Sculptor: A Steamy Romance (10 page)

I stopped thinking once he worked his shirt off and I was left to stare at his muscled torso and the tight, rippling abs leading my eyes down to his tented boxers.

Christ, it was all real.

His cock was hard and ready, and in a few minutes or less, he’d be pushing it inside me.

He crawled over me and my fear grew stronger as the momentous occasion neared—fear of what engaging in the act could mean for us.

If we made love to each other, there was no going back to the way things were.

I thought he was going to slip his dick inside me right away, but his lips sought mine again and I found myself relaxing with his gentle kiss, my hands coming up to cup his head while we explored each other’s mouths again.

Then his lips left mine to trail down my neck, and the sharp, tingling sensations kept up my distraction, making me twist and turn at the currents of electricity zipping through me.

My yearning pussy practically started begging for him, and I felt myself thrust against his pelvis as if to encourage him to get going and start plowing me.

But he kissed his way down my chest, holding on to my boobs as his tongue and lips skimmed my eager, desperate flesh all the way down my stomach.

Then he suddenly started nibbling at my inner thighs.

“You’re so wet,” he said before his mouth clasped my pussy, and I arched and probably yelped my pleasure loudly. Whatever sound escaped me was a little more than a moan, and I felt helpless to what he was doing to my body as he licked and pulled at my sensitive folds, his tongue darting between them and over them, and then making me almost lose my senses when it flickered over my oversensitive clit.

I was a brainless mush by the time he raised himself back up and guided the smooth head of his hard, long cock to my dripping entrance.

I could feel that reason and logic still had a few points to make, but desire had them bound and gagged, and when Brent leaned forward a little as he started pushing his thick cock into my tight, wet hole, everything but the need for more silenced.

“You’re mine,” Brent growled, his words almost distracting me from the sharp pain of his rigid penis forcing my tight walls apart as my heart soared.

Then he stopped moving, only partway in.

“Shit, you’re so tight, Nina,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve never…” His face suddenly contorted as it looked like something took over him and he pushed deeper inside with a little more force.

I thought he was all the way in until I chanced a glance downward and noticed he still had a bit to go.

I gritted my teeth against the ache inside me, and despite the discomfort, his thick cock filling me felt right, and my slick, eager pussy was soon yearning for more.

“Don’t stop,” I begged though I knew he wasn’t going to.

Instead of jamming the rest of his hard dick in, he started moving it in and out, and my body relaxed under the new sensation, appreciating the gentle cock massage.

Soon, I wanted him deeper, and I adjusted myself to wrap my legs around him and try to push him further inside.

His pace increased, and I felt him thrust deeper and deeper until our pelvises slammed against each other.

Pleasure overwhelmed me, and I matched his thrusts, greedily taking as much as I could get while still wanting more.

His cock fucking my needy pussy felt like the most natural thing in the world, and when he started moving even faster and more desperately it seemed, I instinctually knew he was close to the edge of orgasm.

Knowing he was about to come from the tight squeeze of my body on his engorged dick took me closer to the edge myself, and when his thumb suddenly reached my clit and started working it, massaging the oversensitive nub, I lost all control.

As he slammed against me in his finishing thrusts, I came loudly and unexpectedly, shocked by the initial paralyzing contraction and the pulsating aftershocks of my orgasm as he squeezed our bodies together with the final tightening of his firm ass as he came inside me, our bodies flooding each other with climatic juices.

I didn’t think about what that could mean then—I couldn’t think at all, still lost in the glittering emotions overtaking me—love, joy, and wonder.

Ecstasy.

Brent soon collapsed on top of me, and I relished the feel of our hearts beating hard and fast against our heated chests.

I wrapped my arms around him, feeling like nothing could bring me down, grinning widely.

It took Brent long enough to come around, but there we were—college seniors soon to graduate, and we had finally taken an important leap forward in our relationship.

“I love you, Brent,” I said, the words escaping me in a breathless whisper, coasting on unadulterated affection.

Brent stiffened and then said one of the worst things he could say—a phrase that never showed up in any of my fantasies after making love to him at last, “I’m sorry, Nina. That shouldn’t have happened.”

My heart didn’t shatter exactly—it felt more like someone had shoved a knife through it and then tore a path upward.

The feeling seemed astoundingly literal, the sudden searing chest pain leaving me speechless.

Brent couldn’t have possibly meant those words—not after knowing how I felt about him and after taking what he had from me.

He can’t possibly think he can just take it all back with an apology? That, with a snap of our fingers, it would be like it never happened? That things could ever be the same?

My throat started closing up and I fought hard against the tears I felt welling in my eyes, my mouth trembling with the effort, but I lost embarrassingly.

“Listen, this doesn’t mean I won’t see you again,” he said, tucking some of my hair behind my ear. “We’re friends—we’ve always been friends and it seems we’ll always be so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in pain, I probably would have wanted to punch him in the balls.

Well, that’s what I thought once sorrow gave way to anger—I don’t know if I would have actually been able to inflict physical pain on him like that, no matter how much I wanted him to feel a smidgen of what he’d made me feel.

Which brings me to today.

About five years have passed since that delicious deflowering ended so unceremoniously, and right now, I’m heading back to work from my lunch break.

My car suddenly starts jerking, and I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with it this time, but the highway’s not the best time for shit to happen.

My eyes go to the gas gauge and the needle’s at the halfway mark, so I’m not out of gas.

I flip on the hazard lights and start heading right, hoping to safely make it to the shoulder.

Lucky for me, I get there, and I try not to think about how late I’ll probably be.

My eighth-graders probably won’t be too mad, though.

I bought this car off Craigslist four years ago, once I had finally secured consistent work and decided public transportation wasn’t for me.

About seventy-five percent of my campus job earnings went toward my college fees in an attempt to pay them off sooner than later, and then the expenses after…oh boy.

Money was tight, so I figured it was easier to pay a lump sum and buy an old car rather than come up with money down and monthly car payments due over two to three years, because as far as I had gathered, I could own a car for the cost of that same money down plus just one or two monthly payments.

A better deal, I thought.

Ha!

Anyway, it’s broad daylight, so I’m not worried about leaving my car to check out the car’s exterior and see if the problem is something obvious, like a flat tire.

I’ve had a few of those, and the jerking I felt could be a variation on that theme.

I never got a flat tire while on a highway—it was always after cutting through some alley or during a drive down a residential street, so perhaps the difference in speed accounted for the slight difference in feel.

I hop out and check the driver’s side.

Both front and rear tires look fine, but I kick them anyway and they both hold firm.

I head to the other side as a gorgeous, sleek, expensive-looking black car zooms by, looking like it popped out of the future.

I turn my eyes away, checking the passenger’s side tires, giving them the same treatment as the others.

Tires firm, more than enough gas—what the hell else could it be? Please, don’t be the transmission.

Armed with a little more information, I call AAA.

I’m not really surprised something went wrong again—this car has had to have something major fixed at least once a year since I bought it.

Usually when I’m excited about having saved up a good chunk of money, not long afterward the car goes,
I’ll take that now!
and next thing I know, the head gasket has blown or the brakes have failed (luckily, that one happened as I was pulling out of the garage, so with a panicked pull-up of the emergency brake, I didn’t end up in a dangerous position).

Obviously the car is on its last legs—it was already fifteen years old when I got it and had a hundred and fifty miles on it, and it’s not exactly one of the reliable brands that you still see on the road here and there thirty years later, still going strong.

I sit and wait for the towing service.

To my utter surprise, I realize the sexy black car I’d seen is now also in the emergency lane, backing up toward me.

My heart starts to speed up.

Part of me feels a little assured that it’s an expensive-looking car instead of a white van with tinted windows, but criminals could lurk in either, and who knows what kind of psycho could be hiding behind such a sparkly, opulent appearance?

I immediately lock all doors, making sure the windows are up all the way.

I start digging around for the Mace I keep under the passenger’s seat, and for good measure, I make sure the heavy flashlight I keep inside is also within grabbing distance.

I type 911 on my phone, ready to hit dial as the black sports car backs right up to my car, mere inches from the front of it.

Then, trying to calm the fear passing wildly through me, I watch as the driver’s door opens and a leg covered in immaculate gray slacks and topped off by shiny black shoe emerges.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say softly as the rest of the body emerges, and the tall, broad, well-suited form of Brent Colton walks toward me with twinkling eyes and a slight smile, straightening his suit.

My heart pounds even harder.

A lot has happened since our graduation, which came a month after our sexual encounter.

We didn’t keep in touch at all; in fact, his number soon changed and his social network pages eventually disappeared, so I pretty much had no way to reach him.

As far as I know, he and Stacey are probably still together, even though the few times I came across her on campus back then, she shot me such dirty looks that I just knew he’d told her about us.

I wonder how he painted our encounter? Did he make it seem like I was the aggressor? That I’d seduced him? Or did he come right out and say that we had been friends so long, he was curious and had to get it out of his system? And now that it was out of the way, he was one hundred percent devoted to her? Are they married now?

I glance at his hand and notice no ring.

I didn’t really have a connection with any of his other friends, so I’ve been in the dark about his life. Maybe now I’ll get some answers to my questions; after all, now that we’ve crashed into each other again, there are some things I can no longer keep to myself.

Particularly the fact that he and I have a daughter.

R
owena writes
friends-to-lovers erotic romance and erotica with an element of unwillingness. She likes a bit of darkness involved as long as no one really gets hurt—at least, only in good ways. ;) Forced proximity and kidnapping romances are her favorites.

She enjoys making up circumstances in which two people are forced to confront their feelings—sexual and otherwise—to the object of their desire, feelings they have been hiding or running from because of a major barrier or conflict of interest. Usually, her characters have known each other for quite a while, so their first sexual encounter has been a long time…coming.

J
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