by Ashe, Karina
I moan as he puts his hand between my legs. His rough middle finger runs up my clit. “Can I really touch you?”
I stopped trying to fight it a long time ago. I don’t know if I’ve ever really fought it. With my every action, I’ve let him know that I’m his. It frightens me, and I don’t understand it, but if I’m honest with myself, I know that I want this. I spread my legs.
“Laura?”
Right. I still haven’t answered. “Why do you keep asking me?”
He runs his rough palm up my inner thigh. His touch sharpens my mind. It sobers me even as it intoxicates me, pulling me deeper into this dark obsession, drowning out the lingering affects of alcohol with his own sweet poison. “I ask because every time you say yes, I don’t quite believe it.”
“Is that supposed to be a line?” Part of me wants to clear my mind, the other part wants to fall deeper into this fog.
“Do you want lines, Laura?” he asks. “Is that how a man wins you?”
You’ve already won me.
“Every time I think of you you,” he continues, “I remember how tight you are. How good it feels to be inside you, with you wrapped around me completely.”
“Oh?” I can’t believe I can even talk.
“Yes. It drives me fucking insane.” His greedy hand spreads over my skin, pushing up my small skirt.
I’ll die if you don’t touch me. I won’t say it. He affects me so much. I think he knows that, but I don’t want to verbally confirm it. I want him so much that it makes me powerless, and so I don’t want to give him more power than he already has.
“You’re torturing me, solnyshko moyo.” His bare hand cups my ass as he says it. I part my legs further. My ankles roll and flop on the pavement, my heels tip over.
I press my hands harder on the wall. They’re shaking. “You can…touch me…” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask again. I hear him unzip. Too slow, I think. Why are you going to slow? Then I feel the hot head of his dick moving over my slit to my entrance. I arch my hips back into his and he enters me in one smooth motion.
There isn’t any pretense, but I’m so wet and ready for him that there doesn’t have to be. I can hear the club music throbbing dully from behind the metal doors. But it’s muffled, not nearly as loud as my moans as he drives into me.
I’m a little tipsy and it’s hard to stand. He holds me up, his hand pressing my hipbone into the brick. My toes barely touch the floor. I try to wrap them around his ankles and fall forward, my torso pressing into the wall, my face squishing the hand that shields my cheeks from the brick.
I'm not a small woman. This should be hard for him...but it isn't. I can't believe how strong he is.
His hand curls around my face, thrusting two fingers into my mouth. I roll my tongue over them as he begins to move inside me.
“Fuck, Laura,” he whispers.
Yes, that’s what you’re doing. I don’t have the strength to say that snarky comment. My eyes roll back and I shut them, giving into the sensations dripping inside me.
Steam fills the ally. Even in the most glamorous places in New York city, places like this exist—raw and real and such a contrast to those brilliant lights.
He whispers things to me. I barely hear them over the hum of music inside. The beat throbs through me. Songs about doing things like this—songs that make it seem filthy yet desirable. He goes harder than he has before, and my body is already used to it, already craves it. I feel beautiful and bright, almost like I’m shining. And it doesn’t matter if it’s filthy, if the place is filthy, because I finally feel alive.
I spread my legs apart further and arch up to meet him. He groans another set of words over my shoulders, his voice delirious and full of longing.
I nod and moan. Speech is beyond me, but his voice makes my cunt clench him harder. I’m so dirty. I’ll let him fuck me in the back alley in a club behind a dumpster. And I want even more.
I want him to bite me.
To drag me down with him into whatever hell he refuses to speak of.
My ankles wrap around his calves as he thrusts harder, deeper.
He touches me like he can’t get enough of me. Like he doesn’t want to get enough. Even his elbow digging into my ribs aches wonderfully. I’m overtaken by the feeling of him sliding in and out of me, stretching me to my limits, making me beg for it.
Rain water makes the cracked pavement glisten. Through his mask I feel his teeth against my shoulder. Yes, this, I think, rolling my neck to the side, looking up at the dark sky.
There’s too much light pollution to see the stars, but the imprint of his fingers on my hip feels like a constellation. His nail scrapes my teeth as he bites and thrusts into my willing body.
I feel like the beat from the club is vibrating through my chest. I know that can’t be the case. There’s no way the sound could move the brick wall. But my body is humming under where his hands are as if we’re in the middle of the swell of the crowd. His hands feel almost impersonal when they’re on me, as if they could be anyone’s. I sink back into him, feel the heat of his breath through his mask.
Every time he comes to me I discover a new facet to this obsession. I thought something like this could have limits. That it would have to have limits. But it doesn’t, and I don’t want it to. I want to go wherever he takes me. I’m even beginning to love the midnight—the not knowing—the strange intimacy of this stranger’s touch.
I scream as that painful bliss consumes my body. My body shakes and then loses strength. My wrists slide down the brick wall. He holds me up and rocks into me three more times before exhaling sharply near my ear.
Chapter 2
The sensual pulse of music from inside returns. My chest heaves. He holds me, one hand moving from my hip to wrap around my stomach, the other pulling me away from the wall. I notice his knuckles are bloody from protecting me from the brick while thrusting into me.
“Your hand.”
I don’t like how breathless my voice sounds. I’m still recovering. But then again, so is he.
He shifts, looking over my shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
I glance down, away from it. Unfortunately what’s on the ground distresses me almost as much. Used condoms. Cigarette buts. My toes curl, trying to get as far away from the pavement as possible. Thank god my heels aren’t open-toed. Still, I want to jump into the nearest bathtub and scrub away all the filth that I’d barely noticed moments before.
I shut my eyes. There’s more important things to worry about, like his hand. It was exposed to wall. “It might get infected,” I blather.
“Are you worried about me, Laura?”
It sounds like he’s laughing. I don’t understand what’s so funny, so I ask, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey—” I spin around. He lowers his head and rests it on my chest, pushing me back against the wall he just fucked me against.
“It’s sweet that you’re worrying about me.”
My heart skips. I wonder if he notices. Probably. He’s right at my chest, and nothing ever escapes his notice. “I’m not saying you have to go to the hospital or anything.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“Just…disinfect it.”
“As you wish, solnyshko moyo.” He steps back. I look at the ground and shiver. “Do you want me to carry you?”
My head snaps up. “What?”
He’s wearing his mask. Again, I wonder if he keeps it in his pocket—if he keeps it there in case he runs into one of the many girls he runs into and…God, why am I even thinking about this? It’s not like I have some sort of exclusive hold on him. I mean, I could ask but then I’d have to hear the answer and maybe that would ruin everything.
I glance down again. Damn. The ground is still there, and still disgusting.
“I’ll carry you so you don’t have to touch the ground. You look like you want to disinfect your shoes.”
> I totally do. I weigh looking like an idiot with my own disgust. My pride wins. I take a shaky step forward. “I’m fine.”
He reaches into his pocket. “I’ll let you think about it a moment.”
It sounds like he’s laughing, which kind of irritates me. “What are you doing?”
He pulls out a small object that fits in his palm. “Do you still hate my phone?”
“I don’t…” Wait, I’d said I hated his phone, didn’t I? Right before I threw myself on him and started pawing at his crotch like a sex-starved maniac. My cheeks burn. “I mean, uh, I don’t actually hate it.”
He looks up. I feel the heat of his gaze through his mask. “That’s too bad.”
It shouldn’t be humanly possible to get any hotter, but somehow I do. I get so hot, in fact, that I feel like I’m about to pass out. Maybe letting him carry me isn’t such a bad idea…
Then I remember how much his touch affects me.
Actually, it’s a horrible idea! I need to make sure he stays as far away from me as possible! I am obviously sobered up. Well, mostly. I couldn’t turn into psycho-sex-lady now when I had nothing to blame it on!
“Don’t worry, Laura.”
Oh great. He’s worried. Well, I don’t blame him. I’m worried too.
“I’m just calling my car,” he explains. “You said I could take you home after…”
We fuck. My mind finishes when he doesn’t. Oh God. Did I actually say that to him? What is wrong with me!
Luckily he doesn’t expect a response from me. He spouts off a few phrases of Russian softly before returning the phone to his pocket and turning back to me.
“Do you still not want me to carry you, Laura?”
We’re back there again? After everything? I clasp my hands. “I can walk. I mean, of course I can, usually, but I am also able to now.”
Wow. Could you possibly have thought of a more stupid response?
“Even if I want to carry you?”
Especially if you want to! “I…let’s just go. No carrying. Just…” Let me retreat to my bed so I can pull the sheets over my head and pretend like this was all a hallucination!
He touches me with his good hand. When I don’t pull away, he laces his fingers through mine.
It takes me a moment to figure out why he’s being so hesitant—why it’s almost like he expects me to bolt. I don’t need to think too hard to figure it out. Before now, I’ve always run off or pushed him away after we were done with…the good stuff. This might be the longest time we’ve spent together talking.
He bends down and whispers near my ear, “After you.”
I walk slowly. My ankles wobble. After the second time it happens, he wraps his arm around my side. It feels nice. Warm. Even through his coat, I feel how strong he is.
I wobble again.
He holds me a little tighter.
This happens so many times that, by the time we reach the end of the alley, I can barely breathe. God, why do women even wear heels? It isn’t a shoe, it’s an archaic torture device!
A blast of cold air hits me as we hit the street. An expensive black car is right outside the alley. A large man waits by the back door.
I lean into my companion.
“That’s us,” he says as the large man opens the back door.
My companion doesn’t let go of my hand until I’m in my seat. If heaven were made of leather, I think it would smell something like this. However, this could never be heaven. It just feels too damn good. Everything is soft and black and suggests luxury—the kind mortals can never touch unless they make a deal with the devil.
The door closes. Though its warm in the car, I start to shiver.
Something about this feels wrong. I told Cassie I was taking a taxi. She doesn’t even know about this guy—no one knows about this guy. I realize it’s a little late to worry about stranger danger. As I said, and he so kindly repeated, we’d already fucked like fifty billion gazillion bajillion times.
I’m running my hands over my arms when masked man gets in, closing the door behind him before I can get out a response.
“Hi,” I squeak.
He studies me a moment, leaning against the seat. “Are you upset, Laura?”
The driver gets in and starts the car.
Kinda, but it’s a little late for that now. “Uh…” I shiver. Why didn’t Dolly let me wear a jacket? I feel too exposed in front of him, which wouldn’t be such a problem if I didn’t want to be so exposed.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You’re rubbing your arms.”
Oh. Right. How to explain that? “Just a little bit.”
He takes off his jacket and motions for me to lean forward. I do, and he drapes it over my shoulders. “Should have done that when we got outside. I was just…a little distracted.”
I shrink into the jacket. I guess there’s a good reason for why I’ve avoided after-sex conversations so far: they’re insanely awkward.
“One moment.” The left side of the jacket brushes against my thigh as he removes something heavy from the pocket.
There area million things that could have been in there, but none of them would have been more welcome than what he pulled out. “Hand wipes!”
He hands me the box and I go to town, scrubbing in between my fingers before taking a few and swiping the tops and bottoms of Dolly’s glitzy heels.
“These shoes look a little hard to walk in.”
“Oh, they are,” I agree without looking up.
“You looked hot in them, though.”
I groan. “Yeah, especially when I was falling on my face.”
“It gave me an excuse to catch you, and I already said I didn’t mind carrying you.”
It takes me a moment to realize that precious little comment was in response to the one I made about falling on my face. I glance up. “So, you’re one of those, huh?”
“One of what?”
I keep scrubbing my heels with a vengeance even though I’m still looking at him. “One of those guys who feels manly when women are strapped into torture devices so they can’t walk.”
He chuckles and leans in. “Is that the kind of man you like, Laura?”
“Hell no.”
“Why did you wear them then?”
Shit. What he said kind of made me sound like a self-righteous, hypocritical bitch. Wait, was I a self-righteous, hypocritical bitch? “I wore them because my friend is a sadist and has a rigid fashion sense,” I explain quickly.
“I’m glad you did. I’m not glad that every other guy saw you in them, of course, but it gave me an excuse to put my hands on you.”
Was this guy for real? “Do you want your hands on me even if my nose is gushing blood from a face plant?”
“If you’re hurt, then yes, I want to be the first person at your side. But the truth is, I hope you never learn to walk in heels. That way you’ll only wear them for me, and no other guy will ever see how hot your legs look in them. Also it would give me an excuse to…carry you more often.”
“You’re a pig.” I press my knees together. I sound so…breathy. God damn, did that little speech of his just make me horny? What the hell?
“I told you I wasn’t a fair man the first time I met you, Laura.” He leans forward and my sore pussy tightens. His hand slides across a case in the middle of the car, dark against the dark wood, and I remember how it felt slipping up my legs, grabbing my hips, holding me up as he slid into me…
The compartment between us pops open. Inside is a water bottle. “Are you thirsty?”
“No,” I respond automatically. He begins to close it, and I realize at that moment my mouth is a little dry. “Actually, I am. Uh, what is it?”
“Water.”
“Oh. Yeah, I mean, It obviously is water cause it says water on there…” He hands me the bottle. “Thanks.”
I struggle with the cap. My damn fingers keep shaking and I can’t keep my grip. Why the hell do
they put these things on so tight?
“Do you need help with that?”
“No, I got it.” I struggle for the amount of time it takes me to realize that letting him open it would be less embarrassing. “Actually, maybe you could…”
He takes it and opens it in a second.
“Guess I loosened it up for you,” I say.
He doesn’t grace that with a response.
Alright, this is just getting stupid. I started off the conversation by cleaning. I took my anger over wearing these bloody useless heels out on him. I told him I wasn’t thirsty, then a second later, decided I was. Then, I couldn’t tell a clear liquid in a water bottle is water. And finally, he had to open the lid for me.
No wonder he doesn’t want to show me his face! When the time comes, he wants a clean, fast exit. And he wants to make sure that when he leaves, I don’t grab his crotch and demand that he fuck me first.
Oh God. I really did say that, didn’t I? I want nothing more than to bury my head between my thighs until the ride is over.
“Laura?”
“Yes?” Hey, I didn’t squeak that time! Improvement!
“Do you still want it?”
Did I still? My heartbeats speeds up. Of course I do. I always…
Wait a minute. He still has the water bottle.
Oh God, could this get any more embarrassing? My thigh brushes against his slacks as I take it. The fabric is that strange blend of rough and soft, like a scarf hand knit from wool. I usually don’t think much about what he wears, just the strength of his grip, his scent, the feeling of his chest pushing over my back as I bend over and…
I gulp the water, wincing as it goes down. It’s really cold, which I guess isn’t strange since it came from a refrigerated compartment.
“Slow down, solnyshko moyo.”
I remove the bottle from my lips. Whatever was left of my lipstick came off on the plastic rim. It looks purple in the night.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks.
Not really. “Yes.”
His hand slides down my wrist. “Don’t lie. I want to know if ’m making you uncomfortable.”
It’s actually mostly not you. “Uh…it’s fine. It isn’t anything you’re doing,” I explain, but my feelings are coming out faster than I can think so it’s hard to find the right words. “I’m just being silly.”