Chapter Four #2
"Not yet," I said. My voice sounded wrecked. "I want to be inside you."
"Clean?”
“Check. You?”
“Yes. And I’m on the pill. Now get inside me."
She stood and I spun her around and bent her over the bar. Her hands braced flat on the wood and she pushed her ass back into me and the curve of it on my cock made me grip her hips hard enough to leave marks.
"You going to stare or are you going to fuck me?" she said over her shoulder.
I lined up and drove into her in one long stroke.
The groan that came out of me was involuntary and obscene. She was tight and hot and wet and the feeling of sliding into her bare, nothing between us, wiped every thought I'd ever had.
"Oh fuck," she breathed. "Oh, fuck, you feel—"
"Yeah." I bottomed out and held still, jaw clenched, because the sensation was so intense I needed a second to not end this embarrassingly fast. She didn't give me one. She pressed back against me, grinding, her voice dropping low and filthy, and I started to move.
I fucked her hard. She wanted it hard. Told me so in explicit detail between moans that bounced off the bottle wall.
I gave her everything, one hand on her hip, the other braced on the wood next to hers, driving into her with a rhythm that rattled the glasses on the shelf.
I could see myself sliding in and out of her, wet and slick, and the visual combined with her moans and the way her pussy clenched around me was pushing me toward the edge faster than I wanted.
I slowed down. Long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in, and she cursed and tried to push back for more.
"Don't you dare slow down."
"Patience."
"I don't have patience. I have a place I need to clean and a bodyguard who's taking too long to make me come."
I slammed into her deep enough to knock her breath out and she gasped and then laughed, startled and hungry, and I loved the sound so much I did it again.
"Harder, God, yes, right there—"
"You feel incredible." I was bent over her, lips at her ear, and the words came out rough and raw. "So fucking good. You have any idea—"
"Less talking," she panted. "More fucking."
I laughed, breathless and half-gone, and stopped holding back. I reached around, got my fingers on her clit, and rubbed in quick circles while I fucked her and her arms buckled and her forehead hit the counter and the sounds she was making got higher and more desperate.
I shifted my other hand to her ass. Slid my thumb down, pressed against her, circling. Testing.
"Yes," she said instantly. "God, yes."
I pushed my thumb into her ass, slow, past the tight ring of muscle, and she went rigid everywhere. Her pussy tightened around my cock and her whole body locked and she made a sound, guttural and raw, so hot my balls drew up.
"More," she said.
I fucked her in both places, cock and thumb, still working her clit, and she was gone. Her nails scraped the wood and she seized around me and said my name in a voice I'd never heard from her, broken open, desperate, stripped of every wall she'd ever built.
"I'm coming, Dane, I'm—"
She came screaming, her pussy clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses, her body bucking into me, and the force of it dragged me over.
I buried myself deep and came so hard my vision went black at the edges, gripping her hips, her name in my mouth, the entire filing cabinet in my head reduced to ash.
THE FLOOR WAS NOT DESIGNED for two people. This was not a complaint.
She was half on top of me, one leg thrown over mine, her face against my chest. Whiskey was still dripping off the bar edge above us. Slow, steady, expensive.
"That's eighteen dollars a drip," she said.
"Add it to my tab."
"You don't have a tab. You drink water."
"I've been told my whiskey opinions are a liability."
She laughed. It vibrated through my chest and I reached for her hair without thinking, which was notable because I'd been calculating every move around this woman since Thursday. The autopilot meant something. I shoved it aside for later, but later wasn't holding anything tonight.
"Your elbow's in my back," she said.
"Your floor needs padding."
"Renovation list." She propped up on one arm. Her lipstick was destroyed. Her hair was everywhere. She was grinning. Not the bar grin. This one was satisfied, private, a little smug. "Hey."
"Hey."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"Articulate."
"Give me a minute. You broke my brain."
"Good."
She traced a line down my sternum with one finger, following the scar I'd gotten from a fence in El Paso five years ago. She didn't ask about it. Just mapped it with her fingertip, and when she reached the end of it she flattened her palm over my stomach and left it there.
"You're warm," she said. "I figured you'd run cold. All that composure."
"Turns out composure was load-bearing. You knocked it out and the whole temperature regulation went with it."
She grinned. "I'll add it to the list of things I broke tonight."
"Growing list."
"Blanton's glass. Your professional boundaries. Possibly your back, given this floor." She kissed me, lazy and warm, and everything that had been fast and fierce five minutes ago settled into a steadier heat. Same fire. Different rhythm.
"Come to bed," she said.
I should've said the charming thing. The easy line that kept the wall intact. Instead I said, "Okay."
We dressed enough to walk. Two blocks through the Quarter at three in the morning, the streets finally quieting, her shoulder bumping mine, neither of us talking.
A jazz band was packing up on the corner of Chartres, the trumpet player wiping down his horn under a streetlight while his drummer counted cash.
The smell of beignet grease from the all-night stand on Decatur drifted across the block, mixing with the wet stone smell of the sidewalks after the hoses.
Jenna walked with her boots unlaced and my shirt hanging off one shoulder where she'd thrown it on crooked. Halfway home she reached over and took my hand. Didn't look at me. Just laced her fingers through mine and kept walking. I didn't pull away.
She unlocked the apartment and I followed her in and she didn't turn on the lights.
Her bedroom was small, the sheets were white, and she pulled me in.
We didn't go again. Too wrecked, too satisfied. She curled against me, her back to my chest, my arm over her waist. Her breathing slowed.
I lay in her bed two blocks from her bar and tried to put what had happened in the place I'd put every woman before her: temporary, enjoyable, done.
The place wasn't there. In its spot was Jenna. Her weight on me, her fingers curled around my wrist in her sleep, the smell of her hair on the pillow.
I was falling, and I didn't have an extraction plan, and I wasn't looking for one.
Somewhere in the Quarter a trumpet played, and I closed my eyes and didn't sleep.