“May I take your cock out?”
Under my ass, his fingertips graze my opening. “Please.”
He kisses me.
“Please,” I say, closing my eyes as he strokes me.
There’s desperation in my voice and I know he can hear it.
“Please, Ryder. Please. Can I take your cock out, please?”
“Open that top drawer,” he says, nuzzling my ear. “Don’t
wait another second.”
Pulling open the top dresser drawer next to me, I fish out a condom
and lean against the wall as I slowly unzip his pants and slide off
his underwear to roll the condom onto him. Then he grabs my hips, and
our eyes lock as he slides me onto his cock. It’s so right I
almost scream as he lifts me up and drops me down again and again and
again. I tighten my thighs around him, flexing my center and my inner
walls. He’s everything I wanted, every hard perfect inch
spearing into me, over and over.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he says, his breathing ragged. “So
good.”
“Don’t stop,” I moan. I need this.
The
thickness of him fills me up, and I let my head fall back, my eyes
adjusted to the darkness already, and study him, his muscles rippling
as we bob against the wall, the pace changing but the rhythm as
constant as the hardness of his cock.
“You
like watching me fuck you?” he says.
“Yes,”
I say, the word a rattle as I gasp at the movement of his cock inside
me.
“Good,” he says. “And I like watching you come.”
He thrusts in and out of me, in and out, and just as I start to relax
into the steady rhythm, he hoists me up again on the wall so he can
grind deeper into me. Pressing the top of his pelvis against my clit,
he moans into my ear.
“Cassie.”
My name has never sounded so fucking good.
I clench tighter around him, pulling him closer to me. That’s
when he tilts my head back and claims my mouth, his stubble brushing
against my cheek as his tongue strokes against mine. I feel the
explosion of orgasm from my deepest part, like a knot that gets tight
and loose simultaneously. I dig my fingers into his shoulders,
wanting to hold on to something while so much of me lets go.
RyderRyderRyder
I don’t know if I’m saying it out loud or in my head. I
just know it’s a name I won’t be able to hear without
blushing for a long time.
CASSIE
I’d
been dreaming about England again, and for once, it had actually been
nice. Ryder was there. I don’t recall much of what happened,
other than we were happy. And Sebastian was nowhere in my
subconscious to be found.
I
open my eyes. It’s my first look at Ryder’s bedroom in
the daylight, which is blasting through the uncovered glass patio
doors to the balcony, where I imagine my discarded panties greeted
the sun.
The
carpet is a light blue, like the color of the sky or sea on a clear
day, a contrast to the white walls and sheets. I gingerly pull the
comforter to my chin, not wanting to stir Ryder. It was almost dawn
when we finally crawled into bed, my knees curled up, his body fitted
snugly around mine, his hand snaked through my breasts, resting on my
heart. Still, I’m not tired now. I feel kind of exhilarated,
actually. Maybe it’s getting to wake up with Ryder, seeing the
tough guy of tough guys in a vulnerable, sleepy state. Or maybe it’s
just the residual effects of our fourth-dimensional, nuclearly
explosive, fall-off-the-earth sex.
I
mean, it’s been a long while since I’ve had even decent
sex so what happened last night wasn’t just a fun time after
fight night: it was a revelation, a peek at what sex could be. Should
be. And I can’t help but hope will be again.
Pushing my bedhead bangs out of the way, hoping the circles under my
eyes from lack of sleep last night aren’t too dark, I roll
over, my hand outstretched, waiting to land on his beautiful ass.
But the spot next to me in the king-size bed is empty, the pillows
stacked neatly, smoothed out, as though no head has ever been there.
I
sit up, letting the sheets fall in my lap, my breasts bare. We fucked
with our clothes half on, but we slept naked. Go figure.
“Ryder?” I say. “Hello?”
The room is soundless. It’s true I’ve been out of the
single world for a while, but if you have a one-night stand, isn’t
the person who came over supposed to be the one who tiptoes out?
Maybe
he’s at work: Doubtful at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.
Maybe
he’s at church: Doubtful because it’s Ryder.
Maybe
I’m meant to take a hint: Sigh.
Nothing
like wearing stilettos home in broad daylight to raise a couple
neighbors’ eyebrows. I stand and wrap the comforter around me
like a strapless gown, surveying the room for my clothes.
What I find first is my phone, which thankfully has no missed calls
from any blocked numbers, just a string of teasing good luck text
messages from Shelby and Savannah after they saw me and Ryder leaving
together last night.
I scroll through them, a smile playing over my face, but the grin
stops cold when I realize I haven’t heard from Jamie in days.
He’s still avoiding my calls and his responses to my texts have
been sporadic and vague. I send him one more,
just checking in
,
but I know I won’t hear back. Sometimes little brothers are the
worst.
On the long wooden dresser across from the bed, I spot a folded note:
C
. And underneath it: my dress, folded with perfect geometry.
Nice.
Around
the far side of the dresser, I see the red toes of my shoes peeking
out. Somebody straightened up before he snuck out.
Training
,
the note reads.
Elevator down to B. Come. (But only if I get to
watch.) R.
My
mood lifts as I reread the last part, imagining it in Ryder’s
deep, commanding voice:
Come
. But it’s the
R
,
something about the intimacy, the brevity of the singular letter,
like a sign that now we know each other in a different way, that
electrifies my insides, the same heat I felt last night pooling again
in my center. I don’t know what it will be like to see Ryder
now, the morning after. But every part of my body can’t wait to
find out.
Ryder
Cole can throw a punch. This doesn’t surprise me. But it’s
the elegance with which he does it, like a dancer performing
choreography, that makes it impossible to look away as he spars with
his trainer in the basement gym of his building.
Well,
and the fact that he’s bare-chested, his sexy sleeve tattoos on
full display, his muscles tight with movement and shiny with sweat.
That keeps my attention pretty easily, too.
Though
I know I’m an invited guest, I didn’t want to interrupt
the session, so I shut the door as quietly as possible when I
entered. The gym is huge, a punching bag in one corner, weight
machines in another, a row of treadmills and stationary bikes on the
periphery. I’m not even sure Ryder knows I’m here as I
lean against a back wall, away from the square pad in the middle of
the room where he and the trainer stick and move and kick and
jab—unlike the guys at fight night, they wear boxing gloves.
Keeping distance between them, they bounce as they circle each other,
their bodies in constant motion. The trainer throws his right fist at
Ryder’s face, and Ryder blocks it, knocking the trainer in the
side and then the head.
“Jesus, Ryder,” he says. The trainer smiles, but rubs his
ribcage with his glove. “You showing off for someone?”
I
drop my head and grin. So I guess Ryder does know I’m here.
After
the trainer leaves, I approach Ryder, stepping in my bare feet onto
the springy square mat. He takes off his gloves, revealing his hands
wrapped in white elastic cloth as he looks me over. “Is that my
Kings of Leon t-shirt?” he says. Deciding that a party dress
might be overdoing it for the gym, I grabbed a t-shirt and pair of
running shorts from one of Ryder’s dresser drawers. The shirt
is only a large, but still several sizes too big for me, and the
shorts are folded over three times and still loose, but desperate
times call for desperate measures.
“I’ll
take good care of it,” I say.
He
puts his arms around my waist, and I inhale the smell of him, salty
and woodsy. “Maybe you should just take it off,” he says.
I
look toward the door. “Maybe you just like to get caught.”
“That’s
possible,” he says. “But we won’t. I’ve got
it reserved in here for another hour.”
I
put my hands on his naked pecs and look up at him. “I’ll
show you mine,” I say, touching my tongue to my top lip, “if
you show me yours. One of your fighting moves.”
He
grins. “You thinking about getting in the ring?”
“You
never know,” I say. “If this whole accounting thing falls
apart, I need a backup plan.”
“Okay,”
he says. He takes a few steps back. “Try to punch me.”
“Just
throw my arm out?”
“Yeah,
like this,” he says. He bends his arm in front of his face,
making a fist with his right hand, then shooting it forward. I try to
imitate it.
He
takes my fist, repositions my fingers so my thumb is on the outside.
“Wouldn’t want you breaking your thumb, tiger. Now open
your legs a little.”
I
shake my head and tsk at him. “That’s after you show me a
move.”
He
shakes his head, “Oh, don’t worry,” he says,
kneeling down in front of me. “You’ll do it then, too.
But right now, if you’re going to learn to punch, you need a
wider stance.” He puts his hands on the inside of my thighs,
spreading them and pushing one to the back. “Now, once you have
the position, think about the power coming from your legs, not your
arms. Twist,” he says, grabbing my hips and turning me. “And
swing with your whole upper body as you let your arm go.”
I
throw my arm forward. “Think about hitting with your knuckles
instead of your fingers,” he says. “You want to break the
guy’s nose, not your hand.” I nod, landing my fist on
Ryder’s open palm over and over and over. “Not bad,”
he says. “Everyone should learn how to punch, even though it
won’t help you much if someone does this.” He reaches
under my outstretched arm and crosses his arm over my chest, stepping
behind my front leg, tripping me. I fall backwards, his hand cradling
me as I go down flat. On all fours, he climbs on top of me, pinning
my wrists. “I win.”
“So
is this how you treat all your guests?” I say, smiling, arching
my back so that my pelvis rubs against the stiffness in his thin,
black, nylon pants.
“Just
the ones I like to see naked,” he says.
“And
how many would that be in the last six months to a year?”
He
grins. “I quit counting when I ran out of bedpost to notch,”
he says.
“Is that so?” I slug him in the arm with my new and
improved punching skills, and he has the decency to wince even though
I’m sure he barely felt it.
“Okay okay, that might be an exaggeration,” he says. “But
don’t worry. I’ve been tested and I’m clean as the
books you keep at Altitude.”
“Well,
then,” I say. “What are we waiting for?”
His
hands slide from my wrists down my arms to my face, and he runs his
fingers down my cheekbones as he kisses the hollow of my neck, our
pelvises pressed together, his hard cock nudging me through his
pants, pleading for my attention.
Which
I am more than willing to give.
I
kiss his shoulders, his chest, tasting his sweat and skin in every
part of my mouth. He slides his hands underneath my shirt, cupping my
breasts, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipples, sending waves
of energy directly to my clit.
But
I’m done playing now. I push him off me and roll him onto his
back, dying to get my mouth on his bare torso. Moving my lips down
his sternum and across his flexed abs, I push down his waistband and
run my hand up and down his cock, the skin soft and delicate, such a
complete contrast to its firm, solid thickness.
“Fuck,” he groans, pulling the shirt over my head,
running his hands down my back to my ass, his splayed fingers
reaching almost to my opening.
On
my hands and knees, I flick my tongue across the head of his cock,
then lick down his shaft slowly. He moves his hands to my head,
tangling his fingers in the back of my hair, and I take his whole
cock, hard and throbbing, into my mouth. I slide my lips down and
then up, down and up, consuming him.
His
fingers tug at my hair as I move faster on his cock. “Come
here,” he says. “I want to taste you.” He reaches
down and grabs my thigh, pulling my lower body toward him. He tugs at
my shorts and I help him get them down my legs until they are off.
He pulls me so I’m straddling his chest, my bare ass presented
to him. Grabbing my waist, he guides me backwards onto his face, my
belly on his, his cock erect and ready to fill my mouth.
With
the tip of his tongue, he bats at my clit as I rock back and forth on
his face, and every muscle in my body fills with pulsing sparks, like
a thousand firecrackers going off all at the same time. He darts his
tongue into my opening and I tighten my grip on his cock as he
thrusts it into my mouth, our bodies contracting, tensing, ready for
simultaneous relief as he licks at me, greedily, like a glutton who
can’t get enough, as I work his shaft with the flat of my
tongue.
I grind into his mouth faster, moaning against his hardness,
completely losing control. I free fall through my orgasm, riding the
intense waves, as he releases into my throat with a final groan.
While he catches his breath on the mat, I climb up and settle on his
chest, brushing my fingers across his open mouth.
“Fuck, you taste good,” is all he manages, kissing each
of my fingers in turn.
“So,
is this how your training sessions usually end?” I say with a
smirk.