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  And he let me. He watched, head leaned back against the tile, hands on my shoulders, thumbs circling on my skin in idle affection. And that idle touch, it was enough to make me almost panic, because it was unconscious, the kind of touch that means so much, more than any sexual touching. It was like the way he had of brushing his thumb across my lips. Tender. Affectionate. Meaningful.

  When I had him breathing hard and had his hips fluttering with the smooth, slow strokes of my fingers around him, Nick lifted me to my feet, shut off the water, and indicated with a push that he wanted me out of the shower. He made quick work of drying us both, and then hauled me into the bedroom. Hot humid air immediately coated my skin. Nick's eyes roamed down my body, and his lip curled up in a hungry smile.

  "Now we're both clean. No more excuses."

  "Excuses?" I asked.

  He didn't bother answering. He just pushed me up against the bed. Before he bent me forward, however, he pressed himself up against me, erection nestling between the heavy globes of my ass, pulled me backward so my head rested on his shoulder, and kissed me, traced my lips with his thumb. He bent at the knees, his hand cupping my throat, holding me against him, and his cock nudged against my entrance.

  "Oh god. Nick..."

  "You want it, don't you?"

  I nodded. "Jesus, yes."

  "Say it, Layla."

  "I want your cock inside me, Nick. I want you to fuck me."

  He kissed me once more, and then his cock filled me with one hard thrust, and a scream ripped out of me.

  Oh holy fuck.

  This was going to be incredible.

  13

  FUCKED

  One short, hard thrust, and his cock was fully seated inside me, filling me, stretching me. Still standing up, his hand gently gripping my throat to keep me in place--as if I was trying to escape--I was rendered helpless. Totally helpless. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The only thing that existed in my whole universe was Harris, big and hard and hot behind me, his dick inside me, his hand on my throat, the other strumming my nipple like a guitar string.

  He didn't move. Time stood still, and the only sound was my ragged gasps and his steady breathing. His lips touched my temple, and I trembled.

  What the fuck was he doing?

  To kiss a body is sexual, to press lips to chest or hip or cock or pussy or belly, that's sex. To make out, that's sex.

  To kiss one's face, one's cheek, one's forehead, a temple, a jaw...that is intimate and personal.

  I didn't do intimate.

  I didn't do personal.

  To quote a certain fictional phenomenon, "I fuck. Hard." I didn't connect with those particular characters on any level, except for the intimacy factor. Even with Eric, my one real serious boyfriend, the only man I ever lived with, the only guy I ever let see even a hint of my true inner self, even with him I didn't really do intimacy. Sex was sex. Eric and I fucked. We boned. Don't get me wrong, I liked Eric. A lot. I dated him for a long time, and lived with him. But I didn't do intimacy with him. There was no pillow talk. There was no kissy-face hold me afterward and tell me your deepest thoughts and share your most tender emotions.

  He never kissed my temple.

  Harris kissed my temple, one brief, slow, and utterly confusing touch of his lips to the side of my skull, and I was lost.

  Not like, falling in love lost, or drowning in his touch lost, but the what the fuck is happening and where am I and what's going on kind of lost.

  And then, wildest of all, my body betrayed my heart. My hand reached up and back, and my palm cupped the nape of his neck and my head twisted to the side and my mouth sought skin and my heart was crashing and thundering and cracking and twisting and my mind was rebelling, but my body was in control. My body had hijacked the rest of me.

  My lips sought skin, and found it. Found his jaw. His cheekbone. I clutched the back of his head and trembled like a dry leaf in a long wind.

  And still he wasn't moving. Seemingly content to just hold the pose, both of us standing up facing the bed, his shaft buried deep inside my slit, my body boneless and without strength, leaning with total trust against Harris's chest.

  A breath left me in a broken sigh, and I sank down, letting my weight fall just a bit, pushing him deeper. I couldn't take the motionlessness, couldn't take the shredding intimacy of his breath on my cheek, his wordless possession of me. I couldn't handle the memory of that kiss to my temple. I needed...more.

  "Nick..." I murmured.

  "I know," he said, and pushed me forward.

  Willingly, gladly, I bent over the bed, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, braced myself with arms straight, elbows locked, hands on the mattress. I waited. Breathless with anticipation, with bated breath, with every other cliche you can think of, I waited.

  And Harris, he kept me waiting. Didn't give me what I wanted, didn't do what I expected. Instead of thrusting hard, pushing into me, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to my spine, right at the center of my back, ran his palms up my sides. I shook so hard I had to clench my teeth. What the actual fuck was he doing?

  Another caress, downward this time, from armpits down my sides to cup my hips, then his palms circled my ass cheeks. He pulled back, withdrawing. I bit my lip, waiting for the rough slam...

  He pushed in gently, slowly, and I sagged, at once defeated and exhilarated. So good. So fucking good. The feel of him, moving in me. The sweet wet slide of his cock pushing into me, I groaned with delight.

  He leaned over me as his hips pressed flush against my ass. His lips touched the shell of my ear. "Rough...or slow?"

  "Rough," I answered immediately.

  He bit my earlobe. Hard.

  I shrieked in surprise and twisted my head to look at him in shock, and he just grinned as he straightened behind me, running his palm down my spine to grab a handful of butt cheek. "Rough?"

  I nodded. "Rough."

  "How rough you want it, Layla?"

  "Fuck me hard, Nick."

  He pulled back so the tip of his cock rested just barely inside me, caressed the left globe of my ass with his left hand, gripping the crease of my right hip with his right hand.

  There was no warning. He slammed into me so hard the breath left me involuntarily and his hand smacked my ass with a painful resounding crack.

  I screamed.

  I'm not a screamer. I'm a moaner, a gasper, a porn star whimperer. When I come, I usually clench my teeth and groan through them. I do not scream.

  Nick made me scream.

  He paused a moment, impaled fully inside me. Then he smoothed his palm over the stinging flesh of my bottom, and then withdrew, slowly. So slowly. Then he spanked my ass and fucked into me again, hard. I felt his cock spear through me, slam deep, felt his balls slap against my taint, and my ass cheek jiggled and stung from the smack of his palm. This time, there was no pause, no hesitation. Just the slow, almost tender withdrawal, and then immediately upon reaching the apex of his pull-out, Harris spanked me and thrust again. My left ass cheek was on fire, by now. My pussy was throbbing, and I was fighting for breath, for equilibrium.

  He switched it, then. Right hand spanking right ass cheek, left hand gripping my left hip bone.

  Smack.

  Smack.

  Smack.

  Each slap of his hand was accompanied by a jarringly hard thrust.

  Four spanks per side, four thrusts. Then he switched, back and forth, back and forth. No rhythm, no pattern. Always the slow pull-out, an infinitesimal pause, and then the slam into me.

  I lost track of time, never counted the thrusts or spanks. All I knew was that I was throbbing and aching, that my ass was burning and stinging and that with each spank it hurt more but that with each spank the thrusts incited the fire inside my core to burn hotter, made each brutally powerful thrust of his cock into me that much more intense.

  I lost the ability to bite down on my screams.

  He spanked and thrust, and I screamed as he rammed home.<
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  I don't know how, but he knew when I was close. Maybe it was that as I neared climax, I started pushing back as he fucked me. Or maybe it was that whimpers and groans filled the spaces between screams. I don't know how, but he knew.

  And right as I reached the edge, he pulled completely out of me, leaving me empty and ready to beg.

  He grabbed my left hip in his right hand and flipped me over, putting me off balance, tossing me over as easily as if I was some skinny size-nothing floozy. Just tossed me over like I was nothing. I sagged back against the bed, fighting for balance, struggling to get my feet under me.

  Harris was there, grasping the backs of my knees and lifting me, his hips fitting into the V of my thighs, cock nudging my entrance. I wasn't balanced, had no control. He had me totally helpless, my upper torso resting on the bed, my lower half in his grip.

  "Do I need a condom?"

  I shook my head. "No, I'm protected, and I'm clean."

  "Do you trust me?"

  Fuck, what a question. Did I trust him? I mean, my life was in his hands. He'd risked death for me, killed for me, and that was just within the last couple hours. But did I trust him to fuck me bare, no protection against disease? Did he trust me to actually be on birth control, that I wouldn't come up pregnant, and that I really was clean?

  So much trust.

  So foolish.

  Stupid, even.

  I'm impulsive. Rash. I do whatever I want, when I want. I don't always think about the consequences of my decisions. If I fuck up, and I handle it. The one exception to this is sex. I was on birth control by the time I was fourteen, and I never, ever, ever had unprotected sex. Not with anyone. Not ever. Not even when I was wasted. If he didn't have a bag, he didn't bag me. That was the one unalterable, inflexible rule I never broke, no matter what. Not even with Eric, in the nearly three years we were together, we didn't have bare sex even once.

  So why, oh why did I lift my hips in silent agreement, then, with Harris?

  Simple. Same answer as why I was so affected by an innocent kiss to my temple:

  I have no fucking clue.

  I lifted my hips, pushing against him, angling and lifting so his cock slipped into me.

  Harris didn't push in, though. "Say it, Layla. Out loud." His eyes were fiery jade, unblinking, unwavering, intense, pinning me.

  "I trust you, Nick." Jesus, I sounded breathy. Seductive. Vulnerable.

  Clearly, some other spirit had possessed me, because this wasn't me. This wasn't Layla.

  I didn't breathe out a whimper like that, no fucking way. When Harris finally thrusted into me, I whimpered. I know I said I wasn't a screamer, that I made pretty typical almost fake-sounding porn star sounds during sex. In fact, I've been accused of faking just because of how I sound. But I never faked, it was just how I sounded.

  This, though? When Harris slowly and deliberately thrust into me, the way I made this...I don't even know the right word...moan, whimper, sigh--a sound that was all three of those in one, a moan-whimper-sigh. It wasn't me. I never sounded like that. No matter how good it felt.

  But that was the problem, wasn't it? Nothing had ever felt like this before. Not the way Harris drove into me, not the way he filled me. Not the way he held me completely in his thrall, helpless.

  I pulled back from the edge of climax.

  It only took him four slow thrusts to get me there again. He watched me, watched my face, my expressions. I felt his attention, laser-focused, hyper-aware. I hooked my legs around his waist and he slid his palms to my ass, keeping me aloft with a firm grip of each hand on the globes of my ass. His fingers were at the crease of my buttocks, daring in, separating the cheeks. Literally, he had my entire ass cheeks gripped, one in each hand, and he was holding the entire weight of my lower body aloft with that grip.

  I felt the pressure of his fingers against my asshole, nudging but not pushing in.

  He'd want in there, at some point.

  I'd let him. Shit, I'd probably beg him for it, if this was how it was going to feel with him.

  Once he was sure of his hold on me, once he was sure I was close, he settled closer, leaning deeper into the V of my thighs, pushing his cock as far in as it would go.

  And then he started fucking.

  Oh. Oh Jesus. Oh shit.

  This was real-deal fucking. He left me no breath, left me no quarter, had no mercy. I'd asked for it rough, he gave it to me rough. Hard. He didn't ask if I was ready, didn't ease into it. Just...a single growling murmur of appreciation for my body, and he started fucking, ramming me hard over and over and over, so my whole body was jarred with each thrust.

  "Play with your tits, Layla. Pinch your nipples."

  I obeyed, cupping my big, bouncing breasts in my hands and thumbing my nipples erect, and then pinched them.

  "Hard, Layla. Make yourself scream."

  I caught my left nipple between my thumb and forefinger and pinched it so hard I shrieked; a bolt of lightning blasted through me, striking my core as I twisted the nipple and pinched it again. Pinched both.

  "Come for me, Layla." The command was quiet, but spoken with razor sharpness, rife with intensity.

  I shattered, twisting and pinching my nipples as the orgasm ripped through me.

  "Finger your clit. Right now, while you're coming."

  I kept one hand at my breast, twisting and pinching, and my right hand delved down in obedience to Harris's quiet order. I put my middle and ring fingers to my hardened clit and rubbed myself in circles, so aroused I needed no buildup, already coming so all I had to do was swipe at my hypersensitive clit hard and fast.

  "FUCK!" The word was a plea, yanked out of me as the orgasm spiraled through me and out of control, making my entire body gyrate. "Oh god, Nick, Nick, NICK!"

  I glanced at him through slitted eyelids, and saw a small, pleased smile on his lips as he drove into me over and over. And I realized he still hadn't come.

  "Your turn, Nick," I said.

  The smile spread, turned feral. "My turn, is it?"

  "I need to feel you come, too."

  He set me down, unwrapped my legs from around his waist. Made sure I had my balance, and then climbed onto the bed. Rested his head on the pillow, and just stared at me. Waiting.

  "Ride me," he ordered.

  I took a moment to just drink in his body. So fucking sexy. Lean, corded with iron-hard muscle. Lupine, primal. Dark, curly, masculine hair dusting his chest and stomach, trimmed close around his junk. God, his cock. Glistening wet with my essence, hard and thick, the very slight curve that felt so perfect inside me, hitting me right where it felt the best.

  His eyes followed my movements as I twisted in place and climbed on the bed. My heavy breasts swayed as I crawled over him, and I fucking loved the way his eyes just devoured my body, the way his gaze seemed to speak a thousand, million words decrying my beauty, all in silence, a poem in glances, a song in gaze. He didn't need to say a single word, and I knew I was gorgeous, to him.

  But then he did speak, as I straddled his hips with my thighs. "Layla, you are...so fucking beautiful."

  "Thanks, Nick."

  He reached up, his knuckles brushing my cheek. And then he gathered a handful of my curly, tightly-kinked, ink-black hair, and pulled my face down. It was a rough jerk, tugging my face down to his, but the expression on his face somehow made the gesture seem...tender. I wasn't sure how he managed that but it was effective. My heart was leaping in my chest, thumping painfully hard. Trying to escape, trying to get away from what I perceived in him.

  "No, Layla," he said, and nipped my lip with his teeth. "I don't think you get it. You are absolutely perfect."

  I had nothing to say to that. I couldn't speak, even if I had possessed the words. I was choked up, throat tight. This was raw terror pounding through me.

  Perfect?

  God no.

  I knew I was good looking, but more because of my body than because of my face. When you've got dimensions like mine, you don't need to ha
ve a beautiful face. Most guys told me I was hot. Sexy. That I had a bangin' body. That my tits were the best thing they'd ever seen. That I had a ghetto booty so fine they could fuck it for hours. More cushion for the pushin'; legs for days. I'd taken those compliments to heart, and I stayed in shape to keep it that way.

  But no guy had ever told me how beautiful I was, not without qualifying it in relation to my body in some way.

  And you know what? That kind of hurt, down deep. Knowing my beauty was only because of my body? It was the kind of hurt you don't know how to express, even to yourself.

  But in that moment, when Nick told me I was beautiful, that I was "absolutely perfect"? That framed it for me in a way I could finally understand.

  I waited for the qualification.

  It never came.

  And my defenses were on high alert.

  Danger, Will Robinson.

  I slid up his body, dragging the tips of my breasts across his chest, brushing his face with them, swaying them over his lips, across his eyes. "Yeah? You like these, don't you?"

  He lifted up and captured a nipple in his mouth. "Yes, I do."

  I ground my ass on his stomach. "This feels good on you, doesn't it?"

  He cupped my ass in his hand, kneading the muscle. "So good." But then, my hair still gripped in his fist, he tightened his hold so he had my hair by the roots, and firmly but carefully brought my face to his. "You have the sexiest body I've ever seen, Layla."

  "Thanks--" I started, but he didn't let me finish.

  He cut me off with a kiss. "I wasn't done. Don't interrupt me." I frowned at the command, but waited for him to continue. He gave my ass a gentle spank--well, it wasn't really gentle, it was still a loud smack, but in comparison to how hard he had spanked me earlier, it was relatively gentle--sending the round globes to quivering, and then smoothed his palm up my back, brushed my jaw with his thumb. "But that wasn't what I was talking about."

  "No?" I was trying for casual.

  "No. I said you were absolutely perfect." He bit my lower lip again, his palm splayed against my face. "And I meant it. All of you."

  It was either cry or avoid the subject, so which do you think I chose?

  I reached down between our bodies and wrapped my fingers around his cock, fitted him to my entrance, propping my body up with one hand on the mattress beside his face, hovering over him, tits swaying over his chest. A momentary pause, our eyes connecting, heat and intensity crackling and sparking between us. And then I sat down on him, hard, impaling myself on him.