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It fades as he reaches me, replaced by a darkness I know well.
Desire.
“You’re not fucking him,” he snarls and grabs the back of my neck, pulling me to him. There’s no hesitation as he slants his mouth against mine, and I don’t try to stop him.
He’s right. I don’t care about Norman, or anyone else, as long as I can have this.
Fear grips me, like every time when I realize how he’s gotten under my skin, but I’ll deal with that when he vanishes.
Again.
Right now, the ache of wanting him is too much. I need relief. I need him to touch me. To fuck me. To get me off.
Mark me in every way possible.
His tongue explores my mouth, strokes the roof, sends tingles of pleasure down my belly. His lips are warm, rough as he moves them over mine. His hands fight with my clothes, tugging and pulling until he’s got my coat off. I don’t even know where it lands, and I don’t care.
He walks me backward until I bump into something solid.
His bike.
I perch on it. He’s still kissing me as his hands move, tearing off my sweater dress, undoing my bra, cupping my boobs.
Then his hand slides into my panties and I break the kiss, panting, lifting my gaze from his mouth to his eyes.
There’s an ache there I can’t place, a thorn buried in the gray.
He slips a finger inside me and my vision blurs. I lean back, balancing on the leather seat of the bike, and he bends over me, fucking me with his finger while unzipping his pants with the other.
It’s going to be fast and hot. Happens more often than not between us, and I can’t deny I like it this way. When he can’t pace himself, can’t wait to bury himself inside me.
I lick my lips, shivering when his finger touches that spot inside me that feels so good, and watch lazily as he frees his heavy cock and gives it a stroke or two. The silver barbells quiver.
His lashes lower, his mouth goes a little slack and his hips rock forward.
I love watching him when he’s lost in pleasure.
He drags his finger out of me, replaces it with his cock, pushing into me, and we both groan. It’s uncomfortable on the bike because he’s a tall guy, but the moment he’s halfway in, he grabs my legs and draws them up around his hips, forcing me to lie back as much as I possibly can without falling off.
And then he slides home, and I moan his name and claw at his hands which are gliding up to grip my waist.
He fucks me hard, as I thought he would, short, powerful thrusts that soon push me into a screaming orgasm, and hell, I hope the house is empty. Never been so loud before in my life. The pleasure clawing through me is otherworldly. Turns my body into a supernova, set my blood on fire.
He follows me right after, coming so hard his hips jerk and his breath comes out in a shout as his hot cum floods me.
I’m hanging off him, my legs trembling where they’re wrapped around him, the ridge of the saddle digging into my back, the air turning cold against my sweaty skin.
I can’t move, not yet. I feel boneless, saturated with pleasure.
But he starts moving, pulling out of me, breaking the connection, the moment. I should know I can’t hold on to this feeling for long.
To this man. He’s like smoke, slipping through my fingers. I look at him as he tucks himself in, golden hair falling in his face, getting my fill.
I can’t be one of those women who hang onto a man who doesn’t love them. Who spend their lives hoping something will change. That sex will magically transform their guy into a love-sick man ready to put a ring on their finger and love them in sickness and in health.
And for the first time in my life I know I want that. Someone to love me that much. To want to share with me more than physical pleasure.
Soon I’m leaving to New York to visit my mom, and I know it, deep in my heart, that when I return he won’t be waiting for me at the airport, or answer my calls. He’ll have vanished again.
