Authors: Lila Monroe
W
e duck
down the hallway and find a door. Flinging it open, we discover the room’s empty.
Perfect.
I’ve never been so happy to see a janitor’s closet in my life. I kick the bucket and mop out of the way as Julia enters, follow her, and slam the door shut. This closet is dark, and I put my hands on her. She gasps just with that contact. Julia pulls on a chain, and a light bulb comes to glaring life above us.
No.
I reach up and yank it off.
“I want to fuck you like this,” I tell her, sealing her mouth with mine. “In the dark.” My lips brush hers. She tastes fucking glorious, the rich tang of alcohol warm on her breath, mixed with cherry lip gloss and the scent of arousal. She pulls me against her, hooks her arms around my neck, and climbs me.
Goddamn, this woman goes after what she wants.
I’m about to come just thinking about it.
“I don’t have any condoms,” I grunt as I help her pull her shirt over her head. Her bra is lacy; I toy with the edges of it, my fingers ghosting over the swell of her breast. She moans as I pull the bra down, her nipple going hard as I touch her. I flick my tongue across her peak, take her breast into my mouth and suck. Julia moans, keening deep in her throat. Even pinned up against the wall, she bucks against me, urgent. Her need is driving me on. Fuck.
“Hold on,” she gasps, and gets me to let her down for a second. Fishing around on the floor, she comes back up. There’s the sound of crinkling plastic.
Are those . . . glow-in-the-dark condoms?
“Bachelorette party. Waste not, want not,” she breathes, then kisses me again, moaning when my tongue thrusts into her mouth.
She tugs at my shirt; fuck it. I pull it over my head, discarding it onto the dark floor. I’m blind in here, and there’s only Julia’s hands questing over my chest, trailing down my torso. She kisses my neck, flicks her tongue across my nipple.
Jesus. It’s taking all my considerable will power not to fuck her right now.
I put my hand between her legs, feel how damp her panties are. While she gasps, I yank them down, so hard I’m sure it’s a miracle I don’t fucking tear them. I play with her a moment, circling my fingers around the swollen bud of her clit, earning a hard moan. But I don’t touch her yet—not full on, at least. I drag those fingers up and down the seam of her pussy until they’re soaked with her juices, once, twice, enough times to have her gasping in my ear and going mad against me.
Then I edge my fingers inside her, and try not to groan.
God, she’s so wet. And tight. Her cunt hugs my fingers like she’s claiming them. But I have other things in mind, and start pumping. Slow at first, then harder, my thumb settling in the neighborhood of her clit and doing all I can to drive her anywhere as nuts as she’s driven me.
Her arms go around my neck. “I’m going to come,” she gasps. “Oh God.” She grinds against my hand, her whimpers gaining volume, her pussy tightening around me.
Fuck.
“You can come when my cock is buried in you,” I whisper into her ear. I pick her up and pin her to the wall. “Not before.”
She gives me one of those ball-teasing groans in response, and I can’t stand it.
My teeth tear free one of the condoms as my hand works at my zipper. Then
—shit yes
—she takes over. Her hot hand encircles my cock and I try, I really try, not to pant or moan or do anything that might reveal just how in control of this she is. Her tender hand around my dick is my fucking undoing. She strokes my cock down to the base and squeezes me damn near cross-eyed before dragging her hand up again. It goes like that for a few seconds.
Drag, squeeze. Drag, squeeze. Drag, squeeze.
It’s heaven, but I know her pussy will be better, and I have to be inside her.
I take the condom out of my mouth, and I swear I mean to put the damn thing on, but my mouth finds the curve of her breast instead, and I pepper eager little kisses across her skin. My brain and body must have disconnected, because I know I need to be ready, but it seems more important this moment to slip a hand between us again. Feel her warm, wet flesh against my skin. So I do that, and she rewards me, her strokes coming harder, faster. Like she has a fucking line of sight to what I want, what I like, what makes me lose my mind.
“Fuck me. I can’t stand it anymore,” she whispers. Her lips whisper across my cheek, my neck, and her fingers circle the head of my cock, spreading the precum and furthering my path down insanity.
“I need you inside me,” she says. She takes the condom, still in my hand, and rolls it over my shaft. Thank fuck one of us was thinking clearly. Or more clearly. I don’t think either of us was doing much in the way of thinking.
I part her legs and ease her down, my cock drawing a line from her clit to the mouth of her pussy. She gasps and fists my hair, and I smirk at her as I sink into her warm cunt. Not all the way, just enough for her to get the idea. Then I pull out again and resume the wet path from her slit to her clit.
Fuck me, but she is tight. It’s glorious.
“I want you to beg me for it,” I whisper against her mouth, because, why not? I’m a masochist. But moreover, I really want to hear this woman beg. Tell me she needs my cock inside her, needs to come, needs me to be the one who makes her come.
She presses her lips to mine, hard and unforgiving. I grunt into her mouth as she rakes her nails down my back, my every nerve and molecule hypersensitive to her touch. Her kisses are almost as good as sex . . . but no, that has to be the alcohol talking.
I pull away at last, panting, then take a tour down her throat. Her taste, sweet and salty with sweat combined with everything
woman,
makes me harder.
I think it does, at least. At this point it’s hard to tell.
Then her mouth is at my ear, and she’s whispering furiously. “Fuck me right now. I’m begging you. Fuck me hard. Make me come. Please.”
I can’t respond, because she’s dragged my face up to claim my lips again, her tongue plunging, stroking, and I know I can’t hold on anymore, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t, because I’m not
that
much of a masochist. After circling her clit with the head of my cock one last time, I drag myself between her pussy lips and finally—finally—ease my cock into her. And she’s tight. So tight. Tighter than I thought, tighter than a woman has a right to be. Her cunt is pulling me deep. Her heat scorches me, and my rebellious brain—bastard that it is—whispers, demands, has the gall to tell me how much better it’d be if I were feeling her skin-to-skin. If that damn condom weren’t necessary. If her naked flesh were wrapped around mine.
And then I think, well, it can’t be better. It can’t
get
better.
Can it?
Mother of fucking god, why did I tease myself so much?
I release a ragged breath, and when I can’t go deeper, when I’m buried to the hilt, that breath becomes a moan. One she echoes.
Fuck. Her pussy is hot and perfect, squeezing me into oblivion. My name is a mantra on her lips, her hips following me as she tries to keep my cock inside her. But I need friction, and so does she. I pull back, savoring the feel of her wet, perfect flesh dragging along mine, then I sink back inside. I do this again, and again, memorizing everything about how she feels. And despite how intoxicating it is, fucking her in the dark, I find myself wanting to see her, watch her face flush and her lips part and her eyes go wide as she keeps chanting my name. As she comes all over my cock.
“Hold tight,” I tell her, and start thrusting hard, until the air around us is a symphony of her rhythmic gasps, accented by the hot slaps of our bodies coming together. Julia bucks, claws at me, the little sounds she’s making driving me out of my mind. I bury my face in her throat to keep from blurting something I’ll regret later.
I can’t see her, but I can feel her—her tits, her cunt as it welcomes my cock again and again. My balls are tightening and I know I’m close, but fuck, I need to feel her tumble first.
I keep her against the wall, one arm cradled around her waist as my other hand slips between our warring bodies. She inhales roughly when I encounter her slippery flesh, and goes crazy against me the second my fingertip brushes her clit. Her moves become faster, harder, more desperate. Her hair whips my face when she leans into me, and I swallow the cry I know was coming in a hard kiss.
“I’m going to come,” she moans against my lips.
Good. I hope she screams when she does. My finger nudges her clit faster, not too hard but enough to get her there—to drive her over the edge—as I drive my cock inside her heat. I want her to feel me for weeks.
“Call my name. Come for me,” I whisper, and bite down on her bare shoulder. It’s not a hard bite, but it does its job. She jerks and gives me one of those whimpers again.
“Nate. Fuck me. Nate,” she whispers, a song played just for me. I feel the orgasm building inside of me, and as she spasms harder, her pussy tightens on my dick, I know she’s just as close. I need her to get there first, or at least when I do. I press down on her clit, and it’s the last whisper of my name that has the world exploding around me, a spinning void of light in the darkness.
“Fuck,” I growl, unable to hold off anymore, my cock jerking as I spill inside her. Her pussy is convulsing around me, pulling harder and harder and she’s saying my name like she’s afraid she’ll forget it. The sound of it—
Nate, Nate, Nate—
escalates until her voice has nearly drowned out the slaps our bodies make.
I pin her to the wall, panting hard, our hearts hammering against each other. Slowly, eventually, I return to myself long enough to lower her to the ground. She wobbles a little, still in those sexy, impractical heels. She leans her head against my chest, gasping.
“I didn’t think I had it in me,” she says.
“The dance? Fucking me?” I tilt her chin up and kiss her, hard. She groans deep in her throat.
“Both.”
“I’m glad you had it in you,” I whisper into her ear.
“I’m glad you had it . . . in . . . me?” she says, sounding confused. Then she starts giggling. It’s a throaty, sexy sound. And I can’t help it. I laugh along.
“
S
o we
. . . ” Nate says, trailing off as we stand in the stark daylight outside the world’s most depressing looking strip club. The Palace Veil. Probably looks a lot better at night, with a ton of neon and the sound of loud music inside.
My temples are throbbing again, but it’s not because of the hangover. It’s the memories that’ve come flooding back since we stepped out of the car. I don’t have everything yet. The memories are coming in mostly flashes, but they’re there. Me dancing onstage, doing acrobatics I hadn’t attempted since I was in pep squad. That explains why my legs were so sore this morning. Thank God yoga keeps me limber.
Then, of course, there’s the janitor’s closet after that. And all the things that happened in that closet. I could make a joke about getting dirty around cleaning materials, but I just don’t have it in me right now.
Heh. In me.
Oh my God, what am I talking about?
“We went in the closet, and . . . ” Nate pauses again. He seems as embarrassed about the whole thing as I am, which is at least one nice thing.
“You partook of my virtue, m’lord,” I say, not meeting his eyes. When I get nervous, I go straight to Renaissance Faire speak. It’s just easier to handle reality when I imagine I’m in a corset with a turkey drumstick, I guess.
Heh. Drumstick.
I’m going to hell.
Nate makes some kind of noncommittal noise. I peek over at him. He’s the same as he was this morning, I remind myself, even though we now remember fucking. Same chiseled profile, same gorgeous but douchey hair, same dark blue gaze full of judgment. Same bad personality. Same insults. Insulting people isn’t hot. I don’t care what Lizzie/Darcy shippers believe; it’s just common sense. But now my body is tingling in the slightest ways, my panties dampening the tiniest bit. Because I remember how that was, and it
was
hot.
Nate looks over at me as well, and maybe I’m crazy, but I think he’s remembering it, too. Like, envisioning it.
“So. We know we came here. Where did we go next?” he says to me, studiously avoiding my gaze. Fine. I cross my arms.
“Before we go any further, I need one thing. Can you go inside and see if my, uh, purse is in there? I still can’t find it.” Or my laptop, but let’s tackle one problem at a time. “It’s got my ID, so I’m freaking out a little.” I’m also blushing to the roots of my hair, remembering the taste of his mouth, the way he thrust into me so deep I could have passed out from pleasure.
Purse, Julia. Remember the purse.
“Also I, uh, have a lunch meeting I need to get to. Like right now. Lunching. Pronto.”
“I’ll try to find your purse. Then I will be right back,” he says stiffly, like a robot man.
Great. Of course he feels awkward. He’s embarrassed about what happened last night, probably. I mean, so am I, of course. But at least I’m not making him feel gross and weird about himself.
Well, fuck him. I mean, I’ve already done that, but still. Again. Let’s do that. No, no let’s not do that, Julia. What is happening to you?
My David Tennant Tenth Doctor subconscious is still spinning around, flipping brain dials and acting like a freak. Don’t let him continue like that.
“Are you all right?” Nate asks, looking concerned. “Your eyes started darting back and forth.”
“It’s what happens when my id goes crazy,” I say with a shrug. “I like to imagine my id’s the Tenth Doctor. You know?”
“Excuse me?” Now he looks really scared. Great job.
“
Doctor Who
? David Tennant? BBC television show?” Okay, this really isn’t helping my
I’m not crazy
thing. “It’s on Netflix. Check it out sometime. Okay. Lunch away.” I give a little swing of my arms as I say it and hop right back into the car to tell him to take me to the Bellagio ASAP, TYSM, WTF.
Thank God for my Uber account, or I’d have no money for the service.
“How am I getting back?” Nate says, standing there in the hot sun, the dust swirling around his feet, his shirt picking out the definition of his chest and abs, which I now remember running my hands along and boy howdy was that good . . . .
If David Tennant is my wild side, then the Ninth Doctor, played by Christopher Eccleston, is the calm and rational part of me. And right now, he has shown up out of the depths of time and space to tell me to stop drooling and get to my appointment.
“I’ll send it back. Or call someone to come get you. Bye!” I wave and roll the window up as we drive away, listening to the competing British Time Lords duking it out in my head, fighting for supremacy. I actually imagine them, running around the consoles of my mind, pulling levers and arguing with each other.
“
You should have told him to find you later at the hotel,
” David Tennant says, jumping up and down and dodging around, looking adorable in his high tops and brown striped suit. “
Then you could force him into your car and drive around having hot sex! That’s what I do with all my companions. Well, except for Martha. And Donna.
”
“
No!
” sensible Christopher Eccleston says, stepping in. “
You have to keep your distance. Suppose the Daleks invade, and you’re emotionally compromised? And just think! Who knows if he’s had his shots? What were you doing, having sex with a glowing condom?
”
Shut up, Doctor. You’re not a doctor, for God’s sake.
“You okay?” the cabbie asks, looking into the rearview mirror. A pair of fuzzy red dice hang from it, and a little Elvis bobblehead boogies on the dashboard. “Sounds like you’re muttering to yourself in a bad British accent.”
“Just a headache,” I say, and stare out the window wondering how hard I’m losing my sanity.
“
T
here she is
, my New York Times bestseller,” Meredith crows, standing up and giving me a hug. “How are you, kid? Still hungover? Walking bowlegged?” She winks at me as I slide into the booth at the hotel restaurant.
God, I start blushing again, and just when I’d managed to stop. Just thinking about Nate’s mouth on mine, his hands playing over my breasts while he had me pinned up against the wall . . . . Who knew cold fish lawyers were so passionate? This spurs another inner debate.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “David Tennant and Chris Eccleston are arguing again.”
“When aren’t they?” Meredith says with a shrug. That’s what I love about her. There is nothing too crazy for her to go along with. “Now Angela should be here in ten minutes or so—fucking editors, they’re always running late at these things. We’re pitching the
Starwood Resort
series. I’m thinking based on the success of
Forbidden Desire
, we’ll have her salivating. She goes back to Ballantine, they throw some numbers around, and bam. I’m thinking we’ll end up with a major deal.”
“A major deal?” Damn, I’m almost floored at the thought of it. I’m pulling in good money with my royalties, but a high six-figure advance for the first time in my career? Shit. That’ll buy a lot of crocheting needles.
“Speaking of high figures, how much did you have to part with in the divorce?” Meredith asks, raising an eyebrow.
Great. Good. I didn’t need to be happy; my whole luxuriating in the memory of good sex, it all goes up in smoke.
I fidget with my napkin, and Meredith clears her throat. “Sorry, kid. I just want to know how much of your hard-earned money Drew was able to snatch, that’s all.”
“You know, that doesn’t make the situation sound any lighter,” I deadpan.
“Maybe not, but I’d like to kick the schmuck in the balls.” She takes a long pull of chardonnay while I suck down some ice water. Dehydrated. So dehydrated.
“Not too bad. Two hundred thousand in the end. Lump sum, though, so no monthly alimony payments.”
Of all the shitty memories of my divorce, the shittiest probably has to be sitting across from Drew in a high-rise building in Milwaukee, staring at him in a too-snug suit with a too-snug collar, as he pouts while his lawyer explains how I have to keep him in the manner to which he’s become accustomed. We had no kids, no huge medical bills. He was young, healthy, able-bodied, had a job. But he couldn’t resist walking away with a little something extra. Not to get too morbid, but that image makes all of our fun, happy times—the night he proposed, our honeymoon at the Dells, moving into our first apartment—get tainted by association.
“Word of advice. Pre-nup next time,” Meredith says, flipping open her menu and taking a look. “Okay. You warned me once about getting oysters in the desert, but I gotta tell you. I’m thinking I want some seafood.”
I haven’t quite moved on from that one special word.
“Pre-nup?” I say, laughing. “Won’t need it. I think I’ll become a wily, Casanova-like heroine. Hitting the Riviera, banging lots of hot men with indeterminate accents. A woman of mystery,” I scan the menu and try not to remember my orgasm last night. I had to have been drunk. Okay, I mean, I know I was drunk, but I had to have been really out of my mind. No sex can be that good, especially not with a stranger in a janitor’s closet that smells like ammonia. Especially not when that stranger happens to be a lawyer who also happens to be, shock of all shocks, a cold-blooded asshole. Even David Tennant agrees with me on this.
I wonder if that cold-blooded asshole ever found my purse. I wonder if I should hunt him down and find out. Give us another chance to talk.
I wonder why I like that idea so much.