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Cat
As if he’s heard my mental push and pull over control, Reese stakes his claim on those rights. His fingers close around my panties and he rips them away, leaving me in only my thigh-highs and high heels. I gasp with the unexpected action, and then inhale with the anticipation of what comes next. Only it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t touch me. His hand returns to the pillar above my head, and he stares down at me with half-veiled eyes. Waiting on my reaction. Maybe he wants me to say, Please touch me. Maybe he wants to frustrate me into finally hitting him. I aspire to give him the calm that is unexpected.
“You have on too many clothes,” I say, pushing off the pillar and reaching for the buttons on his shirt.
He doesn’t stop me, but still, he doesn’t touch me, which leads me to more questions. I don’t know if this means he intends to allow me to have more control than I’d believed he would, or if this is all part of a power play—the latter, I assume. Whatever the case, I want him naked, and I’m already working button number two out of the hole. Once I finish with number three, intent on reaching for number four, he rewards my efforts by pulling the shirt over his head. He takes a step backward and tosses the shirt behind him, toward the couch, while I admire his broad, well-muscled chest. The dusting of dark hair I find there leading my eyes along a downward trail to my intended below-the-belt destination.
I step toward Reese at the same moment he steps toward me, and he wins the battle of what comes next. Suddenly he’s turned me to face the pillar again, forcing me to catch myself with my palms against the concrete before me. And then he is at my feet, fingers wrapping my ankles, lips on my backside. Hands caress a path all the way to my hips, until one hand flattens on my belly and he stands up again, cradling my body with his. His lips are at my ear as he says, “After tonight,” he says, his hands cupping my ass, “I won’t be the stranger you claimed me to be anymore.” His hands curve around my hips, his palms coming back to explore my backside, tracking the curve in the most intimate of ways, trailing lower, down my thighs and back again, until he gives my backside a quick smack. My lips part in surprise, and I am panting. I arch forward, pressing into his hand that now cups my breast, fingers pinching my nipple, a bittersweet friction that is part relief and part tease.
His palm flattens firmly onto my back, holding me in place, and oh God, the fingers of his other hand slide between my thighs, curving so that he cups my sex and strokes my clit at the same time.
“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his leg pressing between mine, inching them apart, his fingers teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh of my sex. “I wonder if you’d let a stranger make you this wet?” His hand on my back caresses over my ribs, and he moves to palm my other breast this time, flicking my nipple.
“You are a stranger,” I murmur, but I’m not exactly sure if I say the words or think them. I’m lost in sensory overload, his teeth scraping my shoulder, lips pressing to my neck, his breath a warm tickle, and his fingers are doing such spectacular things between my legs and to my nipples that I might shatter any moment.
His teeth that were on my shoulder are now nibbling my ear, and that tweak of sensation radiates through my sex, where I ache to feel him inside me. “Am I still a stranger, Cat?” he demands. “Or do I need to lick you to orgasm before I become a friend? Because I’m going to, you know. I’m going to lick you until you don’t even know what one and done means anymore.”
I moan with his words, and I’m no longer leaning into the pillar. I’ve somehow arched against him, and he’s holding my weight, one hand cupping my breast, my hand over his hand. His other hand strokes my sex, and with the next flick of my clit, I gasp and then tremble into release, my body quaking with the impact.
Reese doesn’t stop touching me, and he seems to instinctively know just what I need. He slows, softens, eases me into that moment when my legs might give out, but he’s holding me, anchoring me. I expect, even want him to just bend me over and fuck me then, but nothing with Reese is that one and done. He turns me, stroking my cheek, my hair, and then he is kissing me, a slow slide of tongue that is so damn sexy. I moan into his mouth. He responds with this low, guttural sound, deepening the kiss as he does. And just like that, we go from slow and sensual to hungry and intense.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls near my ear.
“Yes,” I say, “please.”
He pulls back, and when he looks at me, I expect victory in his stare, but that’s not what I find. His expression is unreadable, those gorgeous blue eyes probing mine, searching for some unnamed something. Suddenly, the fingers of one of his hands curl around my neck and he pulls my mouth near his. I think he will speak. I can almost taste his words on my lips and I want to know them, to understand them the way he was just trying to understand me. But he never speaks them. He kisses me, and I kiss him.
He reaches into his pocket and produces a condom, and for just a moment I consider tossing it away. I’m on the pill, and the delay that a condom gives is already too long, giving me time to feel how out there on a ledge I am with this man, how into this man I am. But he’s unzipping his pants, and being the logical, smart person I am, I also remind myself that condoms protect us from many things. Clinical isn’t emotional.
I reach for his pants, but it’s like this man senses and shuts down the roadblock my mind throws between us, because he doesn’t put the condom on. He scoops me up into his arms and starts walking. In those moments, naked and cradled in his arms, I am again aware of how affected I am by this man, how vulnerable that makes me. He cuts between the couches to an oversize plush gray cloth chair and ottoman. It’s large enough that he goes down on it with me, behind me, my body curled in front of his.
He shifts behind me, and I can I hear the tearing of foil, that condom now in place, his pants disappearing. Once he’s naked, his cock thick between my legs, and his big, wonderful body curved around mine, that condom doesn’t feel so clinical. I don’t feel it at all. I feel his hand on my breast, his erection up and down in the wet heat of my aching sex. It’s torture. I need everything I don’t have right now.
“Reese—”
He thrusts into me, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt and moaning with the impact. I moan with him and gasp when he shifts my hips, finding a deeper spot. There is no time to revel in the fullness of him inside me, the completeness my body needs. He thrusts again, and the movement radiates through me. I grab his hand where it holds my breast. I arch into him, against him, pressing toward the next pump of his hard body inside mine.
In a remote part of my mind, I think of the absence of his mouth. I want to kiss him. I want him to want to kiss me. I know the irony of this. I want barriers. I don’t want to be vulnerable, but I want his mouth. I want all I can get of this man right now, and that is when he does that thing he does again, where he reads my mind. He pulls out of me and turns me around, his leg between mine, his hand under my hair around my neck. His mouth is a breath from mine as he presses back inside me. His cock thrusts inside me at the same moment his tongue strokes my tongue.
With him touching me, kissing me, pressing inside me, the bloom of orgasm is swift. I want to hide from it. I want to stay here, in the middle of bliss. I want to die here, a happy woman, but he is pumping into me, hands on my body, driving me wild, and I am weak. I stiffen, frozen in the moment before I shatter, my body clenching the hard length of him and shooting darts of pure, white-hot bliss to every nerve ending I own.
A guttural sound escapes his lips, and he buries himself deep and hard inside me, shuddering his own release. I want to move, to push against him, to be a part of his pleasure as he was, and is, mine, but I am paralyzed in the aftermath of back-to-back orgasms.
For a few moments, the world fades and we are lost in a bubble that consumes only us, where no one else can intrude, and where nothing but satisfaction exists. When we finally return to the present, it’s not a bad place to be. He’s still inside me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breathing mingling with mine. He reaches up and gently drags his knuckles over my cheek. “Am I still a stranger, Cat?”
“You’re still an asshole,” I murmur.
He smiles.
“Of course I am. But am I still a stranger?”
I don’t answer. It’s feels like a trick, or a door that wants to be opened, one that I shouldn’t open, only I really want to kick it down. He tangles fingers in my hair and gently tugs until my gaze meets his. “Am I still a stranger, Cat?”
“Fucking me changes nothing. You’re still a stranger.”
“And if I want to change that?”
Another trick question. Another door I want to kick open, but I’m not a sadist. I don’t like pleasure that becomes pain. But when I open my mouth to tell him no, I can’t get myself to say it.
