by Penny Wylder
My belly tightens with pleasure, sparks of heat dancing through my veins. “Fuck me, Charlie,” I whisper, and his lips shift into that sly grin of his, the one that’s already starting to make me come undone before he even touches me.
“Oh, it’s all I’ve wanted for hours.” He reaches down with one hand to guide himself toward my entrance. The tip of his fat cock pauses at my entrance, and he traces it back and forth along the length of my slit, following the same path his tongue did earlier, coating himself in my juices. Finally, when I’m practically panting beneath him, desperate from want and all the teasing, he slowly pushes his cock inside me.
I moan, a sound that slowly turns into a deeper groan as he moves into me, slowly, my pussy stretching around the thick girth of his cock. Fucking hell. I’ve never been with a man this big. And he keeps going, keeps pushing inside me, farther than I knew I could take, as I gasp and twist under him.
The whole while, he keeps his gaze fixed on mine, making sure I’m okay, slowing down anytime I gasp, before he starts to push again. I understand why when he finally stops, fully inside me, and leans down along my body to kiss my lips softly.
Fuck. I have never felt so full in my entire life. He stuffs me completely, and my pussy throbs a little, a pleasant, pleasure-inducing ache that makes me want more, more, more.
“Is this what you wanted, naughty girl?” he whispers, and for emphasis, pulls his hips back just a little, withdrawing from me by an inch or so before he thrusts fully back inside me.
“Yes,” I reply, but the word comes out a long, low moan that makes him chuckle softly in the back of his throat, clearly enjoying watching the effect he has on me.
“Good.” He pulls back a little farther now, and drives back into me again, making my hips buck under him. “Because I plan to fuck you so hard you forget what day it is, Lila.”
I drag my nails down his bare back in response, over the hard expanse of his muscles. “I told you, Charlie. I like it rough.”
His grin only widens at that. “Don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow,” he murmurs.
When. Not if. His confidence is infectious, turning me on, more than I ever imagined this kind of alpha talk could. Normally I’m into sweet guys, but this… Charlie is something different. Someone different.
Before I can get too lost in my own head, he drags me right back to the present, reaching down to angle my hips beneath him, and then drawing out of me in one long, slow motion. I gasp in protest at losing the sensation of him inside me. But he thrusts right back in, his cock filling me once more, and I arch my hips up to slam against his, moving with him, trying to give as good as he gives me, hard and rough.
Soon he has me pinned beneath him, and he’s driving into me, hard and fast. With each thrust, his cock fills my pussy so fully it makes me scream. With each withdrawal, I feel empty again until he slams back inside me.
He’s right. I do lose track of the day, the time. Of anything except this sensation, him driving into me, his hands wandering over my body, tracing and hugging my curves, his body going hot and slick with sweat against mine. Our combined scents mingle in the air, until the whole room smells like sex, which only turns me on more.
Then he angles his hips, to make his cock drag against each of my inner walls in turn, and I lose my mind entirely.
I come with a scream the first time he hits my G-spot dead on, with the kind of aim I’ve only experienced from guys’ fingers before. And he just keeps going, driving into me, egging me on. “Come again for me. That’s it, feel my fat fucking cock inside you? Tell me how good it feels,” he demands, but I can barely make my voice work, let alone form words.
I just cry out with pleasure as the second orgasm hits, and hope that he can translate that for himself, into how much I’m enjoying myself.
Finally, after what feels like hours—and may well have been, for all I know—he pulls me to him harder than usual, grips my hips so tightly there will probably be bruises tomorrow, but I don’t care; he’s all I want right now. He comes with a guttural growl, and leans down across me. I wrap my legs tight around his waist, hold him against me, as he finishes, and as both our bodies sink into the bed with exhaustion.
When he pulls out of me, I gasp a little at the sensation of my own juices dribbling down my thighs. It makes me shiver, to know how wet he made me, how turned on.
But I barely have time to recover before he leans across and gently tips his fingertip under my chin, tilting my face toward his.
“After that performance, I think we both deserve a shower, don’t you?” he murmurs, and the heat behind his eyes makes me realize, he has no intentions of getting clean anytime soon…
4
I wake to the sound of an unfamiliar alarm blaring somewhere in the recesses of my skull. I groan and fling my arm across my eyes to shield them from the assault that is the morning sun. Where am I?
It takes a second for the night before to flood back in. And when it does, my face floods with heat, too. Because fuck. Some of the things we did last night… Some of the things this man said to me…
I roll over in bed to find Charlie already awake, switching his alarm off before he turns to face me with an apologetic grin. “Forgot to shut that off earlier, sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I squint past him at the clock, still trying to reorient myself. Still trying not to linger too long on the memory of his naked body in the shower, water cascading over those impossibly perfect muscles of his, while he ran his hands over my curves, then gripped my hips and pinned me against the wet shower wall, leaning in to—
I clear my throat, hard. To judge by the widening smirk on Charlie’s face, he knows exactly where my traitorous brain just wandered off to. “I should probably, uh…” I blink hard a few times. Shit. All at once, I remember what I was actually supposed to be doing yesterday. Not hooking up with a random hottie but working on my article for Fiona. Luring in some unsuspecting undergrad to get some shitty pickup lines as pull quotes. Or whatever.
“Before you say anything,” Charlie murmurs, leaning in to press a finger to my lips. “You should know, I make a mean pancake. Best you’ll ever eat.” His grin widens. “And, then, you know. We can enjoy more than just the pancakes in bed…”
I clamp my lips together. It’s tempting, I’ll give him that. Bastard knows exactly how tempting he is, too, because he chooses that moment to tilt closer to me, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair back from my forehead. He tucks it behind my ear slowly, his fingertip grazing the shell of my ear, lingering there. The heat makes my whole body catch fire, burn with unspent heat.
Fuck. How can I want him this badly again, already?
I swallow hard around a lump in my throat. “I can’t lie, that’s a tempting offer.”
He smirks. “So, that’s a yes then.” Without waiting for another word, he slides out of the bed and grabs a sweatshirt slung over the back of the nearest chair, yanking it on. I notice the logo emblazoned across the front. Hartford College.
“Are you an alum?” I ask without thinking, my gaze lingering on that logo.
He lifts an eyebrow at me, tilting his head with confusion. “Uh, no. Senior at the engineering school.”
Oh.
Oh. Fuck.
That makes him… twenty-one, twenty-two at most? A senior in undergrad? Oh my god. My face floods with heat before I can stop myself.
Charlie’s frown deepens. “I… sort of figured you’d have guessed that. What with where we met and all.”
Of course. I clear my throat. “Right. Yeah. That’s cool, I guess.”
He lets out a low laugh. “You don’t seem like it’s cool.”
“No, I just, er…” I suck in a deep breath and roll off the bed. “I should probably head out. I have some work to get done, and—”
“Lila.” He stops me with a single, searing glance. Sincere and open and white hot all at once. I couldn’t move my feet if I tried. They feel like lead, weighted to the floor. “What
’s wrong?”
You’re at least five years younger than me, and I had no idea you were an undergraduate when I set up my little trap to write about how guys like you are terrible to try and date these days?
This whole situation is so unlike me. Normally I never even hook up with guys I don’t at least know semi-well. The one time I try it, look where it gets me. Robbing the damn cradle.
Fuck. I hope he’s old enough to drink, I think, but then I remember with a rush of relief that we went bar-hopping before we came back here last night.
Still. I’ve never exactly thought of myself as the cougar type.
My emotions must be playing out across my face, because Charlie takes a step toward me, then another. Before I can react, he’s right in front of me, reaching up to rest his hands on my shoulders. They feel like tiny twin weights, pinning me in place, warm and reassuring, and exactly the touch I shouldn’t be craving. “Hey, Lila. It’s okay. We had fun last night. If you want, I’ll make you some pancakes, we don’t have to do anything else.”
“It’s not that,” I blurt, before I can caution myself to shut up. I shake my head, then keep shaking it, because he’s trying to catch my gaze, and I know if I let him hold my eye, I’ll cave in. “Just, I have this work thing I was supposed to turn in yesterday, but I… well. Didn’t.” My face heats all over again.
I can’t remember the last time I blushed this often. Damn him.
“Okay.” Confusion remains lingering in his expression, but he lifts his hands from my shoulders, at any rate. “If you have to run, that’s fine.”
“I do.” I bite my lower lip. It is, quite honestly, the last thing I want to do right now. But for one thing, I need to sort out how the hell I’m feeling about all this—and what I should really do about it next. For another thing, I really do need to send Fiona something. I’m dreading turning on my phone, because I know how she gets when she’s awaiting a story she really likes. She’ll probably have blown up my texts by now.
“Well, we could trade numbers,” Charlie suggests with a half-grin that nearly knocks me senseless, straight off my feet. “So then you can take a rain check on the pancakes?” He winks, and my heart nearly splits inside my chest.
Stay, a voice inside my head orders me. Just stay here. Forget about Fi and the article.
But I can’t do that. I square my shoulders and lean down to grab my jeans, already pulling them on before I answer him. “Listen, Charlie…” I don’t meet his gaze as I say it. I can’t bring myself to. Because the truth is, if I do the right thing, I shouldn’t ever see this guy again. He’s sweet, he’s a great listener, he’s sexy as fuck in bed, not to mention easy on the eyes. But he’s too young for me. He’s looking for hookups his own age now. He doesn’t need some late-20s, mid-career lady messing with his emotions.
Even if he’s messing with mine.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I finish yanking on my jeans and grab my bag from where it wound up near his front door.
“Lila.” He stops me once more, just before I can head out of the bedroom. This time, I’m powerless to resist, as he leans in and kisses me, slow and sweet. It’s a lingering kiss. The kind that leaves an open question at the end, begging you to come back for more. “I had fun last night. I hope you did too.” He gazes at me, deeply, steadily. Like he actually cares.
I can’t remember the last time a hookup stopped to ask me that. To check on me, and make sure I felt the same way. I did, I want to scream.
My chest twinges. “Definitely.” I smile, drinking in his gaze one last time, my eyes flicking back and forth between his. Memorizing them. “It’s just, I’m pretty work-focused at the moment.” True. Now, and always. “I don’t have a lot of time for, um…”
“A personal life?” He arches an eyebrow, grinning. Though behind the smile, I notice something like hurt in his eyes.
My chest aches even worse now. “Basically,” I admit.
“Life can’t be all work and no play, you know. Sooner or later, you’ll explode if you don’t have some kind of outlet, some way to relax.”
“I know, I just…” It can’t be with you. I bite my tongue on that last thought. “I’m sorry, Charlie.” That, at least, is one hundred percent the truth.
He steps back from the door to let me go, and this time, he doesn’t bother to hide the hurt in his gaze. “Take care of yourself, Lila,” he says softly, and it’s so damn sincere I nearly break right there and change my mind.
Instead, with a colossal effort of willpower, I turn on my heel and march out of his apartment, shoulders stiff.
Only once I’m outside in the corridor do I turn my phone back on. Sure enough, almost before it finishes rebooting, it starts to flash with missed texts. Three missed calls, and a full ten texts, all from Fiona. God. That woman does not know how to take a break.
How’s it going? Any updates on the scoop?
Everything okay? I didn’t hear back from you last night.
Just wanted to check that you’re okay, the last message reads, and my chest twinges with guilt. I didn’t think she’d be worried about me.
I fire back a quick message as I pile into Charlie’s elevator. Totally fine, don’t worry.
By the time the elevator hits the bottom floor, I already have a response. See you in the office soon?
Shit. I check the clock above the text chain and realize she’s right. My normal office hours start in 20 minutes. I won’t even have time to head home and change quickly first. Thank god I have some emergency supplies at my work desk—the obligatory work deodorant and toothpaste set. But I’ll just have to hope that Fi doesn’t notice I’m wearing the same clothes I left work in yesterday when I get there.
With a deep sigh, I head for the street, typing out a response as I go. See you in a few.
5
From the moment I walk into the office, I swear I must be giving off suspicious vibes. I can tell by the way Fiona’s eyes track me as I take my time, hanging up my coat and prepping some coffee at the little communal kitchen the co-working space shares with a few tech companies that also rent out the same office space. Fiona’s online magazine, pitched as a throwback to the 90s era of beauty tips, sex advice and gossip stories, has taken off recently thanks to a bout of 90s nostalgia run rampant in culture. But she still doesn’t make enough that she can afford a studio or private office of her own.
So, for the time being, we’re stuck sharing. We’re treated to frequent rants from the tech guys and gals sharing the office, about programming languages neither I nor Fiona understand two words about. And they’re stuck listening to us brainstorm story ideas on everything from the best OPI shade of nail polish to wear in protest of other nail polish companies’ animal testing, to which of the four Chris’s of the apocalypse is currently the hottest, and who we predict will get skipped over for the next Marvel movie casting call.
All in all, it always seemed like a fair trade to me. But I know Fiona is itching to have a private office, a space she can call her own.
Right now, as her eyes trail me back and forth across the open plan floor, I’m immensely grateful we don’t have that. If we did, she’d probably already be peppering me with questions.
Does she remember what I wore yesterday in the selfie I posted, after I’d gotten my painting supplies all set up outside the engineering offices? Will she notice or comment?
I can’t be sure. But I do know that by the time I finish making coffee, the extra caffeine only makes my heart race even faster, nervous about what’s coming.
As it turns out, I have every right to be. My ass barely touches the chair next to Fiona’s before she leans across the desk, her eyes bright and dancing with amusement.
“Are you walk of shaming right now, Lila?” she hisses, though her voice is still loud enough in the otherwise quiet space for two of the nearest tech bros to glance over. One of them rolls his eyes and immediately returns to his computer. The other continues staring, his eyes doing th
at once-over glance that I’m all too familiar with.
I narrow my eyes at him until he finally turns away, and then I turn my glare on Fiona. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your texts sooner.”
“I was so worried about you!” She swats my arm. “I thought that dating-these-days-sucks article of yours was going to turn into a way more intense one about kidnapping or murder or something.”
“So, just to be clear, if I was murdered on the job, you’d write an article about it?” I reply, lifting an eyebrow, only mostly joking.
“Duh.” She swats my arm again, a little less hard this time. “How else would I get the police interested enough to chase down your killer and get him arrested, girl?”
I snort, in spite of myself. “Fine. But you’d better make me sound good.”
“As good as you could sound while getting kidnapped. ‘Lila did everything right, but sometimes, you just can’t avoid the predators out there, ladies…’” For a moment, I think maybe I’ve gotten away with this. That her riffing about my potential murder last night has distracted her.
A second later, though, she hones back in on me, and I realize I have no such luck.
“So, if you weren’t being dismembered in some creep’s basement, thank god, what were you doing that had you so completely distracted last night?” Her gaze sweeps up and down my outfit. “I know you don’t have a huge wardrobe, but I’ve never seen you repeat an outfit almost exactly, two days in a row, either. So either you were so beat this morning you couldn’t even open your closet, or…”
“Okay, okay!” I blurt, my face turning bright red. I’ve never been one to withstand interrogation for long. What can I say? I crack easy. I clear my throat. “I may or may not have, um… Gone home with someone.”
Fiona’s eyes sparkle. The tech bro who gave me the once over earlier glances our way again, clearly eavesdropping. Now it’s Fi’s turn to glower at him. “Oi. Mind your own business, or the next time you come in here wearing your stained hoodies and oversized jeans, I’m taking a photo to run as the headline of a ‘how not to dress like an aging basement dweller’ article.”