by Adore Ian
So it’s a surprise when she asks me out on a real date.
It’s the Saturday before Thanksgiving and we’re having breakfast in her apartment. She’s sipping her coffee, toying with the small air plant I bought for her (which I snuck onto her countertop this morning when she went to the bathroom). “Have you ever been to a bar called Back Cellar in the city?”
I shake my head. “No. Why?”
“No reason. They have live music on Saturdays but you need a membership to get in. My cousin Alice has one and reserved two spots for her and her husband, but they’re going out of town and won’t make it. She said I could go in her place.”
“Marrin Braxton, are you asking me out?”
She rolls her eyes. “You ruin everything.”
“Wait. You’re serious.”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“Babe, we’ve been sleeping together for almost three months and every time you agree to be seen with me in public, you make sure to have a litany of excuses ready to give people as to why it’s perfectly platonic for us to be out together.”
“I do n—” Her face scrunches as she considers the facts. “Okay, that might be true.”
“Might be? Mar, you keep a three-foot radius around us at all times in public. I’m the red-headed stepchild of this relationship.”
The last word hangs between us for a moment.
She pokes at the air plant. “If you don’t want to go, I understand.”
I sip my coffee. “Oh, I’m going. You’re going to take me out on a hot date and let people see us in public. You can pick me up at seven.”
At seven fifteen, I open the door to my Jeep for Marrin. Beneath her leather jacket, she’s wearing a flirty black dress with dark nylons and an old pair of black Keds. Her hair is curled and swept over one shoulder. I’m dressed just as casually in dark jeans and Nikes, a white shirt and an edgy jacket. Apparently the place we’re going is low key.
We get on the highway and spend most of the ride in silence. The radio is on, but we’re not talking. I don’t know why, but I feel nervous. I get the impression Mar does, too.
This feels like a date. It looks like one, too. I reach over and lace my fingers in hers. I don’t need to look over to know she’s staring at our hands.
I rub her skin with my thumb, willing her to calm. When she starts humming along to the radio, I know it worked.
A thousand words threaten to spill from my mouth. Each and every one of them I know will scare her away. She doesn’t do public emotions—at least not the intimate ones, the ones that make her feel vulnerable, exposed. I know she feels that way right now. This is a big step. Being seen in public together, going on a date. And I know we’re in a city almost an hour’s drive from where we live and go to school, and that because it’s the weekend before Thanksgiving, half the student population has already left to start break early, so there’s even less of a chance we’ll be seen together…
But still.
This is one of her boundaries. A wall. And she’s letting it down, letting me in. I’m not going to waste it.
I park on the street and we cross the road, my hand on her lower back. We reach the sign for the bar and walk down a steep set of stairs in a narrow alley before we get to the door. A bouncer checks our IDs and makes sure we’re on the list.
The door opens and a rush of moist heat and live music hit me. We step inside, and maybe it’s the darkness, but Mar reaches back to grab my hand. I let her, resisting the urge to bring hers to my mouth for a kiss.
She leads me through the crowd, clearly having been here before, and to a small roped-off section. A man checks our names before letting us through and leading us to a small, intimate booth against the wall. It’s secluded and dark and hidden—like a secret. A waitress takes our order. I get a beer and a water and Mar gets a whiskey on the rocks.
The place is little more than a dive bar on the east side of the city. It’s classy and run down, the kind of place where any night of the week both Mos Def and Dita Von Teese might stop in for a drink or an impromptu performance.
When the waitress returns, we order some appetizers and settle in to listen to the music.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually the band ends and a DJ takes over. Marrin’s hand runs over my thigh and I look up to see her staring at me in a way she’s never once done.
Her eyes glow like liquid gold in the dim light.
I lean in. “Whiskey eyes.”
“What?”
“Your eyes,” I say, letting my lips caress her ear as I speak. “They’re the color of whiskey.” I curl an arm around her waist and pull her in to me to kiss her gently. “If I looked my fill I’d be drunk off you.”
She tilts her head, fully yielding her mouth to mine. I pull her closest leg into my lap and run my hand up her inner thigh, over the nylons that keep me from touching her in the ways in which I need to touch her. Her nails dig into my arm when I find the small bump of her clit.
“Everything about you intoxicates me,” I say. “Hypnotizes me. I want to bury myself so deep inside you I won’t know where I end and you begin. You won’t know where you end and I begin.”
Let me in, I think, willing the words into every gentle movement of my lips over hers. Let me in and I swear I’ll give you everything and take only what you offer.
She pulls back. Hot, panting breaths that smell of whiskey warm my face. “Dance with me,” she says.
I don’t hesitate.
I take her hand and lead us to the darkened dance floor where a pop star croons about not being able to make promises to her new lover beyond the evening. I press Marrin to me until we touch from thigh to chest, and kiss her quickly before moving back. The song is sultry, delicate, but up-tempo enough to merit some space between us.
Marrin is mesmerizing. She moves the way an orchestra sounds—beautifully and perfectly in sync. She’s definitely a trained dancer, she’s too good for it to be an accident.
I watch for a moment more, before showing off my own skills. My mother refused to have sons who couldn’t dance, so she insisted my brother and I take lessons. I’m proficient in almost everything from the foxtrot to break dancing. I mix a dash of upper body isolations with some footwork, and Marrin’s face lights up so brightly I’m momentarily blinded.
We dance for what feels like hours, but it’s probably closer to one because when the first slow song ends and we can’t pull away from one another, we decide it’s time to leave. Surprisingly, Marrin lets me pay the bill and I walk her to my car with a hand on her lower back.
As soon as we’re on the road, her lips are on me. We’re barely to the highway before her hot mouth is on my cock and I’m coming into her throat. All the while, I stroke her hair, rub her back, whisper encouraging words. I’d like to return the favor, but I’m driving, so I settle for stroking between her legs, over her nylons. She writhes and tries to take off the hose, but I tell her no.
She loves it when I give her orders.
I tease her all the way home.
Then we’re in my apartment. My hands on her. My mouth. I pick her up and carry her into my bedroom.
I lay her out on my bed, hovering with one foot on the floor, a knee between her legs. She’s panting, drunk off my kiss, wrists laid delicately by her head. I want to grab them and hold her down just how I know she likes—
But I don’t.
My conquest is slow. My assault careful, deliberate.
I peel the straps of her dress from her shoulders and to her waist, freeing her arms. I kiss down her throat, drinking in her breathy moans as she arcs up, begging me to release her breasts.
I do.
Cupping one in my hand, I stare down into those whiskey eyes I love so much. I study the pleasure unfurling within them. Commit it to memory. Her eyelids are heavy with want. Her chest rises and falls with each short, shallow breath passed between parted lips.
I roll her nipple between my fingers—her eyes close, mouth o
pens. The sound that escapes her is one I’ll forever hold sacred and never forget.
I take her nipple in my mouth. It’s swollen and puckered and she mewls, bowing beneath me. I settle between her legs and look up at her in between my ministrations. I suck and kiss and touch—feeling her, worshipping her. Her skin is petal soft and glowing in the moonlight. Her body warm and welcoming. She’s mine, this woman. Mine.
Slowly, I slide my hands over her hips and under her dress, pushing it up until it rests high enough for me to see everything between her legs, but not so high that she’ll push it down. She likes to keep her dresses and skirts around her waist, who am I to judge?
I hook my hands in her nylons and panties and then she’s bare before me.
Her breathing turns heavy and thick, she’s drowning in euphoria beneath my gaze, my touch. I slide my hands from her ankles to her knees, up her thighs to her hips. Then back to her knees.
“Please,” she murmurs.
I press her knees apart—slowly. Wider and wider until the outsides of her thighs are flush with the bed.
The only light is from the moon, it spills in from the windows casting a ghostly glow over everything. It’s enough to see the desire glistening between her legs. I run my fingers over her, catching that warm need and moving it around until every part of her is coated. Wet.
Tonight she’s going to let me inside her with nothing between us.
Tonight she’s going to let me be the first to claim her, mark her, come inside her.
I’d be lying if I said my inner alpha male wasn’t roaring in triumph—foaming at the goddamn mouth.
I circle her clit with a thumb. “You like that, baby?”
She nods, teeth buried in her bottom lip.
I lean forward and suck her swollen bundle of nerves into my mouth. Her hips rock up and I have to pin her down with two hands. “Soon,” I whisper into her skin. I lick once, twice. “Soon, baby.”
She whimpers and I hear, more than see, her nodding.
The smell of her envelops me. Like citrus and honey and woman. I drink her in, teasing and coaxing and tasting until she’s right on the edge. Until she’s so drunk off my touch she’d start a war for me if I asked.
Never mind the exact opposite is true.
In this moment, I realize what real power is and why men claim to have started wars over women. Right now, I know for a fact I’d do whatever she asked of me. That’d I’d kill, maim, or brutalize anyone she told me to, or anyone who dared take her from me.
I bring my wet lips to her mouth and kiss her possessively, thoroughly. She drinks me in, tasting herself.
I stand and make quick work of my clothing. I’m fully erect and aching to be inside her. A warm hand finds my cock and Marrin strokes me then pulls me, shifting on the bed to bring me closer to where she wants me. I climb on top of her, lowering myself to my elbows.
She’s moaning and moving, rolling her hips and guiding my cock to her entrance.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, peppering her jawline with kisses filled with words I can’t speak.
Her legs widen and she rubs the blunt head of my cock against her clit. Pleasuring herself with me.
“Marrin...” I rasp. “Christ.”
“I trust you,” she whispers. “I want you like this. Want you to be my first.” Then she slides me lower, through her labia and past her entrance, coating me in her need. Preparing us both.
And if she keeps it up, I’m going to come all over us.
“Grab my shoulders,” I say. She does. I reach between us and circle the head of my cock around the tightest, wettest part of her. The heat and sensation in the tip is maddening. “I’m going to take you raw, Marrin. I’m going to come inside you. I’m going to make it so good, I’ll ruin you. You’ll never want anyone else inside you.”
“God, you have the filthiest mouth.”
“I know.”
I take her slowly. Pressing inside little by little, inch by inch. I learn what she feels like—she learns what I feel like—when there’s nothing between us.
Raw. I’m taking her raw. Letting her take me raw.
I fill her with my bare cock.
We both tremble, pant.
“That’s it, baby. Let me in.” My voice is hoarse, guttural, my forehead pressed to hers.
She wraps her legs around my hips and rolls her body. And that’s all it takes for me to be fully, utterly concealed inside her.
Then there’s truly nothing between us. No secret arrangement. No Red, no Sir—no nicknames that mediate who and what we are to one another. There’s nothing. It’s just me and Marrin.
Her pussy is warm and wet, pressing against—holding—the entire length of my cock. She’s everywhere, all around me. The most intensely exquisite pleasure surges through me, traveling like pockets of lightning from my cock to my balls, down to my feet and up to my neck.
I look down at Marrin and know she feels it, too.
Marrin
My eyes go wide when I feel Damian pressed to the hilt. I’m full of him, I’ve yielded to him, yielded everything. I’ve let him in.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
I want to panic, know I should, but I can’t. I’m fully committed to the moment and—God he feels so good inside me. So thick and full.
So I let go. Completely.
“You okay?” he asks, voice like gravel. He’s holding himself back.
I can only nod and kiss him. I cocoon myself around him, my hands in his hair, his in mine. He pulls back and we both groan when he sinks himself deep once again. I want him to go hard and fast, want to really feel him moving inside me.
But he doesn’t.
He takes me slowly, carefully. We feel everything. Every roll of his hips, every slide of his cock, every clench of my sex around him. We feel each other’s breath on our faces, each other’s sweat on our bodies, every sound the other makes as it vibrates through us both.
Deep inside me, he moves. In a place we can’t touch because it’s not a place at all, it’s a concept, an idea, an emotion.
I know he feels it, too, because there’s a look in his eyes. A reverence. He’s never looked at me this way, not directly anyway. It’s a look I’ve only seen in the subtle glances he gives me when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s the glow he gets when I smile or laugh. It’s the satisfaction that flickers in him when I eat the food he cooks or when he knows I’m content because of him.
It’s a look you feel as much as one you see. And right now it’s radiating off him like heat from the sun. He’s mine, is what the look tells me. I’m his.
My pleasure rises to a fever pitch. I’m panting and moving, listening to the sound of our bodies meeting, further proof of our joining.
Damian’s inside me. He’s inside me.
My nails dig into his shoulders.
“I’m…” I pant, “gonna come.”
He tilts his pelvis to hit my clit with each deep roll of his hips. I’m painfully aware that his sole focus is me. That this is about my pleasure, my needs—he strokes my cheek, lips hovering just above my mouth. “Come, baby. I wanna know what this sweet pussy feels like when you come for me.”
Release slams into me like a wrecking ball. Every muscle in my body clenches around him. I hold onto him as if my life depends on it. His name leaves my mouth. Words like “harder,” “deeper,” “faster,” leave my mouth, too, but I can’t remember saying them, can’t remember thinking them. The world is ecstasy, rapture. I’m nothing but this feeling.
Somewhere in the maelstrom, Damian curses into my mouth. His body tightens, jerks. His movements become less careful, he fights to maintain control. He sucks on my bottom lip, and I look up, stroking his cheeks as I come down from my high.
“Come inside me.”
His eyes lock on mine and I swallow his grunts as he finds his release. His eyes close, muscles flex, and just before his head falls to my shoulder, I swear I feel a rush of warmth as he spills himself inside me.
Sometime later, I’m still wrapped around him. His body has softened, but he’s still inside me. I trace lazy patterns over his muscular back, finger every divot of his spine. Every now and then I feel the gentle press of his lips to my neck and swear he’s whispering words too faint to hear.
I don’t want to move.
I’m terrified by what I saw in his face. By what I know he saw in mine.
We didn’t have sex. Didn’t just have sex. What we just did was more. A lot more. It was something I’ve never done. Something I told myself I’d never do.
Damian made love to me.
And I, fool that I am, let him.
Once he looks at me, once we break apart, the moment will shatter and reality will come crashing back.
He’ll ask me to stay the night. I’ll give the answer I always do because I can’t sleep here. Vulnerable. I’m too vulnerable. What we did left us both too vulnerable and now we have to live with it.
“You’re mine now, Marrin,” he whispers into my neck.
I know, I want to say. But don’t.
I close my eyes against the things that threaten. Close my mouth against the words and feelings and truths I’m too scared to speak.
Instead I’m silent, listening. I memorize the moment. Him.
Damian shifts. Shifts again. His heart is racing against my chest and now I shift to look at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he croaks. Then he’s off me, moving away to sit on the edge of the bed.
I slip my arms back into my dress and move to sit beside him.
I place a hand on his shoulder and he flinches.
Damian
Jesus Christ, this cannot be happening.
One second I’m thinking about Marrin, thinking about telling her how I feel, then the next thing I know, my chest tightens, my heart races, and my fucking brain starts telling me she’ll never want me because I’m dirty, scarred.