uncertainty in his touch as he slid his hand inside, and the cold air that leaked in was canceled out by the flush that visited her as he rested a palm on her waist. Her body tensed, but the tightening had nothing to do with the icy breeze.
Stroking his chest though his sweatshirt—his perfectly firm, warm chest—she freed her mouth and smiled at him. “If anybody catches us down here, this is just some survival technique. Body heat or whatever.”
He laughed. “If anyone finds us down here, I’m going to lose a lot of appeal real fast. Compared to some guy who can get you out of here, I mean.”
Her rubbing fingers found his collarbone through his sweatshirt, tracing it as she stared at his throat, wondering what his skin tasted like. “You clearly don’t know how good a kisser you are.”
He let slip a prideful grin, but just for a moment before he pursed his lips, turning it into a smirk. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I’m going to kiss him again soon, she decided. Kiss him hello before dim sum on a weekend morning, kiss him thank-you afterward and taste salt and spices on his lips. Or if all things went well, kiss him good night. Or if they went really well, kiss him awake the next morning. Yes, perhaps that last one. Maybe kiss him hello on a Saturday morning, kiss him goodbye on Monday as they parted ways at the train station or wherever. Just kissing him, really. Whenever, wherever, just wonderful.
Her happily wandering mind was drawn back into the present as she felt something else wander—Mark’s hand drifting up her ribs, his thumb glancing the side of her breast. He moved so slowly, she knew he was welcoming a protest or correction. He’d just have to keep waiting. He was the sexiest, nicest man she’d met in ages, and he could grab her boob if he wanted.
Have at it, handsome.
She let her own hands wander in return, showing him just how fine she was with them tiptoeing across second base. His arm was as hard and muscular beneath his sleeve as she’d suspected, and she gave it an appreciative squeeze. She’d like to squeeze his biceps while he was braced above her in bed. Another notion to add to her mental checklist of Ways to Molest Mark.
The stroke of his tongue drew a hot flush up her neck, into her cheeks, fogging her brain. There it condensed and streamed back through her body, warming her chest and belly, fingers and toes, and some awfully neglected regions south of the equator. She scooted closer, and though she felt her dress ride high up her thigh, she also felt when her hip abutted Mark’s crotch, which was far more interesting.
His kiss changed, as though she’d clicked him into a different gear, an eager one. This was the kind of kiss that led someplace. Wasn’t it? She was so sex-deprived, if Mark sneezed on her she’d probably have rounded it up to foreplay.
The hand heating her side finally shifted, and he cupped her breast. Pleasure bloomed and spread through her chest, rising to make her head foggy. Was he hard? She couldn’t tell, not with the fold of her coat between him and her hip. Jesus, she’d kill to find out.
The hand on her breast kneaded softly, tossing her deeper into the wilds of happy distraction. She shifted closer, as close as she could get without straddling the man. Which wasn’t an unappealing thought, even considering it’d shove her dress up past her undies. She rubbed the bare skin under his collar, then his chest through his sweatshirt. His middle felt lean and firm, and she imagined how he might look, wandering in from the bathroom in just his shorts, heading back to the bed for an encore performance, perhaps. What kind of shorts? Boxers, Caitlin bet, with some pattern or other. Fine by her. They wouldn’t stick around long before she flung them aside.
/> Mark’s mouth moved to her jaw, then her neck when she tilted her head. It was awkward, the way they were sitting, but that was an excuse—if a lame one—to get relocated, drag them out of the outfield and back to the vicinity of second or third base. She broke their mouths apart and shifted to her knees between his thighs.
“This is probably forward,” she said, “but I don’t really care.” She moved one leg to the outside of Mark’s, and he edged away from the wall so she could straddle him. Her hemline rose to her hips, and she was thankful for the relative darkness. What felt hot in the shadows might look sloppy in the light.
Settling against him, she could feel him through her panties and his jeans, stiff. It was as shocking and forbidden and thrilling as the first time she’d ever touched a guy and discovered that a hard dick was so much…harder than she’d ever guessed possible in all her adolescent theorizing.
His mouth left hers to kiss her cheek, her jaw, her neck. One warm palm on her back, under her coat, his other fingers tangling in her hair. She felt the softest scrape of teeth, a lap of his tongue. Give me a hickey, she thought. Let everyone at work see.
But for better or worse—probably better—no self-respecting man over the age of twenty necked with such bruising fervor, Mark included. Instead of a hickey, he gave her a head rush, a pleasant, dizzying sensation as her mind drained of all thought, consciousness relegated to the wants of her body.
She cupped his head, the softness of his hair already seeming familiar. Maybe she’d stroke his hair this way when they made lazy love on a Sunday morning, or when they fucked like animals on a Friday night. She’d stroke his hair like this as they fell asleep after said fucking and/or lovemaking, kiss his temple or forehead, mumble sleepy fondnesses she was currently too riled up to guess at. Perhaps he’d give her a nickname, someday, a boyfriendly one. And she’d find out what he called her in bed, baby or sweetheart or something else, or maybe he wouldn’t speak at all. He might just moan, giving voice to the low, soundless rumbles she felt brewing in his chest.
Their bodies shifted together, and he seemed as antsy as she felt. And between her legs, against his erection, something surprising was happening.
Oh, fuck.
I could come.
Through two pairs of underwear and Mark’s jeans—and here, of all unromantic places. Her body begged her to keep going, but her brain butted in. You can’t come on some guy, not if you want to get asked out on a real date.
Are you sure? He might think that’s hot. Might do something Pavlovian to his ego.
It’s not very dignified.
Neither’s getting dumped ten feet from my cubicle. Watch me go.
“Mark.”
“Yeah?” It was a sexy yeah, breathy and dark.
“Would it be weird if I…uh…”
His lips kissed her throat, slow and patient. “If you what?”
“If we keep doing this, I might…you know.”
“Oh.” A pause, then a laugh. “Oh. Jeez, I though you were going to ask to do something freaky to me.”
“This whole dry-humping-a-stranger-in-the-subway thing doesn’t count?”
“Heh… But anyhow, no, I don’t think that’s weird, if you…you know. I think it’s kind of awesome.”
“Okay. Good.” She was glad of the permission, though she wouldn’t pursue an orgasm, not intentionally. That would feel weird. Utilitarian. But if one happened upon her—upon him—well, that would be delightful.
Mark seemed to agree. His kisses changed, as did his hands. His palms held her hips, over her dress at first, them slipping beneath the hem. They were inviting Caitlin to move, urging her in tiny tugs. She did as they asked, rubbing against him, faintly to start. Within a minute, the motions took on a life of their own, and Mark echoed them with a tensing of his thighs, adding to the friction and Caitlin’s mounting excitement. Her pleasure was champagne bubbles, forming and collecting, rising and bursting, but all at once it was as if someone shook the bottle.
Craving turned to demand. She heard herself panting, felt the push and pull of Mark’s hands speeding alongside the undulations of her hips. The kisses heating her neck lost focus, and small noises punctuated each of his breaths, tiny grunts and sighs. The bubbles rushed together inside her, fizzing and crazy. As the first happy spasm arrived, she registered her nails raking Mark’s back, beneath his shirt. Then she knew nothing but the pleasure, wondrous seconds that made up for everything crappy that had happened in the past few hours.
She came down from the high, tugged in opposite directions by euphoria and embarrassment. But the way he kissed her throat, so fond and excited, she knew there was no cause for regret. She leaned back to smile her delirium at him.
“Wow,” he said.
She laughed. “Tell me about it.”
“Here.” His hands directed her to sit again as he edged back against the wall. She settled on her hip between his legs, knees bent over his thigh, and he wrapped his coat around her legs once more, tucking it tight then smoothing her hair from her face. A good idea, as the cold was finding her fast in the wake of the orgasm. She was still turned on, but it had lost some of its power to veil the elements. She’d just need to find another diversion.
Mark accepted her kiss eagerly. She let him know the fun wasn’t over, just because she’d popped her cork. Her stroking hands got reacquainted with his shoulders and chest, his belly, then met his belt for the first time. She gave him a minute’s intense kissing to signal that she should stop, but he didn’t take her up on the chance. Bless him. His cool palm covered her hand at last and moved it lower, cupping it over his erection.
Even through his jeans, he was hot. He drew her hand up and down, up and down, yet it was Caitlin who took things further. Her fingers were stiff with cold, but she curved the end of his belt through its buckle, eased it from the post, slid it free. His hand was eager, undoing his fly and leading hers to cover his cock through a thin layer of smooth cotton. Boxers, she confirmed.
He guided her touch for a minute or two, the bossiness giving her a preview of how he might get when he was all worked up and within sight of a bed. Nice. Maybe that ravishing she’d thought she’d been robbed of was still on the horizon. He let her hand go to touch her breast, his palm dragging against her in shaky strokes, the caress of a man who’d progressed beyond the graceful confines of foreplay.
“This is kind of embarrassing,” he panted, “but I’m getting close.”
Embarrassing? That’d be a sick double standard. Try fantastic. “Do you want to stop?”
“Do you want to?”
“No…but it’d be messy.” And though normally she wouldn’t have balked at the thought of swallowing… Well, just not here. His cock hadn’t been rolling around on the floor of the Orange Line any more than his mouth had, but something about the idea was undeniably squicky, in the context. “You could just use your sleeve, I suppose. The walk of shame’s awfully short, right?”
Mark’s fondling hand and twitching hips stilled, and he began laughing, the quiet, happy sound like bells ringing in the darkness. “Sorry. I’ve totally sucked all the sexiness out of this.”
“We’re in a subway station. How high do you think my standards are?”
He cracked up harder at that, and Caitlin decided she’d never date anyone again whom she couldn’t make laugh this way. It was as good as turning a man on, she realized. And you could do it anywhere. Except maybe a funeral.
“I’d hate to meet your ex-girlfriends and find out you take every woman to the back end of the Tufts Station on a first date.”
“No,” he said, chest still hitching. “This is our special place.” The final word was gobbled up in a wheeze, and the peripheral light shone on the tears wetting his eyes. He sighed and wiped them away just as Caitlin succumbed to her own fit of giggles. He cleared his throat. “Okay. Sleeve it is, if it comes to that.”
Caitlin hoped it would indeed come to that. With a few slow strokes, any stiffness he’d lost
was back, the length of him the most wonderful, cruel tease, a mystery begging to be uncovered.
As he moaned, Caitlin imagined them in a bed, in the light and warmth, all the normal things. But screw normal. Where was the fun in that? Normal was dressing up, taking your boyfriend home after an office party and having reconnection sex in a pathetic attempt to save what didn’t want resuscitating. What she had down in this creepy-ass brick corridor with a near stranger was far better.
She stroked him rougher, loving how he squirmed. His labored breaths told her maybe he wasn’t up to much more, not without the finale arriving. She stole a glance at his face, wowed by the fact that it wasn’t familiar yet. He was still some sexy guy she’d run into on the subway, yet here he was, panting on the verge of climax from what her touch was doing to him. Weird. Weird and awesome. A better gift than a monogrammed cocktail shaker, certainly, and even more personal.
His cold fingers brushed hers, then the smooth heat of his bare cock as he pushed his waistband down. He was scalding against her chilled skin. She must have felt like ice in return, but that wasn’t what his face told her. Any discomfort he was feeling looked purely pleasurable. Short, harsh breaths huffed little jets of steam between them.
“Fuck, I’m close.”
“Good.”
Good, and then what? Two strangers, trapped together for another three hours or more, sobering up from sex and champagne in a brick tunnel of pure awkwardness.
I don’t care. I like him.
You’ll both be embarrassed once you’re back to reality. He won’t call.
You don’t know that.
Mark’s strained whimper hauled her out of the argument. One of his hands closed over her stroking one, squeezing it tighter, moving it quicker. “Oh…”
She held her breath, body all at once flushed to see him so worked up.