Nick
NICK
I WAKE UP in my son’s bed, beside his girlfriend.
Everything is fucked up.
I should leap out of the bed and run upstairs. I should do whatever I can to start repairing all the seriously fucking inappropriate shit that’s happened, but I don’t.
I don’t move.
I look at Zo?'s profile in the dim light, marvel at how beautiful she looks, even with her mouth parted and slack in sleep, and pull her closer to me and kiss her temple.
She is beautiful. And sexy. And funny. And wild.
She is perfect, and it’s killing me.
Things went too far, but aftercare is important. I wasn’t going to send her off to bed on her own after we said goodbye to David as though nothing had happened. Even though it felt like piling one sin on after the other, I came downstairs to the bedroom with her to hold her until she fell asleep—and ended up falling asleep myself. Now, in the cold, sober light of early morning, I realize taking her to my bed might have been the smarter choice. This isn’t a scene I would want Tate to come home to.
But still, I don’t get up. I can’t stand to leave her, regardless of how fucking wrong it is. I vowed not to touch her, and now I have my arm around her. I’ll do better tomorrow, but for now, I bury my nose against her neck, breathe in her warm, sleepy smell, and drift off again.
* * *
I dream that I’m alone in the strip club. Zo? is on stage, and I’m the only person in the audience. She leans back and parts her legs and then suddenly I’m on the stage too, lowering myself over her, into her, we’re fucking right there on the stage, and I look around to make sure we’re still alone, and I see a lone figure in the audience. It’s me, watching myself. I don’t know what it means.
* * *
When I wake up again, the room is aglow with white morning light. I’m curled tightly around Zo?, my knees bent into the back of hers, my arm wrapped right over her, my fingers tucked under her side as if I’m holding on to her for dear life. And I’m hard. My erection strains against the fly of my jeans.
It feels so good to lie here with her and to feel this way that I move my hips just a little to feel the brush of her ass against my needy cock.
She sighs and wriggles onto her back, turning her face towards me and blinking green eyes at me, and then she lays her hand on my cheek, lifts her lips to mine, and kisses me.
Her mouth is so soft, so unthinkably soft, that I’m kissing her back before I even know what’s happening—exploring her mouth with an abrupt passion that blindsides me.
She’s only wearing a t-shirt and minuscule underwear, her sinful body under no protection from the thin layer of cotton, and my hands move of their own accord—searching out the hem of her flimsy t-shirt and then roving up underneath, gliding over the silky texture of her skin until I find the soft mounds of her breasts. When my palms clasp over them, the monster of my desire roars to life. My kiss takes on a new intensity, and she matches my fervor, kissing me back with hungry desperation.
I can’t stop thinking about last night. Her breasts in David’s hands as she gyrated on his lap, her eyes on me as she took his cock—and then the forbidden warmth of her mouth as I came inside of it.
That effect that she has on people, to make them completely lose themselves around her, cuts to the heart of my voyeuristic tendencies. It’s what turns me on when I think about her at the club—how the men watching her would do anything to fuck her. How powerless she makes them.
Just as powerless as she makes me.
I’m known as a person with a high amount of self-control. In business, it’s an asset. I’m a ruthless negotiator. For my ex-wife, my self-control signaled a lack of passion, but it was a necessary guard against the perversion and deviance that lay at the edge of my desire, which wasn’t welcome in our bedroom.
But with Zo?, I have no self-control. As soon as I set a limit, it crumbles. With each boundary that gets crossed, the next one appears on the horizon. I have the sensation of marching inexorably forward, crossing one barrier and then the next as I go, and I have no idea where it can lead to.
After my divorce, I serially sought out kinky women—women who would indulge fantasies of mine that Rebecca wouldn’t, believing that all I needed in a partner was someone who would fulfill all of my desires. Yet, along the way, I discovered that there had been another, wonderful side of my relationship with Rebecca—a feeling of love and closeness that was far harder to find with another person than sexual willingness. I had no trouble meeting women who would happily perform the kinky scenes I craved, but never anyone who got under my skin. Never anyone who made me laugh, or even made me think of them when they weren’t around. No one until Zo?.
A small sound escapes her lips between kisses, a moan, and it undoes me. I need her with a blinding fierceness, so when she tugs at the button of my pants, fumbling to undo it, I don’t pull away or protest. I let her unzip my jeans and grasp hold of my cock, and then I roll my hips against her hand to feel her touch all the way down my shaft. That’s the exact moment where every scrap of common sense goes out the window. Every resolve, every shred of resistance. I need her like my life depends on it.
I move away from her only to tug my jeans off, pulling my briefs off with them and then my t-shirt. Then I set myself to undressing her—pulling her t-shirt up over her head and tugging her panties down the hard, muscular lines of her legs.
Not a single thought clouds my mind. I’m running on pure instinct as I roll on top of her and start kissing her again, this time exquisitely skin-to-skin.
Breaking our kiss to rest my forehead on hers, I try to catch my breath as I use one hand to line the head of my cock up with her pussy, until I’m pushing against her entrance.
“I need you,” I rasp.
“Yes,” she answers.
One word of permission, three tiny letters with huge power. Once she utters it, another boundary falls, and I push into her—the tight, hot squeeze of her knocking the air out of me.
“Holy shit,” I stammer, my words a mess through my stuttering breath. I can barely speak, let alone produce a coherent thought. I press my hips forward as hard as I can, digging my hip bones into the underside of her thighs until I can feel her all the way down to the base of my cock, my balls pressed against her ass, and she yips in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” I say in a rush of breath, backing off. “Did I hurt you?”
“You’re so big.”
A growl rises in my throat. “I wanna rip you to pieces, baby girl, but I’ll take it nice and slow so you get used to me.”
I pull out and sink back into her slowly. I follow the rhythm of her breathing, her movements, watching the color rise on her chest, up her cheeks, and the bouncing motion of her breasts as I ride her back and forth, until the quality of her breath changes to something pleading and desperate.
Then I plunge into her harder and claim her mouth with mine, heat unfurling up my spine as I fuck her—my son’s young girlfriend.
It’s the most vanilla sex I’ve had since I broke up with his mother, and a shadowy thought suggests that maybe that’s the kink, that she’s so fucking forbidden, but I push it aside. Her pussy clenches, so tight I can hardly breathe as I try to move inside of her, and a deep shiver goes through her as she cries out, her cunt pulsing around my shaft.
“Oh fuck,” I nearly weep, still kissing her through her panting breath, knowing I need to pull out, my mind going black as my balls contract. “Oh fuck, I’m going to come.”
“I’m on the pill,” she whispers, and that does it.
Instead of pulling out, I plunge into her and let out a choked sob as a powerful orgasm racks my body. Wave after wave after wave of intense sensation rocks through me as I shoot my load deep inside of her—until the last aftershock subsides, and I collapse, my nose in her neck, my heart hammering, my dick still spasming inside of her.
I pull air into my lungs, trying to still my racing heart as I come down from an unthinkable high.
But the high is laced with guilt.
I just fucked Tate’s girl.
What I’ve done is unforgivable—and it’s easily the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
* * *
I bark out a laugh as Zo? lifts her fingers to her eyes to signify glasses. She’s speaking in a ridiculously exaggerated French accent, imitating her dance teacher.
“Your but- tocks are loose!” she trills. “Dey are flapping like curtains on ze laundry line!”
“No way,” I shake my head, still laughing. “That’s absurd.”
“It’s true!” She drops her hands and nods, grinning unselfconsciously. “Then she comes and points her long fingernail right in your butt cheek to get you to tighten it up!”
We’re sitting at the dining room table finishing a dinner of risotto that Zo? made in her Instant Pot. It had surprised me to see her pull the bulky, countertop appliance out of the pantry—a moment of wonder where I was reminded that she truly does live here. She has appliances in my kitchen.
Our kitchen.
We spent the day in a suspended state of reality after the sleepy, impulsive way we started it, both tacitly agreeing to put any codes of behavior aside for the day and moving on instinct, each interaction purely in the moment, spontaneous and at ease with each other.
After sex, we showered together, until soaping each other up led to exploring each other’s bodies, and we fucked again against the shower wall, my insatiable need for her giving me a super-human refractory time. She decided to skip her dance class that day, and I canceled plans I had with David. We took iced teas out to the verandah, where I licked her pussy and ass until she came loudly—all the while secretly hoping that the neighbors could see and were watching.
Zo? may have been thinking the same thing, too, because as we talked about our turn-ons afterward, lounging lazily on the couch, I learned that she’s even more of an exhibitionist than I had her pegged for. Not just someone who enjoys stripping for the thrill of being naked, but someone for whom being objectified and seen is a deep-seated kink.
Throughout the day, Tate has lingered uncomfortably at the periphery of my thoughts, although I keep trying to push it away.
Not today.
But I catch myself wondering, did he indulge her kinks?
Did he do this with her?
The guilt and shame is somewhat eclipsed by my all-consuming need for her, and I manage to keep it at bay by promising myself that I will wallow in regret tomorrow.
But just not today. Let me have today.
My mind is already ten steps ahead to tonight, thinking about what’s next for us. Meanwhile, she’s pulling a face. Eyes as round as they can go to represent her teacher’s thick glasses.
“Stupid little girls do not become great ballerinas!” she imitates in her silly accent.
“How can you be so fucking sexy and such a fucking dork at the same time?” I ask, earning a loud guffaw from her.
* * *
“Nothing you can say will shock me,” she tells me later, tracing a circle through my chest hair with one fingernail. We’re lying in my bed this time, cooling down after sex—again—talking idly, and somehow, the conversation meandered over to my marriage.
Dangerous territory since my ex is her ex’s mother. I’m sure neither of us wants to think about that right now, so I started talking about why Rebecca and I broke up. What it is about me that made me a hard man to be married to.
“I was always faithful,” I say emphatically. “ Always. But there’s a dark side to me, Zo?. Things that turn me on that Rebecca didn’t understand. I came to realize that I probably can’t be in a normal relationship.”
Her response surprises me. “I get that. I’ve felt that way, too. Like the things I want, the way I am, is just wrong.”
I don’t say anything, the name Tate whispering in the ether around us. I don’t want to ask.
“So tell me about that dark side,” she says. “My job is to cater to men’s fantasies, after all. I don’t have a lot of na?veté.”
I kiss her hair, smiling to myself. I’ve probably never met a woman as open-minded as Zo?, and there’s no point hiding anything from her now.
“I like to watch,” I say.
“I know.”
“And I like to be in control.”
“Uh-huh.”
I pause. “How would you feel if you knew I wanted to watch you fuck somebody else? That it would turn me on to give you away, or to watch you in secret, without him knowing?”
She turns to look up at me, one eyebrow arched in devilish intrigue. “Is that all?”
I smile. This fucking girl. “Or that I want to take you somewhere and parade you around on a leash for other men to see and touch. Letting them do whatever they want, as long as it’s within the limits set by me?”
“That would turn me on, ,” she says in a low, mock-serious tone.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The sound of my name on her lips feels warmly personal, and I like it. I slide my arm out from under her shoulder and climb over her until I’ve got her pinned underneath me, one hand against the mattress on either side of her.
“And what if I told you I want you to call me Mr. Rivera,” I tell her, a simmering intensity behind my words, “and be a good little girl for me?”
“Then I would do everything you say, Mr. Rivera,” she answers smoothly.
“Hmm.” I let the sound roll off my tongue in a low growl.
I’ve met many women who are happy to play games and who agree to a lot of things readily when they’re theoretical, only to balk at the suggestion that they actually be played out in real life.
After talking today, I suspect that this is stuff Zo? would genuinely be interested in, but I have to remember it’s a moot point, anyway. Maybe I’ll never walk her around on a leash or give her away to another man like she was my possession. But Mr. Rivera is enough for right now. I lift one hand to her throat, wrapping it around that tender column until I can feel her pulse beat under my palm, and lean in close, murmuring against her cheek.
“I want you to be a good girl for me right now, Zo?, and do what I tell you to.”
“Yes, Mr. Rivera.”
My cock surges. We just fucked, not half an hour ago, and I’m ready to go again.
“Touch yourself.”
“Yes, Mr. Rivera.”
She lowers a hand between her legs and I let go of her neck, sitting back on my heels to watch her. Her pussy looks swollen and tender, my cum still spilling out of her, but as she strokes one finger down over her clit and shivers, a surging lust rises in me as if for the first time. We’ve fucked four times today already, and I am still absolutely consumed by need for her.
“Spread your knees wider,” I huff. “Let me see your cunt.”
I can’t wait any longer. I wrap a hand around my dick and start stroking.
As she lowers her knees toward the bed, more cum slides out of her—my cum, and I’m going to fill her with it again.
“Tell me how that feels.”
“It feels so good, Mr. Rivera. I’m so wet for you, Mr. Rivera.”
Yes.
“Tell me you want my cock.”
“Please, Mr. Rivera. Please fuck me. I want to come on your big, thick cock.”
“Beg for it.”
“Please.” There’s real urgency in her tone, urgency that makes my dick twitch. “Please fuck me. I need your cock, and I want you to come inside of me.”
I lean forward and slap my dick against the inside of her thigh. I wanted to drag the game out and make it go on for a while, but I can’t. I pin one leg down, dig my fingers into her flesh, and bury my length in her warm, wet hole.
“Fuck!” she gasps.
I pin her other leg down, pushing her knees against the mattress, and slam my cock into her—hard. My impending orgasm is already clouding my vision, oblivion moving in like a gathering storm.
“I’m going to come again,” she whispers, and I groan.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” I choke out as I slam into her, barely clinging to the edge myself.
When I feel the low, quivering pulsation start inside of her, I let myself go, crying out in the darkness of my own spent lust. For one blissful moment, I’m reprieved from guilt and shame. In the black depth of orgasm, where my thundering heart is the only sensory awareness I have left, I’m at peace.