Tight
Page 4
In a moment of pause I spoke, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I knew was that I wanted him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I placed a hand on his chest, and he immediately dragged his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he took his own ragged breath of air.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to ... restraint.” His hands released their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sank to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing ... wanting ... more. He’s not used to restraint? I wasn’t used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’d been years since I’d had a cock in my mouth, years since I’d felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I needed to step away from this man. I needed to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that ate my soul, his hands that burned like possessive fire across my skin. I couldn’t control myself in his presence, wouldn’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wide open.
He took another step back, rubbed his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not. I blushed. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I pushed off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I wanted him so badly. What was I doing? My new slippers moved me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappeared inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stopped in front of my room, took a steadying breath, and turned to him. “This is it. Thank you.”
His right hand was outstretched, fist closed. I stared at it in confusion before I realized what he was doing. I gave him an exasperated smile and held my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”
He chewed on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stared at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence drew out, thickness in the air between us. God, I wanted to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fought the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.
He finally spoke, breaking our eye contact as he looked away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”
I felt ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I was a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He didn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his proximity to my body. I shouldered my purse open and dumped the chips, fishing out my room key, then looked down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”
“Nah.” He leaned one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushed off the wall, held out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shook his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I was imagining it, and was in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we were one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.
I inserted the key, pushed down the handle, and stepped in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicked, and I stared at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobbed in despair. Okay, this was fine. I made it safely to the room, was now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I was in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumped around and tried to find the place of reason where my decision to not invite him in was a good one. Surely it was the right move. I had maintained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s gasp-worthy looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger. This was not Quincy, Florida. I did not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I couldn’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t ever. I rose to my tiptoes and looked through the peephole.
He was still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, he was gone. I looked as far as I could, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I wanted to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he was striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I didn’t. I dropped my heels by the door, kicked off the slippers, and took four steps, falling onto the closest bed.
In college, I owned half a dorm, my roommate a South Floridian princess who chain-smoked Virginia Slims when not having angry, scream-at-each-other sex with her boyfriend. The room was tiny—a 10x10 space divided down the middle by hot pink duct tape. We’d put the tape down on the first day, our parents beaming and shaking hands, each so proud of ‘their girl,’ the mix of cultures tropical and exciting in the feminine space.
I now lived in a space the same size. I’d walked it off countless times, sometimes the scrape of chain accompanying my steps, other times unencumbered. It was twelve of my feet long, six of my feet wide. On the back side was a windowless concrete wall, painted a lifetime ago some shade of white that was now gray. On the front side, a line of metal pipes held in place by concrete. I’d tried to move them, jiggle them, scrape at their footers. They weren’t going anywhere.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to ... restraint.” His hands released their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sank to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing ... wanting ... more. He’s not used to restraint? I wasn’t used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’d been years since I’d had a cock in my mouth, years since I’d felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I needed to step away from this man. I needed to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that ate my soul, his hands that burned like possessive fire across my skin. I couldn’t control myself in his presence, wouldn’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wide open.
He took another step back, rubbed his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not. I blushed. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I pushed off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I wanted him so badly. What was I doing? My new slippers moved me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappeared inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stopped in front of my room, took a steadying breath, and turned to him. “This is it. Thank you.”
His right hand was outstretched, fist closed. I stared at it in confusion before I realized what he was doing. I gave him an exasperated smile and held my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”
He chewed on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stared at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence drew out, thickness in the air between us. God, I wanted to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fought the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.
He finally spoke, breaking our eye contact as he looked away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”
I felt ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I was a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He didn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his proximity to my body. I shouldered my purse open and dumped the chips, fishing out my room key, then looked down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”
“Nah.” He leaned one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushed off the wall, held out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shook his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I was imagining it, and was in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we were one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.
I inserted the key, pushed down the handle, and stepped in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicked, and I stared at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobbed in despair. Okay, this was fine. I made it safely to the room, was now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I was in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumped around and tried to find the place of reason where my decision to not invite him in was a good one. Surely it was the right move. I had maintained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s gasp-worthy looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger. This was not Quincy, Florida. I did not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I couldn’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably wouldn’t ever. I rose to my tiptoes and looked through the peephole.
He was still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, he was gone. I looked as far as I could, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I wanted to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he was striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I didn’t. I dropped my heels by the door, kicked off the slippers, and took four steps, falling onto the closest bed.
In college, I owned half a dorm, my roommate a South Floridian princess who chain-smoked Virginia Slims when not having angry, scream-at-each-other sex with her boyfriend. The room was tiny—a 10x10 space divided down the middle by hot pink duct tape. We’d put the tape down on the first day, our parents beaming and shaking hands, each so proud of ‘their girl,’ the mix of cultures tropical and exciting in the feminine space.
I now lived in a space the same size. I’d walked it off countless times, sometimes the scrape of chain accompanying my steps, other times unencumbered. It was twelve of my feet long, six of my feet wide. On the back side was a windowless concrete wall, painted a lifetime ago some shade of white that was now gray. On the front side, a line of metal pipes held in place by concrete. I’d tried to move them, jiggle them, scrape at their footers. They weren’t going anywhere.
