by Shen, L. J.
“You know my blood type?”
“Hot-blooded,” I explained.
“Hot or cold, you can’t handle me, sweetheart.”
“Try me.”
His gaze glided down my body slowly, as if trying to decide if I was worth unzipping his pants. I trembled, aware he could find out who I was any second.
The more we spoke, the more my voice became unsteady. Shrill. Aisling-like. He seemed to be considering this, stroking his chin.
“Turn around,” he instructed.
I did, painfully aware he was checking out my ass. It was a good ass. Four yoga classes a week with Mother, despite my busy schedule as a first-year resident. But that was the thing with unrequited love: you always deemed yourself unworthy of the subject of your admiration.
“Lift your skirt for me.” His steel voice cut through the air behind me. I did as he asked, even though I knew he would find something unexpected.
My white cotton underwear, sensible and a size too big. Practical for a woman who wore scrubs all day and completely out of character.
I heard him chuckle. My heart sank.
“Get out of here.”
I spun my head around, my skirt still bunched up my waist, my ass in his direction.
“I know men like you,” I hissed seductively.
“There are no men like me.”
“I can make it good for you,” I insisted.
“Doubt that.” He tilted his head sideways, laughing quietly. “Out.”
Brazenly, I pushed my panties aside, to show him most of my behind, while playing with myself. The sound of my arousal meeting my fingers filled the air, making it known that I was very much ready to be taken.
“Please …” I let my head fall sideways, biting down on my lower lip as I provided him a good angle to watch me masturbate.
He said nothing.
Small mercies. He is giving you another chance. Don’t blow it.
I turned around before he changed his mind, swaggering toward him on my thigh-high, high-heeled leather boots, knowing it was now or never. Sam Brennan would never give Aisling Fitzpatrick a chance, but to this stranger he still might. When I was close enough to touch him, I sank down to my knees, looking up at him through my big, dark sunglasses.
“May I?” I asked, placing a hand over his groin.
He looked down at me, his thunderstorm eyes twinkling playfully.
“Make it fucking good, Roberts. I don’t fuck rookies.”
I lowered the zipper of his slacks. In the decade since the carnival, Sam Brennan had successfully graduated from a guy to a man. He’d ditched the ripped dark jeans and soft tees in favor of Armani slacks and black dress shirts, and now smelled like the decillionaires I knew and brushed shoulders with, wearing a cologne I was pretty sure both my brothers favored, and cost a grand a pop. The only thing to remain of his younger self was the St. Anthony charm engraved with his initials S.A.B. hanging around his neck and those taunting eyes that could look into people’s souls.
I lowered his black designer briefs, my fingers brushing through the trimmed dark hair of his groin. His cock sprang out. Hard as a rock. Thick and long—frighteningly big—with a purple vein running along the shaft.
As far as cocks went, it was beautiful. My mouth watered and I licked my lips.
Instead of going straight to business, I tilted my head carefully, keeping my wig intact, and gathered his balls into my mouth, sucking on them gently.
He hissed, dropping his head back, not expecting the move. I ran one finger around his shaft, teasing him as I pumped and sucked on his testicles, inhaling the musky, earthy scent of his privates.
“Motherfucker,” he groaned. “That’s some move.”
Stifling a smile, I sucked, teased, and licked, almost entirely ignoring his cock that kept jerking and growing more swollen and big, demanding my attention. After a few minutes, Sam grabbed the back of my wig, jerking me to the main event—the star of the show. I gasped, slapping his hand away immediately in a bid to keep my wig on.
He frowned down at me, momentarily taken aback.
“Got anything against dicks?”
“Not at all.” My voice was breathless, pathetic. “Sorry. It’s just that my hair is a mess under the wig, and I don’t want you to see it.”
A raven, blue-black mess you will recognize immediately.
“Are you under the impression we’re about to have our fucking wedding photos taken?” Pleasure twirled in his grey-hued eyes. “Who the fuck cares?”
“No, you’re right, of course not.”
Silly girl, Ms. B’s song tutted in my head. So submissive and easy.
“While we’re at it, why don’t you take off the sunglasses?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Makes me feel like I’m getting head from Stevie Wonder.”
Because you’ll see my eyes and recognize them, too.
My eyes were the kind of blue you didn’t see every day. Father said they were only matched by the ocean in their blueness.
I grabbed his shaft and deep-throated him, making him nearly roar with pleasure.
“Nice diversion, Roberts. Faster.”
I began pumping in and out, still amazed that Sam Brennan’s cock was in my mouth.
My fascination—no, obsession—with him knew no bounds, something even I couldn’t deny. But it was harmless, too. We were both single, of age, and constantly in the same vicinity. He changed my life in ways and shaped it into something different and deeper. Giving him good head was the least I could do to pay him back for putting me on the path I was today.
“All right, let’s see what your cunt or ass is made of. On your feet, Pretty Woman.”
I rose to my full height, euphoria swirling through me like a storm. He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me. A lazy, horny kiss. Full of tongue and teeth and intent. Nothing like the kiss we’d shared on that haunted ride all those years ago. It didn’t unfold slowly like a well-crafted book.
Sam pulled away from me suddenly, frowning at me.
“What?” I asked, panting hard, my underwear already soaked. I clutched the collar of his dress shirt, rubbing my covered tits against his chest shamelessly, already on the brink of orgasm. “What, what?”
“Ginger,” he hissed coolly. “And honey.”
“Ginger?” I blinked frantically behind my shades. “What do you mean?”
“There’s only one woman I know who smells of ginger and honey.”
Me.
It was me.
Me and my stupid French-imported shampoo Ms. B got me addicted to.
Without warning, Sam tore the sunglasses from my face, yanking the wig off at the same time. My long, tar-black hair fell down my shoulders in thick waves, all the way to my butt. My blue eyes widened at him.
So screwed—and not in the way I was hoping for.
I coughed, probably choking on a desperate apology that my body refused to spit out. I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me—not physically, anyway—but I had no doubt he was going to punish me.
Revenge was Sam Brennan’s favorite language, and he spoke it fluently.
“Fitzpatrick,” he growled like a beast.
“Sam, I—” I shook my head. Merde! “Please. Just one time.”
“Spare me the bullshit. I’ll deal with you later. First, I’ll give you what you’ve been begging for for over a decade and remind you why you…” he bit my lip hard
“…do…” he grabbed my panties through my skirt, tearing them in one practiced movement—I thought it was impressive, especially as they weren’t exactly snug “…not…” he shoved two fingers into me in one go “…fuck…” he fanned his fingers open inside of me, stretching me so I became unbearably full—I shuddered violently with need and pleasure, my knees weak—I pushed toward him, buckling my hips, shamelessly begging for more “…with me.”
He bared his teeth, kissing me hard again as he fingered me mercilessly. Hungrily. Violently. Passionately. It was a different kiss. A kiss of pent-up lust. The kind that had bu
ilt up for years from stolen glances and almosts. I felt the kiss in every bone in my body, in the cells on my skin.
Our mouths moved together, and I pushed my groin forward, signaling him to thrust deeper with his fingers, my nails sinking into his muscled shoulders through his shirt.
He withdrew from inside me and roughly grabbed my ass, hoisting my legs over his waist. He carried me to a nearby pool table, where he perched me on the oak edge, his erect cock poking my belly. Sam reached for his back pocket, pulling a condom and ripping the wrapper open with his straight white teeth.
“Are you a virgin, Aisling?” he asked, his index finger brushing my naked pussy now that my destroyed underwear were discarded somewhere on his office floor.
Even though I knew the question wasn’t unwarranted—I’d never dated anyone seriously, never brought a man home for the holidays or to official dinners, and was the shyest, nerdiest person he was probably acquainted with—the question left a hot, stinging sensation on my pride. Like he’d slapped my soul.
“Would it matter?” I snatched the condom from him, rolling it over his cock with shaky fingers. I was going to give this man the fuck of his life if it was the last thing I did. Ruin any other pussy for him.
“Not in the fucking slightest.”
“Then I suggest you find out for yourself.” My eyes leveled with his, and for a moment, his gray pupils rendered me speechless.
I’d met men. Many beautiful, successful, rich men. But they were all the same. Their posture, mild manners, and soft hands robbed them of the authentic masculinity Sam oozed without even trying.
He was carnal, raw, and dangerous, and there was no one else like him.
He knew it. I knew it.
Sam smiled his crooked, bad guy smile.
“So fucking smug. If you want to be taken, you’ll be taken the Sam Brennan way. No regrets. No repeats. And no fucking telling your parents, kiddo.”
With that, he turned me around so my back was to him, dipped his hand between my thighs, and borrowed my wetness, coating my rectum with my juices.
My eyes widened with surprise. I’d never had anal sex before. Sam pushed a finger into my tight hole while thrusting into my pussy at the same time.
With one, deep, fierce thrust, he was inside me.
I felt full, so full with Sam’s finger in my ass and his cock in my pussy. I let out a moan. My puckered nipples became so sensitive, the friction from my bra alone tipped me close to the edge. I threw my head back and grunted.
Don’t come on the fourth thrust. At least have the good grace to pretend you are not putty in his hands.
“Not a virgin, then.” He started moving inside me, holding my waist in place with one hand, playing with my rectum with the other. The friction between me and the pool table he screwed me against caused my clit to tingle. I squeezed around him each thrust, angling my body just right for deeper penetration, while I sneaked my hand between us, kneading his balls.
I’d only been with two men before Sam—both of them I’d met at university—and both were a calculated warm-up in my quest to get ready for the grand event, AKA Sam. Even my sex life was designed and planned to make him mine.
I’d dated the two Harvard prodigies I knew were experts in the sex field and coaxed them into teaching me all their dirty tricks. I took notes, morphing from a shy, fumbling newbie to a nymph in bed.
I’d bit and licked and teased and tickled where necessary.
Sucked and pushed and squeezed.
Not for them—for him.
But I hadn’t anticipated him making me feel this good. It was a total mind-fuck.
When Sam slid another finger into my snug hole, I began moaning more loudly, clutching the pool table desperately, losing control of my legs, almost caving in to the pleasure. He rode me hard, and when I felt the first spasm of an orgasm tingling from inside me, he pulled out, taking his cock in his hand from behind me and placing it between my ass cheeks, my anus coated with my juices.
“Well, well, little Aisling Fitzpatrick is all grown up, and she knows how to fuck like a porn star.” Sam laughed callously, trying to minimize this moment, to dismiss what was happening here.
Him.
Me.
Forbidden and wrong and still, against all odds, happening.
He eased into me slowly, mindfully, and even though it hurt more than I was willing to admit, I soldiered through the pain, sliding the rest of him into me by pushing my butt toward him, until he filled me to the brim.
There was intense silence, which I used to familiarize myself with the feeling of being full of him from behind. I felt him shuddering against my back with pleasure.
“Your pussy might be used, but this asshole has never been fucked. I can tell.”
I didn’t say anything because it was true, and the truth hurt more than him inside of me because it was a painful reminder of how pathetically in love I was with him. He leaned forward, still inside me, and brushed my hair away from my shoulder, his lips finding my ear.
“You had to leave me a first to take, didn’t you, Aisling Fitzpatrick? You poor, romantic soul.”
With that, he pulled out then thrust into me again in one go. I cried in pain, holding the pool table tighter, but after the first few rolls of his hips, the pain morphed into pleasure. Especially when he repositioned me slightly higher on the table so my clit was again teased by the fuzzy pool table. My fingers were still playing with him, rubbing against the sensitive spot between his balls and ass cheeks.
My whole body was on fire, and I clenched my ass cheeks, all my muscles quivering as my release began to wash over me again in forceful waves.
“I’m coming,” I cried out.
Sam groaned, giving a few jerky thrusts. We came together.
My vision was spotty, and everything shifted out of focus. I could feel myself milking the orgasm out of him, how hard he was inside me.
I let my upper body go limp against the pool table, closing my eyes, aware that my skirt was still pushed up around my waist as he carefully slid out of me from behind. Every inch of him coming out was excruciating, and I suspected there were a lot of inches of him.
With my cheek still plastered to the green fur of the pool table, I heard Sam shifting around the room, moving around. Slowly, I shimmied my skirt down my thighs so that at least my bare, bruised butt wasn’t on full display.
“Get the fuck up, ice princess. My grand vintage billiard table is not meant for sleep.”
I turned around, deliberately climbing on the table and lounging there, my forearms digging to its surface, making myself comfortable. If I was good enough to be screwed against said billiard table, I was also good enough to sit on it.
“Ask nicely,” I said, in my cold, upper-crust tone—the one I knew he hated so much. “And I might.”
“I never do anything nicely. You should know by now. Where’d you learn all your little bed tricks?” Sam sat behind his desk, buckling his belt, his reptilian air concealing any sign we’d just screwed each other’s brains out.
He lit a cigarette, puffing a swirl of smoke in my direction.
“You mean, fuck?” I hopped off the pool table, smiling as I picked up my wig and sunglasses. “Don’t forget I spent seven years among people whose sole purpose in life was studying the human body. I had some pretty good time exploring all the ways to make a person scream in pleasure … and pain. You haven’t seen the half of it.” I rearranged my skirt and wig, forcing myself to head to the door. Not because I wanted to but because I had to pretend I at least had a shred of dignity still left inside me.
It was a well-known fact that Aisling Fitzpatrick had been head over heels in love with Samuel Brennan since the day we’d met. There was no need to shower Sam with undivided attention and desperate love declarations. We had a great hookup. Now the ball was in his court.
I wanted anything he was willing to give me.
A fling, a relationship, and everything in between, just as long as he’d have m
e.
Pathetic? Maybe. But I wasn’t hurting anyone. No one but myself.
And Sam? As scary as he was, I knew he would never lay a hand on me in ways I didn’t want him to. He was dangerous, yes, but not to my life. Only my sanity.
“That’s more than I wanted to know about you, kid,” Sam said around his lit cigarette, frowning at the monitor on his desk as he watched what was going on at the club.
“What are you doing these days, anyway? Pediatrician, right?” He huffed.
“OB-GYN. Brigham and Women’s Hospital,” I answered, smoothing my skirt over my thighs, taking another step toward the door.
Stop me. Tell me to stay. Ask for my number.
“You really thought you could seduce me by dressing up?” he asked out of nowhere.
“I did, didn’t I?” I said haughtily then rolled my eyes. “Honestly? I dressed like this to get in, not to seduce you.”
“Why did you want to get in?” His eyes were still on the screen.
“Because Badlands is the hottest place in Boston.”
“You don’t care about the hottest places in Boston,” he pointed out.
“Of course I do,” I said stonily, internally wondering if he’d considered me, my likes and dislikes. “Sometimes even good girls want to be bad.”
“Which is why you were banned from this establishment in the first place,” he deadpanned.
“That’s unfair.”
“Fair and I don’t even share the same fucking planet. Which part of my character made you think I care about being fair?”
Between extortion, murder, and money laundering, Sam didn’t exactly have any spare time to join the League of Justice as Captain Nice Guy. Still, calling him unfair seemed … well, unfair. He did throw out a guy who had assaulted me, after all.
“I’m banned from your establishment because you know if I get too close, you’d actually have to pay attention to me, and every time we’re together, magic happens,” I countered, challenging him.
Leave, mon cheri. You are not doing yourself any favors, Ms. B’s voice urged in my head.
Sam sat back, finally ripping his gaze from the screen to look at me.
“The only magic we shared today was that I made your asshole about an inch wider for life. Regardless of that, you pulled a dirty move, Miss Fitzpatrick.”