Women fell. Men fucked.
They’d been assigned their roles at the dawn of time. Why had it taken her so long to wake up?
Though it was bright outside, the sun shining down turning her lawn to strips of glittering green, she caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window she faced. He was quiet, and only her senses told her he’d moved close. She knew he was there before he touched her.
Weak. That’s what she was. Putty with no spine. Melted butter. Liquid Jell-O. She hunched up her shoulders, shivering when his breath tickled her neck.
He wrapped his arms around her, cradled her bottom with his hips, slid his hands beneath the hem of the tunic she wore over a gauzy peasant skirt that brushed the tops of her feet.
Covering her breasts, he pinched her nipples through her bra until the pleasure became pain. “How soon do you have to be back?”
She squirmed, but he didn’t let her go, and she wasn’t even sure that she wanted him to. “Lorna went to lunch with the judge –”
“We have hours then.”
He spun her around, grabbed the fabric of her skirt and tugged. The elastic waist stretched over her hips, and the garment fell to the floor. She held onto his shoulders as he lifted her to the counter beside the sink. And then she leaned back on her elbows and watched.
She was a junkie, shameless in her need, at the mercy of her desire, mesmerized by the flex of muscles in his chest and shoulders, by the V of his open fly and the hair that grew thicker there, spongy where it pillowed his sex.
It was his sex that bewitched her the most, the bulk of his balls, his penis straining against the fabric of both his shorts and jeans like a compact spring waiting to uncoil and reach its full length and potential.
She knew that length, knew the circumference, the ripe knob on top, the slit that opened in the center, widening for the tip of her tongue.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the knife he carried. Her breath left her lungs, her heart screamed with a fierce wanting.
He parted her knees then her thighs, wedged his hips between and hooked her heels behind him. Sliding one index finger into her panties, pressing his knuckle into her entrance, he opened the knife with his teeth.
Anticipating, she widened her legs even more. He slid the blade next to his thumb. The cool metal chilled her bare lips but only for the seconds it took him to slice through the fabric, exposing her.
He didn’t even bother closing the knife, tossing it to the floor as he bent to cover her with his mouth. He sucked her plump flesh, one side then the other, nudging her clit with his nose.
Oh. Oh. His breath was warm, his lips hot, his tongue nearly scorching. Oh, god, oh. She couldn’t look away. She watched like a voyeur, her temperature rising at the sight of his open mouth on her pink flesh.
He used his thumbs to open her, pushing one inside to play, the other spreading her juices lower and slipping into her ass. Her eyes rolled back. It was too much, his tongue now flat on her clit, one thumb stroking her G-spot, the other filling her up the rest of the way.
She cried out, caught up in spasms, squeezing, contracting around him, her world spinning away. Her orgasm was all she knew. It was the only thing in her world.
He did this for her, took her apart in ways no one had ever known how to do. She hurt, she ached, he bruised her. She loved it all, wanted more, caught her lip between her teeth and begged him with a look.
He stood, his eyes firing like an engine running hot, and shoved his jeans to his knees. His cock jutted forward, impressive, intimidating, bold. She wanted it in her mouth, in her hands, the shaft thrusting between her breasts, the head pulsing in her ass.
He wrapped his fingers around it and stepped forward, driving into her with a stroke that she felt all the way to her spine, quivering, wrapping her arms around his neck when he reached for her, clinging tight, impaled.
He backed up two steps, turned, and fell with her to the kitchen table. He climbed onto it on his knees, his hands curled around the edges for purchase until the muscles in his arms, the tendons in his throat, bulged blue.
She gripped his wrists, crossed her ankles in the small of his back and held on. The table shook as he rocked into her, groaning beneath their combined weight.
His strokes were powerful, strong and fluid. Her sex swelled, her breasts swelled, her heart swelled to bursting with the emotions she couldn’t release in words.
But she couldn’t keep it out of her eyes, and he knew. His gaze locked with hers, he struggled not to speak, but the fire between them had set spark to tender and was unable to be contained.
“Goddammit, Chelle,” he yelled, tossing back his head. “Don’t do this to me. Not now. Don’t fucking do this to me now.”
And then he came, crying out, stiffening, shuddering, collapsing on top of her as he reached between her legs to make certain she found her oblivion.
How could she not?
She burned, flamed, exploded against him, beneath him, doing the very thing he didn’t want her to do – loving him more than she should when she knew he didn’t love her at all.