I bite my bottom lip, remembering that night again, how you whipped my pants down, ripped my panties from me, like you couldn’t get inside fast enough. The sound of your zipper, your hard cock pressed against my ass making me moan, the woman on the phone forgotten. I don’t think I even hung up, just tossed it aside as I braced myself against the counter. Hands on my hips, you lifted me up. You’re so strong that it was nothing to you as you speared me with your dick, impaling me with one hard thrust. We both moaned then, our bodies linked, finding home within each other.
You are my other half; we belong to each other. Like flame to accelerant, we always ignite in a flash so powerful that we burn the house down.
You always stoke me deep and hard, your cock rubbing me just the right way.
I move one hand, touch my clit again, a tender touch, barely there and yet it drives me wild.
My thoughts flash to that evening, so many months ago when you came to my work. A surprise since you rarely do that anymore. It was what I needed though and you knew that.
“I missed you today,” you growled, your hands sliding around my waist, your lips against my ear. “You get all your work done?”
I nodded, sucking in a breath as you licked my earlobe and pulled me into your lap.
I remember the feel of your cock, so hard already, and I wiggled just a little, earning a low moan. “I missed you too.” I sigh. “A lot.”
“Did you?” You kissed my neck, one hand toying with the opening of my blouse, fingers precariously close to one aching nipple.
The tension of the day melted away as your lips tailed along my collarbone. “Maybe we should go home then,” you said, your hand lightly brushing the slope of my breast, before giving a little squeeze to my nipple.
“Nuh uh.” I wiggled my ass again, grinding harder against your cock. “I want you to do me on my desk. Right here. Right now.”
Your growl of approval made me giddy, your hand snaking up my skirt made me moan, your fingers slipping into my panties made me gasp. “You’re wet, baby.”
“Only for you.”
Thinking of you, remembering those times, it makes my pussy clench as my body ratchets tighter and tighter. I’m lost to it. Deep in thought. No longer paying attention to what you’re doing. No longer listening to your typing.
I miss your probing fingers that make me ache for more, sliding along my folds, teasing my clit with only a slight touch. I arch into my hand, craving more.
I remember tugging at your pants, my hands shaking, urgency to have your cock buried deep made me clumsy. I will never stop wanting you. The lust I feel for you never ends. As I rub my clit and flick my nipple, all I can think about is how you took control that night. One hand swiping away the papers and pens, files from my desk, all landing with a clattering crash on the floor, your hands on my hips just as suddenly, flipping me over, ass in the air as you held me down until my cheek rested against my desk. You pushed my skirt up, a second later the sound of your zipper coming down was enough to make my pussy spasm. My breath hitched, as you ripped away the delicate lace of my thong, your cock pressing against my pussy, my juices soaking you as you penetrated me. One long stroke, we moaned together and then you started to pound me, hands gripping my hips, hard and fast, hitting me just at the right angle, stroking my clit with each thrust.
My pussy clenched around you, trying to keep you in, willing you to go deeper.
I can’t stop myself from crying out; it’s too much, too much. I want to push the memory away and pull you close, but my climax is building until my moan is one long, unending sound.
I come in a rushing wave, so unexpectedly that I gasp, shuddering with spasms so intense I don’t think I will recover. My mind is a hazy mess, flashes of that memory making my orgasm continue. I am relentless as I circle my clit again and again. The sound of something familiar pulls me from my fantasy and I raise my head from the chair, almost too heavy to lift as the last of the spasms roll through me.
Fingers still rubbing, my eyesight comes into focus and there you are, chair turned toward me, computer forgotten, one hand wiping your mouth, rubbing your jaw, the other moving toward that huge bulge in your pants. You devour me with your steady gaze. That sound comes again. The low growl that I love so much, rumbling deep in your chest. I smile as I hook my fingers along the crotch of my shorts and pull them aside, exposing myself to you. You make me so wet, you and those hungry eyes.
You rise from your seat and stalk toward me.
I somehow get out of the chair and stand on wobbly legs. My body is buzzing as I slide my hands up your chest, standing on tiptoe to nuzzle your neck. Your skin is salty as I lick you, can’t help myself. You moan softly, your hands on my hips, almost like you’re going to push me away.
“Let’s fuck, baby,” I purr against your ear, my body pressed close to you, my nipples hard and aching, my pussy quivering all over again.
Your cock is hard and I can’t help but grind against it.
You moan again, a different timber, a different message.
I slide down your body, my hands trailing from your neck to your chest, my knees hitting the floor with a soft thump, my eyes never leaving yours. You’re hungry, I can see it, your eyes are hooded, your hand moving to clutch my hair, your tongue darting out to lick your lips. You need this just as much as I do.
I tug open your belt, sliding the worn leather out of the buckle, before popping the button and unzipping your jeans. I do it methodically, knowing that I’m driving you wild. Your cock springs from your pants. A surprise for me—you’re going commando today.
I smile up at you and lick my lips. You tug my hair, wrapping your hand more firmly, and nod.
I lick my finger, then trail my nail down the length of your shaft. You hiss out a breath. I wrap my fingers around your cock and bring my lips to your head, taking you into my mouth, pre-come spilling against my tongue as I lick your slit, flick the ridge of your head, slide my tongue across that sensitive flesh. Your breathing becomes ragged, your hand in my hair tighter. I start to pump you, saliva and pre-come dripping down your shaft, coating my hand as I slide up and down, my fingers curling over your balls, squeezing just a little before returning to your shaft.
I love your salty taste; it makes my pussy wet to pleasure you. I slip my fingers into my panties and dip into my pussy once again, spread my juices around my clit. You like that I’m touching myself. Your cock twitches in my mouth, grows harder as I twirl and flick my tongue against your head.
This is the language of our love. It’s not words. It’s never words.
I love you with my mouth, with my body. I stroke you, suck you, give you what you need so that the tension in your body leaves and that wary look in your eyes is replaced by hunger. For me. My body. My expression of love.
The explosion comes without warning. You roar as you come, my pussy spasms once again, and you fill my mouth. All over again my body shudders and shakes, my own climax cresting hard and fast.
When you’re done you slide to the floor in front of me and hold my head in your hands. You kiss my forehead. You kiss my lips.
“Thanks, babe, I needed that,” you say as you crush me into your chest, holding me while my body still shakes through the last tremors of my orgasm.
I sigh as I curl into your strong body, loving you in the only way I know how.
KINDNESS
Gabrielle Johnson
He was standing alone in the rain.
Next to a black sports car, with its flashers blinking, stranded on the shoulder. Even if he wasn’t so still, underneath his big black umbrella, she still would have noticed him. He and his car were difficult to miss, the only things to look at save her own house, sandwiched between the end of town and the start of nothing but miles of fields.
She saw him first in her headlights, as her more practical sedan rumbled up the road she often thought of as hers. She only got his profile, since he was looking squarely at her squat ranch-style, and never even glanced
over as she approached.
When she turned into her drive, she kept staring at him, marveling at how he hadn’t moved in the autumn darkness. Moments ago, she’d only been thinking about getting in from the rain, tugging on a pair of wool socks and digging into the chicken stew she had on. It was meant to be a Friday night reward for a long week, spent with a stiff drink and bad TV.
But there he was, a lonesome, worrying figure in the rain, throttling those thoughts in place.
Parker cut the engine, but didn’t move, watching him in the rearview, debating all the thoughts that women alone debate when they see a strange man. Swearing under her breath, she got out of the car while opening her own umbrella, tomato-red with white polka dots. She dialed nine, then one, before she crossed the quiet street until they stood close enough to be heard over the incessant drum of the downpour.
“Did you call someone?” she asked.
It was almost like he didn’t see her until she spoke; nothing about his posture or demeanor changed, and then he became . . . real, as though life was breathed into him by her speech alone. But then there was breath in his lungs, blood flowing through his limbs.
And what limbs. He was tall, interestingly so, with wide shoulders, and the rest of him hidden in the shadow of his umbrella and under a trim peacoat.
“Yes,” he said. “I expect help in the morning.”
It wasn’t so much that he spoke slowly. But each word was so well-enunciated. Not careful, as though he were not a native English speaker, but there weren’t any dropping letters, nothing left behind, every sound crisp like fresh bills.
“The morning?” she said, and couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Are you—do you need a—”
“I will find a way.”
Parker felt her eyebrows knit together in doubt as she parroted his words back at him. “Do you want to come in while you wait for a cab or whatever?”
He cocked his head a fraction of an inch. “Do you make a habit of inviting strange men into your home?”
She did not make a habit of inviting strange men into her home. This was, in fact, the stupidest offer she could make. But, strangely, she wasn’t afraid of him. If he were going to do something, he could do it now. She’d done the stupid thing already, which was putting this much distance between herself and her house or her car.
“No,” she said flatly, irritated by the train of thought. “But I have a gun. And I’m a good shot.”
His tone didn’t change. “Perhaps you shouldn’t inform them you have a weapon, either.”
She shrugged. “You’d have to beat me to it. Are you coming in or staying in the rain?”
“You’re serious?”
Parker’s eyes widened and her brows lifted, an expression of impatient irritation. “Last chance.” She repeated her question, stretching the syllables.
He smiled, moonlight catching big, white teeth. “I would enjoy that very much.”
The sound of the rain faded to a pleasant, steady hum as he shut the door behind them. He watched, wordlessly, as she kicked off her shoes, dropped her umbrella in the holder, and hung her jacket on the coat rack. She wasn’t supposed to be watching him but there was nothing else to do, nowhere else for her eyes to go. He copied her movements as though they’d done this a million times before.
Parker didn’t want to believe it, but his very presence made the room smaller. He seemed even bigger now, out of his coat. But he was dressed so primly, in slim dark pants, a button-down shirt, and a cardigan sweater. It put her leggings, tee, and flannel to shame.
Those clothes almost didn’t make sense on a man of his size. Neither did that purposeful way of speech. Or that dark, wavy hair, so stylishly coiffed. His brown skin was still a few shades paler than her own, though he was reddish and ruddy in the high points where she was yellow-gold.
Weirdest of all were those eyes. Dark, bleak dark, hooded by a brow that was maybe just this side of too strong. Then he’d blink, and for a moment, really, less than a moment, she would think they were something else entirely. Almost colorless, almost silver, and then he’d blink again and the moment would pass.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked. “Water or tea, maybe? I don’t know how long you were out in the cold.”
“It’s not so cold,” he said, slowly, in a way that was different than the purposeful way he spoke. “But tea would be good.”
Parker nodded and gestured to the dining room table. Most of her house was visible from where they stood. The entryway broke off toward her living room in one direction, and the kitchen in the other, dining room square in the middle. If she wanted to feel refined, she occasionally sat at the table and watched TV.
“So, what happened?” she asked, busying herself with the electric kettle.
He paused in his perusal of the shelves in her living room, holding knickknacks and photos. “Who’s to say?”
“It just died on you?”
He echoed his agreement, running one blunt fingertip over a photo of two teenage girls in braids. “This is you.” It wasn’t a question.
“And my sister, yeah.”
“Your hair is different now.”
She laughed and skated a palm over the curls, downright boisterous where they clamored out around her headband.
“It’s different all the time.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, and her hands stilled where she was stuffing tea bags into big mugs.
“Thank you,” she managed, after a long time.
That dark-not-dark gaze lingered at the kinky coils before slinking down her body. “You are welcome.”
Her cheeks grew hot and her stomach made a jerky knot. It had been a long time, many pounds and dozens of hairstyles since she’d been the girl in that picture. Nowadays, she was too old to have any patience for men and the way they looked at her. The way they could look through her or make a fetish of her size or her dark skin. She’d done her fair share of dating and hooking up, but it seemed like a long time since any man worth looking for had looked at her like that.
His mouth lifted in the corner and he made to say something but the kettle screamed, and she turned as quick as her feet would carry her to finish the tea.
“Want?” She lifted a bottle of cheap bourbon in the air. He nodded and each mug got a generous pour. It was like they’d done this before too. “I made stew,” she said, to fill the silence. “If you’re hungry. I’m gonna go ahead and eat, but you’re welcome to it, if you want.”
Parker mustered up her courage to cross the room and hand him the mug. It seemed a silly thing to have to find the wherewithal to hand someone a cup. How foolish.
Up close he was bigger still.
She no longer felt foolish.
His gaze on her felt both like a cool breeze and the hot prick- lies. Blink, dark, blink, silver, blink, and dark again.
She’d known it was going to happen when she handed him the mug, that they would touch. But there was no preparing for the charge of it, that touching him even as briefly as fingertips brushing would set her back on her hackles like a horny little cat. It was all she could do to keep herself from hissing. It was almost like being burned, but the best kind.
She pulled back, hugging herself. “Stew?”
He sat at her small, creaky table as she ladled up two bowls, and then, giving him the once-over, brought the whole pot to the table. He glanced in at the rich broth, the hunks of chicken, potatoes, and carrots. If he’d been any other man, he might have rubbed his hands together, his delight was so evident. They ate in silence, and she was perhaps a quarter of the way through her bowl when his was gone.
She gestured to the pot as if to say “help yourself” and he did, scooping another big portion into his bowl and taking a long drink of tea. This was another thing that seemed off because though he ate like the end times were coming, he was so clean. Fluid and precise in his movement, it was the eating equivalent of the way his biceps made that sweater stretch.
“Were you on your way home?” Parker said, to distract herself from watching his spoon travel to his lips.
“No.”
“Family in the area?”
“No.”
“Business?”
“No.”
And so it went on like that, his answers annoyingly monosyllabic, but delivered with such earnest politeness, she found herself both frustrated and grinning. So he was just “passing through,” the Middle of Nowhere, Ohio, on neither business or pleasure.
“I take it that people don’t ask you many questions.”
His spoon hovered in the air, dripping hot broth back into the bowl. “No.” He paused. “That is to say, people ask me many questions. They don’t usually ask me these kinds of questions.”
Parker thought these were pretty basic questions, but she fell silent, wondering what people asked him.
He was halfway through the third bowl before he spoke again. “Most of the time, when people ask me questions they’re greedy, or they mean to trick me. They want to know what they can get out of me.” His voice was harsh at the end, the first time she’d heard anything less than exquisite pronunciation.
She hummed, both surprise and commiseration. He finished his food with an angry tilt to his expression that made her look away and down the rest of her drunken tea.
“May I clear your dishes?” he asked and she looked up, brows lifting.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He rose and carried her dishes to the sink where she watched as he washed each one with care, then placed them in the drying rack. She came up alongside him as he finished and slid the pot onto the counter. He turned to her, drying his hands on her kitchen towel like an old habit, before settling it back in its place over the oven handle.
Coming Soon Page 17