I haven’t. I’ve done absolutely nothing. I haven’t lifted my hands from the water or straightened my spine. I haven’t mentioned our contract or the one—well, two—time restriction.
As I stand here, not for one heartbeat denying him, I can only thank god that I locked the door before closing out the till for the night. Though if anyone pressed their face to the front window, they could see us. My reputation is on the line here. My business.
After a pause that is too long and too quiet for comfort, during which I shamelessly will him to touch me—anywhere he wants—I finally hear the slow slide of his zipper, the rustle of denim, cotton.
I shut my eyes, tight. Tight tight tight.
He grips more of my skirt and wraps it up into a ball at my waist, pulls my thong to one side, and pries one of my ass cheeks to the side.
Slowly, almost teasingly, his thick, hot cock slides between my legs.
Every hair on my body stands up, every cell goes molten.
The moan that escapes me is pure, unadulterated pleasure, born so far inside me I couldn’t keep it in if my life depended on it.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. “Fuck, look at that little pink asshole.Fuck.”
A long, slippery descent—both literal and figurative. When he bends his legs, the backs of his thighs cradle mine. Hair chafes my skin. My waterlogged hands move of their own volition to grip the rim of the sink and with my next breath, he’s in, deep.
Oooooooh.
I’m stock still, sizzling with shock at the fullness, the pressure, the very slight thrill of pain.
For a handful of seconds he keeps himself fully seated inside me.
Neither of us budges.
It feels… There’s not a word for it.
Like nothing. Like everything.
Right.
I’m wet, which would be a surprise if it weren’t the way I always am now when he’s near. Even so, that first thrust was hard enough to jolt me, deep, deep inside, the friction rough and explicit.
His next series of moves is purely practical—getting me wetter, opening me up—and every one of them turns me into his rag doll.
His grip on my skirt tightens, his other hand presses down on my upper back before grabbing my hip. When he pulls out, it’s with excruciating slowness. I hate him, a little, for taking his time. For the undeniable, hot friction of every inch of him.
Another deliberately slow penetration. Another leisurely slide out. There’s something about the way he’s doing it that doesn’t feel the same as before. I can’t see him. There’s no mirror out there that will show me how he’s covering me. So silent, this time.
But that’s it. That’s just it. With every advance of his body into mine, he’s saying something, staking a claim, without uttering a single word.
I can’t help how my back arches toward him when he moves impossibly closer, his bulk over me now, around me.
He plunges inside me, hard, harder, and I collapse fully forward, my soapy wet hands struggling to find purchase on the edge of the bar and then his hands are there, caging mine in. Every smack of his hips to mine winds me tighter, so my spine’s a taut bowstring and my insides clench and then—oh god—then he bends, right up against me, hides his face in the side of my neck. There’s the heat of his breaths, the slide of a tongue I’m not even sure he’s just used and finally, with a sort of rightness thatis absolutely wrong, he opens his mouth and bites me, right at the junction of throat and shoulder.
I come. Harder than I’ve ever come. The pleasure a thing separate from me, alive and writhing from my center to places I’ve never felt. He’s tearing me open, fucking me like this. Like he’s a primitive creature and I am one, too. Like this isn’t a bar in a civilized city, and we’re not doing this with any objective in mind.
Behind my closed lids I see nothing but his feral, hopped-up eyes, so I open mine and stare at where his hands grip the wood, caging me in with their scraped, bloodied knuckles and the ink there. The words…
Love. On his fingers. It says that:Love.AndHate.
How did I never notice that?
His teeth hold me in place, never breaking the skin, but keeping me where he wants.
Pleasure bursts open so hard it hurts. A high whimper leaks through the tightly closed dam of my lips. My knees turn to jelly. The only thing stopping me from going face-down into suds is the thick arm that wraps around my middle.
