Chapter 16
“These Arms of Mine” - Otis Redding
Pierce
You know how they say time slows right before death, like the time-space continuum is at play?
Where time passes differently for people in different states of motion?
This feels a little like that. Like God Himself has reached down to stop the clock, to force time to slow, like a gentle nudge to take note of something beautiful happening.
Because holy fuck. I’ve seen a lot of really cool shit in my life—Victoria Falls, the Great Barrier Reef, Ha Long Bay, the aurora borealis. But none of them—and hear me when I say this—none of them compare to watching Maeve Wilson come apart in my arms.
She’s mindfuckingly beautiful at the worst of times, and she would hate me for remembering this, but I’ve seen her at her worst. The time some wanker broke her heart at school.
The time her dad made a public spectacle of her at her own graduation party.
The time the tabloids spread a nasty pregnancy rumor and I found her crying in the bathroom.
But when she’s at her best . . . You’d better hope you have your armor on, because not only will just looking at her break your heart, but she’ll tear it to shreds too, if she catches you doing it.
I don’t know what this condition qualifies as. Maybe some kind of angelic visitation? I’ve never seen her like this, and I suddenly hope with every fiber of my being that no one else has either. Back arched, hair strewn across my pillow, fists clenched in the sheets, mouth open in ecstasy.
And then she screams my name.
I grunt and fall on top of her, unable to hold it back any longer, not if she’s going to call for me at her peak. My cock pulses inside her, and it’s fucking amazing, of course, but I’d trade it all just to watch her again.
When we’ve both finished, I don’t pull out right away, just prop myself up on my elbows so I can stare down at her. Her cheeks are flushed, and several strands of dark hair are stuck to her temple. She doesn’t smile, but her eyelids are at half-mast, as though she’s nearly asleep.
“That was . . .” she murmurs before trailing off.
“Fucking incredible.” I brush my lips across her clavicle. “The next one will be even better.”
Her eyes fly open, clamping onto mine with a sudden fierceness. “What do you mean, next?”
I brush the hair from her face. “We agreed on two orgasms.”
“We did no such thing.” She tries to sit up, but I’m on top of her, inside her, and much bigger than her, so she’s not going anywhere.
“As long as it’s been for you, you’re going to need more than one to fully relax,” I point out, trailing a finger between her tits.
She frowns as she ponders this. “I’m not a two-orgasm girl.”
I sniff a laugh. “Pretty sure I can handle it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your orgasms are my responsibility. You don’t need to worry about it.”
Her brows furrow even more, until they’re nearly touching in the center of her forehead. “You’re presuming far too much.”
“I meant tonight,” I say, nibbling at her neck.
“Oh.” She relaxes back into the pillow.
I won’t tell her that if I only get her for one night, I fully intend to give her as many orgasms as we have time for. My flat is pretty big, and there are hundreds of surfaces we can explore. My cock is already stiffening again at the thought.
Shifting off her and taking care of the condom, I consider my options. “Let’s debase the poker table.”
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not.” I give her a hand to help her up. “Imagine Tuesday nights, everyone playing without a clue what happened there.”
She glowers at me. “I was.”
I wait a few beats to see if she’s messing with me, but when her expression doesn’t change, I decide to change tactics. “Okay, how about the shower?”
“Standing up? Are you insane?”
“What’s wrong with standing?”
She climbs out of bed, grabs my shirt from the floor, and slips it on. “I can’t do it.”
As uptight as she is, I’m not too surprised, but she is grossly underestimating my abilities. “The kitchen counter, then.”
Buttoning my shirt—don’t know why, because it’s coming off again within seconds—Maeve says, “We’re not in a movie. No one actually does that.”
I laugh abruptly as I yank her toward me. “Hate to break it to you, but yes they do.”
She frowns up at me. “Well, I don’t.”
A heavy sigh works its way from my chest. “Fine. You pick the spot.”
Glancing sideways, she shrugs. “The bed.”
“We just did.”
“And it was good.” Dear god, she’s completely serious. “You know what they say about a good thing.”
“Pick something else.”
“I don’t want to,” she says, the imp.
Something occurs to me then, a niggling suspicion that I’m not sure what to do with. “Have you ever had sex anywhere besides in bed?” I hedge, slightly worried she’ll slap me for the insinuation.
Instead, she pulls out of my arms and fiddles with the buttons on the shirt again. “I don’t understand why you’d want to do it anywhere else when the most comfortable place is available.”
“You haven’t, have you?”
Her eyes flash as she looks up. “If you want me to climax again, it will have to be in bed. Missionary.”
While I don’t hate the thought—and my cock certainly doesn’t, considering its already erect position—I’m determined to take her somewhere new. “We’ll see about that.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, practically swimming in my shirt. “I can’t relax outside of a bed, okay? It’s hard enough the way it is.”
I reach for her and pull her close, needing to breathe in her goddamn scent again. “I told you not to worry about that.”
She’s stiff in my arms, and I rub my hand over her back. “I don’t know how to not worry,” she says quietly.
“Just trust me,” I murmur into her hair. She feels and smells so good, I’m scrambling to find a way to keep her here forever. “If I say you’re going to have two orgasms, you’re going to have two.”
She grows even more rigid. “I don’t like being told what to do.”
“I know.” I chuckle. “But that wasn’t a directive for you.”
I can’t see her face, and I’m dying to know what she’s thinking. How has a woman this beautiful taken full responsibilities for her own orgasms up until now? I’d like to tear the head off every bastard she’s been with before me, for more reasons than one.
If she thinks the only place she can relax enough to climax is in a bed, I have one mission tonight, and it’s to prove her wrong. It might take some time, but that only means I’ll get her longer, and I’m sure not going to object to that.
* * *
I decide to take her on the floor. While it’s not as soft as the bed, it’s not too much of a stretch. She balks at first, but I kiss her into submission. I leave my shirt on her so the carpet doesn’t give her rug burn.
She’s not wrong about the relaxing thing, though. I can feel the tension emanating from her in waves. After several seconds of consideration, I plant a kiss on her lips and tell her I’ll be right back. Then I jog to the closet and return with a tie.
She objects, of course, but I expected no less.
“To help you relax,” I tell her. I tie it around her head, adjusting the knot so she’s comfortable. After checking to make sure she can’t see anything, I begin massaging her body. I feel her muscles start to slowly loosen as I knead the knots out.
After half an hour, she’s finally limp on the floor, her pussy wet as I gently work my way over every inch of her. Her mouth opens on a gasp as I spread her legs and enter her quickly. She’s so slick and tight, it takes everything in me not to spill my load immediately.
She moans, moving her head from side to side as I thrust into her again and again. Then I feel her tighten around me and know she’s close. I reach down and press her clit with my thumb. She arches her back, allowing me to drive in deeper.
I continue rubbing her until her climax breaks, and it’s somehow even more breathtaking than the first time. My own orgasm hits, but I barely notice it, entranced as I am by watching her fall apart. How has she managed to be a million times better than in my fantasies of this?
She stays on the floor for a few minutes afterward, recovering, but as soon as a tiny amount of energy returns, she’s up and putting her clothes back on. I know what’s coming, but I’m not prepared for it. I should be, but I’m not.
Within five minutes, she’s out the door, thanking me for a good time. I half expect to find a Venmo payment waiting for me on my phone. Instead, I hear the ding of the elevator arriving and feel a strange pinch in my chest as I look around my empty flat.
This was our arrangement, so why the fuck do I suddenly feel like shit?