10 #2
When my fingers connect with smooth skin and a sculpted jawline, I imagine Jake’s mouth, his brown eyes, and the alluring smile that brightens every gorgeous feature.
Stop it.
I slide my touch to the man’s cheek, and he catches my fingers. Not my wrists. Just the tips of my nails, like he knows exactly where to grip me.
He’s probably seen me at this party before. Probably witnessed what happens when someone grabs my arm in the crowd.
Lowering my hands, he guides them to his narrow hips and adds pressure. A silent command to hold on.
The heat of his breath signals his nearness. When the rim of the baseball cap bumps my brow, he rotates it backward and cups my face.
Is he trying to see me in the dark? Is he speaking or smiling or glaring? The booming music pulses through us, drowning out the rush of my breaths and whatever sounds might be passing his lips.
How strange to engage a man without eye contact or conversation, but it’s better this way. It’s intimate, without making it personal.
His exhale feathers my face, and velvety lips find my skin. Soft and warm, they kiss a path along my jaw, my cheek, dipping down to taste my neck. My pulse careens out of control, and I sway beneath a head rush of euphoria.
He pushes the coat off my shoulders, and his mouth continues its seductive hunt along my collarbone, nudging aside the neckline of my shirt to lick my skin.
My nails bite into his hips, slipping beneath his waistband, and he releases an intoxicating huff. Then he works his way back up, his lips opening against my throat. His breath rasps out as the ardent flicker of his tongue teases my flesh.
I shiver all over and pull him closer. The hard length of him pushes against my stomach, and a tingling burn ignites deep inside. He presses against me again. And again. Then his mouth seals over mine, devouring my gasp.
I wrestle with the next breath, because holy fuck, it’s been so long since I’ve been kissed.
His tongue sweeps past my lips, and I flounder against him, groping at his waistband in the dark. He tastes like cigarettes, cloves, and other non-Jake things. Same dominating control, though. He invades my mouth with possessive flicks, piloting my movements and swallowing my moans.
God, he’s good. I’ve only ever kissed one other man, but this one…
This one powers his way through me, demanding I feel his kiss in the curl of my toes, the waver in my knees, and the tight, hard throb between my legs.
By the time he releases me, I’m swaying unsteadily and panting with unquenched desire.
His hands rove downward, sliding off my coat and letting it drop to the ground. His touch continues, rubbing and exploring over my clothes as he lowers to a crouch. Then he removes my boots. Jeans. Panties.
The absence of light shrouds my nudity, but I feel chillingly exposed. It’s just the cold air nipping at my skin. And maybe my battling nerves.
With his hips out of reach, I grasp at his neck.
His hair is so short on the back of his head it feels like stubble beneath the rim of the cap.
I find the loose curls that fell free and try to picture his hair style.
Shaved underneath and long on top? The curls are so thick and coarse, so different from Jake’s soft, stick-straight hair.
He rests his hands on the backs of my legs and caresses upward, leaving a trail of goosebumps and fire. Pressing closer, his nose grazes my bare pussy. Closer still, and he buries his face, drawing in a slow, deep breath. Smelling me. Then he licks.
My mind shuts off, and I just… feel. His mouth, his fingers, the diabolical swirl of his tongue inside me… My God, I shake so badly I can barely remain upright.
His breaths come harder, faster, setting the feverish pace of mine. The leather of his fingerless gloves abrades my inner thighs as he thrusts long digits inside me, and thrusts, and thrusts, sucking and kissing with those sinful lips.
I ache to come, and that overbearing necessity stretches and tightens my nerves to the point of frustration. He continues to lick, and I continue to reach for that blissful edge.
He eats the fuck out of my pussy for an eternity, but the orgasm slips away.
It’s not him. I just… I can’t get there.
He’s not Jake.
Rising to his feet, he places a foil wrapper in my hand. I bend my fingers around it. A condom.
I bet he assumes this is a regular thing for me. If he only knew I’ve never held a condom, let alone rolled one on a dick.
“You want me to do this?” I shout, fully aware he can’t hear me over the raucous music.
He leans in, pushing his chest against mine, and bites my earlobe. That’s when I feel just how fast and labored his breathing has become. Sweet Jesus, he’s worked up, wildly turned on, and damn if that doesn’t burst my skin into flames.
His hands move between us, releasing his fly and shoving down his jeans. Then he grips my hand, the one holding the condom, and guides it to his cock.
A thundering ache sparks in my chest. My throat seals up, and my mouth goes dry.
I touch him, the broad, very smooth tip of him. I follow the flared ridge, the silky length, and pause at the patch of coarse hair. It feels like dick. A hard, twitchy, fully engorged cock. What now?
He plucks the wrapper from my hand, tears it open with his teeth, and notches it on the end of his length. Sliding his fingers around mine, he uses our combined grip to roll it on.
Wow, that’s hot. And reassuring. It’s as if he’s trying to make me feel safe, like he’s telling me he’ll take care of me.
This is how sex is supposed to be. Respectful. Healthy. Willing.
He presses his lips against my cheek, and his mouth moves, saying words that are slapped away by the pounding ruckus.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting, spreading, as he pins my back against the wall. Then he’s on me, his body shaking and hard, his hips stretching my legs wider, and his breaths panting against my neck.
I wrap my arms around his back, my nerve endings screaming and squirming and alive . I’m alive. And ready. So fucking ready.
His fingers squeeze my thigh, and he drives against me, rocking, grinding, seeking entry with uncontrolled, frantic thrusts. Then he finds it, my wet needy hole, and impales me in one hard, powerful thrust.
My spine bows from the force of it, and I swear I hear a “Fuck!” roar from his lips.
He pulls out slowly and lunges again. Over and over, he doesn’t hold back. His teeth find my shoulder. My hands scratch the back of his leather jacket, cleaving to him as he stretches me, fills me, and uses me in the best way possible.
My thighs clamp around his driving hips. My hard nipples scrape against my bra. I want him deeper. Need him faster. I buck my hips, and he bucks his, his movements fitful, slowing with erratic jerks. Then he buries himself to the root and stops.
His body sags against me, and his relieved breaths chop at my ear.
He came.
It’s over.
He lowers my feet to the dirt, quickly puts himself back together, and gathers my clothes. As he dresses me, I feel things, too many things, and I have neither the desire nor the ability to analyze them.
After he zips and straightens my clothes, he kisses my neck, my cheek, then my mouth. That last touch is brief, just a brush of lips, but there’s something in it. Something strained. I don’t want to analyze that, either.
He hands me my boots and steps back. His presence, his hard heat, all of him retreats into the darkness.
“Wait!” I shove on the boots, and my eyes shift to the door as it cracks open and closes.
I race through the barn, tripping over clothes and shoes and colliding with half-dressed bodies. It takes too long to reach the exit, and when I burst into the open air, the overwhelming blast of music disorientates me.
I rub my eyes and search the crowd, the field, the bonfire. Where did he go? I spin in a circle, scanning the perimeter, looking for a baseball cap in the sea of Stetsons.
He’s gone.
Dammit, I just wanted a name. A face. A smile.
A connection.
But he walked away, threw the match over his shoulder, and burnt that bridge.
What did I expect? I fucked a stranger in the dark at a field party. People do it all the time.
But I’m not people . I’m not normal.
I leave the party and head back to town on the motorcycle. With my ear buds in and the music cranked up, I drown myself in the lyrics of Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars.
It’s such a remorseful song, but I can’t help it. I’m feeling things, overwhelming things that I can’t hold in.
Maybe the sex awoke the parts of my psyche I buried on my sixteenth birthday. Maybe the stranger’s dismissal roused the shit I abandoned in Chicago. Maybe it has nothing to do with Dalton and the ravine and everything to do with the girl I left on the side of the road a year ago.
That girl misses Jake. I miss him. I mourn his absence more and more every day, and I despise myself for it. I hate that he has such an unbreakable hold on me. A hold that makes my stomach cramp over what I did tonight.
I cheated on him.
It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He’s probably out there fucking all the Sara Gilly’s in the world, and it’s his right to do so. He let me go.
But I didn’t let him go. I don’t know how to do that, and goddammit, it hurts. I feel that pain like the strike of Dalton’s hand across my face.
A burn rises through my sinuses, but I refuse to cry. Instead, I focus on the icy wind as it beats at my coat, penetrating the fabric and shivering through my bones.
The motorcycle sucks in the winter, but I’m not getting rid of it. I just need a new jacket. A motorcycle jacket, like the one the faceless man wore tonight.
Wouldn’t the good folks of Sandbank shit themselves if I rolled up looking like a biker chick?
I’m definitely getting that jacket.
As I motor into Stillwater and pass a tattoo parlor, another rebellious idea pops into my head. I make a swift U -turn, park in front of the shop, and walk in.
“Can I help you?” A middle-aged man with a goatee looks up from a catalog at the front desk.
When he starts the head-to-toe perusal, I snap my fingers.
“I want a tattoo. Lots of them.” I hold out my arms. “Full sleeves.”
“Okay.” He laughs, meeting my eyes. “That’ll take time. Like months. Maybe longer.”
“I’m working on my doctorate.” I point in the direction of the campus. “I have years.”