24. The Green-Eyed Monster #3
He pulls the zipper down on the back of my dress, in one fluid motion, before tugging the ruffled cap sleeves off my arms. I’m left in my bra, my skin pebbled with cold and heat all at once.
He looks at me then, his gaze dark and heavy, tracing the curve of my breasts, the swell of my hips.
He looks at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever seen clearly.
“I want to fuck you, Mandy,” he groans, his forehead dropping against mine. “I want to fuck you until you forget that woman’s name. I want to fuck you until you realize that there’s no performance left.”
“Then do it,” I whisper, my breath hitching as his thumb circles my nipple through the lace. “Stop talking and do it.”
He doesn't need to be told twice. He fumbles with his belt, his breathing ragged and uneven. I help him, my fingers trembling as I undo the button of his dress slacks, pushing the heavy fabric down until his cock springs free. He’s thick and hard, a heavy, pulsing weight that I can feel against my inner thigh.
I reach down, my fingers wrapping around him, feeling the hard heat of him, before rubbing my thumb through the drop of pre-cum at the tip.
He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body and lands right between my thighs.
He grabs my thighs yanking to the edge of the counter and shoves my dress up to my hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my lace underwear and ripping them down.
I’m soaking wet, my pussy aching and throbbing with a need that feels like it’s going to consume me.
He doesn't wait. He positions himself at my entrance, the tip of his cock probing, teasing.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I look. His eyes are blown wide, the dark pupils swallowing the moss and rust of his eyes.
He thrusts, a slow, deliberate movement that fills me inch by agonizing inch.
I gasp, my head falling back, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
He’s so big, so solid, stretching me until I feel like I’m going to break, but it’s a beautiful, necessary kind of pain.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses, his jaw tight with the effort of not losing control. “You feel so fucking good, Mandy.”
He starts to move, a rhythmic, pounding pace that makes the glass of water on the counter rattle.
Every thrust is a declaration, a claim staked in the dark of the loft.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, my mouth finding his again as we move together.
The jealousy, the fear, the image of Priya’s hand on his arm, it all burns away in the heat of him.
There is only the friction of skin on skin, the sound of our breathing, the obscene wet, slapping noise of our bodies colliding.
“Harder,” I beg, my nails raking down his back, finding the scars he doesn't talk about. “Sterling, please. Harder.”
He obliges, his movements becoming frantic, desperate.
He’s pounding into me now, his cock hitting my cervix with every thrust, sending waves of white-hot pleasure radiating through my core.
I’m close, so close, the tension building in my hips until I’m vibrating with it.
My pussy is clenching around him, milking him, and I can feel him pulsing inside me, his own release nearing.
“I’m going to come,” I scream, my voice echoing through the empty warehouse. “Sterling, oh God!”
I shatter. It’s an explosion of sensation that leaves me blind and breathless, my entire body convulsing as wave after wave of orgasm tears through me.
I can feel him follow me a second later, his body stiffening, his head buried in the crook of my neck as he groans my name.
He thrusts one last time, deep and hard, and I can feel the hot spurts of his cum filling me, a warm, heavy release that makes me feel anchored for the first time in years.
We stay like that for a long time, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and our ragged, synchronized breathing. He doesn't pull away. He stays buried inside me, his forehead resting against mine, his arms wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
Eventually, he pulls back, his eyes searching mine. The professional firefighter is gone. The hero is gone. There is only Sterling. He looks down at where we’re still joined, at the way my auburn hair is tangled in his white shirt, at the discarded Disco Sparkle Earrings on the granite counter.
“Mandy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “About what you said at the station...”
I look away, the reality of the evening crashing back down on me. I slide off the counter, my legs feeling like jelly, my skin still tingling from his touch.
“I told you, Sterling,” I say, my voice sounding thin and fragile in the vast space of the loft. “I was just selling the relationship. We have to be convincing, right? Especially with Priya watching.”
I walk away before he can respond, heading for the bathroom, for the safety of the door I can lock. But as I stand in the dark, the word ‘selling’ tastes like ash in my mouth, and I know that the person I’m really lying to isn't Priya or my parents. It’s myself.