One Night Only (9 page)

But then you reconsider. It's a dangerous combination, the two of you alone in your apartment, both of you free. One glass of wine and you'll probably make a fool of yourself, confess your sick “imprisoned in the closet” fantasy, or brush your lips tellingly against his cheek when you give him a “friendly” hug good night. And then he'll know what you've been dreaming of all along. He'll pity you for it.

You curl up on your guest room futon, where he'll be sleeping in one short week, and give yourself a good pep talk. You imagine a golden veil around his whole body, a barrier that will protect the purity of your friendship forever. Because part of the pleasure of your secret lust is that you have never fucked him and never will. That's why your relationship is so perfect.

Confident in your motives, you clean every inch of your
apartment and prepare your signature “scattered sushi” platter and homemade green-tea ice cream. He always praised your offerings at the department potlucks back in the old days.

The doorbell rings.

Your heart is hammering, but you force yourself to glide to the door like a queen.

The sight of him in your doorway is like a punch to the solar plexus. He is thinner than when you last saw him, and his cheeks show a day's growth of travel-weary blond beard. But he is so gleamingly gorgeous in the summer dusk, the words of friendly greeting catch in your throat.

He steps forward and wraps you in his arms.

You are totally enveloped in his warm, muscular embrace, his dizzying male scent. He doesn't pull away. You immediately understand this is not the usual hug.

You could be the one to pull back but you tighten your arms around him instead, and he moans, a faintly mournful sound. He squeezes you harder still as if he'll crush you. You think of that hot little room in your brain where he fucks and fucks and fucks you up against the wall until your knees turn to hot butterscotch.

Your legs are already melting.

You aren't exactly surprised when his lips find yours. His whiskers scrape your chin and cheeks, but the punishment excites you. You immediately open your mouth to his tongue, sucking him deep inside like a cock.

You kiss like teenagers, tongues twirling and sparring, as if you're afraid you'll be forced to stop. This isn't supposed to be happening, and yet how absurdly easy it is to slip over the line. It's like the time you found a hole in the pocket of your jeans at
a party. Your finger slipped right through, and you couldn't help but take advantage of the secret entrance to tickle the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh with your fingertip. You pulled your hand out guiltily, but soon found an excuse to go to the powder room where you forced open the entire pocket with your fist then masturbated and watched yourself come in the vanity mirror.

You've always been the kind of woman who makes the best of circumstances.

That's when you pull away. He looks confused. You laugh and take his hand and drag him to your bedroom, knowing now he won't pity you, quite the contrary. You fall onto the mattress together, and you're kissing again, mouths wide as if you're devouring each other's face. Haven't you've both been starving for this for ten long years? The heat and pressure of his hard-on against you is the sweetest feeling you've ever known.

Both of you are whimpering and panting. Four hands fumble with buttons and zippers. He has you naked before you're even done with his belt, but you surrender gracefully, pressing your bare breasts against his hot chest. You're in the middle of your cycle, which means you're horny as hell and your nipples are exquisitely sensitive, already throbbing, and he hasn't even touched them yet.

You're so drunk with lust, your fingers are clumsy at his zipper. Finally he yanks down his own pants and kicks them to the floor impatiently. One hand disappears over the bed. You sneak a peek at his cock, which is a good length and thick and very red. He holds up a condom in its wrapper, smiling like he's won a prize.

“That's not from your wallet, is it?” you blurt out, then regret it. Even one word might destroy this magic, draw you back into the ordinary world.

“I bought it at the drugstore on the way over. Was it too forward of me?”

Up close, his eyes are seawater blue flecked with gray. Your reply is a laugh, and you fling yourself against him.

The first time you fuck that night, he's on top. Old-fashioned, yes, but you pretend it's your wedding night, centuries ago, when some couples were betrothed for years and years until the man had made his way in the world enough to support a lady in the manner to which she was accustomed. Of course, by that measure, he's come down in the world, but you like that, too. If he weren't between lives, he wouldn't be here, with you, naked and touchable. You spread your legs and sigh as he slides inside, his shaft massaging that ancient ache inside your belly. You fit together well this way. You move together well, too. There's something liquid about the way your hips undulate in unison. His wiry blond hair down there chafes your clit just the right way, a prickling pleasure. He's nipping and tweaking your nipples as you fuck, and it drives you crazy, the pleasure hovering on the knife's edge of pain. You're going to come soon—too soon?—but you sense that won't be the end of this crazy time out of time.

It's never like this your first time with a new lover; you're always too nervous; but with him, well, haven't you been dancing around in a teasing, masochistic kind of foreplay since you first met? His merciless lips on your nipples are just a reminder of that sweet suffering. You hook your feet around his thighs and grind your clit harder up against his belly. That's all it takes. You explode with a scream around his cock, and he sucks your tit hard until your spasms stop, and then he croons your name and with an
Oh, god, oh, god
his hips drive into you. Your own body shudders as he releases into you. You realize that's what you really wanted all these years, to feel him come in your arms.

Afterward you're a little afraid to look at him, but he pulls you close and gazes steadily into your eyes and says, “That was so amazing. Even better than I imagined.”

His expression is so pleased, you feel like you're looking into a mirror.

“Did you
imagine
?” you ask.

“More than I should admit. Did you ever…?” There's a touching uncertainty in his voice.

“You know we've always had so much in common.” You laugh and nestle together for a while, and then you say, “Hey, are you hungry?”

He nods and you slip on his shirt without asking because you like the smell of him around you. Besides it means he'll have to go shirtless, and you like to look at his chest. He smiles and squeezes your naked ass under the shirttails.

You have a picnic on your living room floor—cold sake and sushi rice scattered with strips of raw fish, sweet omelet and pickled lotus root. You talk about sunny things, his plans for his trip, the new female-centered history course you're developing which is sure to change the world. After you're finished eating, he pulls you on top of him and asks hopefully if you're the dessert. He slides his hands under his shirt and cups your breasts, and before you know it, you're straddling him and rocking your wet cunt into his hard belly. You feel his erection brushing your ass, and you get a wicked idea. You tell him to wait and rush to the kitchen for the green-tea ice cream. First you feed him some with a spoon. Then he wants to rub some on your nipples, and you let him. The chill both soothes and arouses the tender tips. Finally you unveil your trick—you take a mouthful and go down on him. He squirms and laughs, but his dick gets harder in your mouth.

You wrap your fist around his sticky tool and show off all
of your skills, tonguing him right below the head, squeezing your lips around him as if to milk him dry. That is in fact your goal, to drive him wild so he shoots his special cream down your throat.

“I want to come inside you, please, stop,” he begs.

You pull off and give him your best dominatrix glare. “If you come in my mouth like a good boy, you can fuck me all night long in any way you want.”

You can almost see the wheels spinning in his head. Eyes narrowed, he lies back and submits.

Even with his naked cock in your mouth, you can't believe this is so easy. He was the one man you could never have for as long as your body can remember, and suddenly you can touch him and taste him anywhere you please. And what you want more than anything now is this, his salty dick pressing into your throat. You suck him like you've never sucked anyone, and the weirdest thing is you feel him
down there
, too, filling you, satisfying you like food.

His thighs tremble and his cock grows impossibly hard. Your lips register the spasms first, then jets of jism shoot up against your palate. He is sweeter than you expected, the grassy taste of him blending perfectly with the lingering flavor of astringent green tea.

He doesn't let you gloat over your achievement for long. He pushes you down and rolls you over and yanks your knees open. For a moment, you're afraid, but then you feel something cool and smooth along your asscrack—his fingers rubbing melted ice cream there. You start to laugh, but it fades into a moan when he starts to lick you. You've let guys fuck your ass, but no one's ever enjoyed your back door with such gusto. His finger snakes up to strum your clit, and suddenly your whole body is melting under his hot tongue. You start to beg him to fuck you, but
decide, in the little corner of your head that can still think, that this is better. You want him to take one of your virginities. If he makes you come while he's tonguing your ass, that part of your pleasure will be his forever.

In the shadows of night, it's easier to talk about sad things. He tells you he hasn't had a blow job in years, and yours felt so good, the best he's ever had. You confess no one's ever licked your ass, and you like it more than you ever thought you would, even if it makes you a pervert. After that you simply lie in each other's arms in silence.

Then he whispers that he wants to do something else for you, something no one's ever done before. That's when you tell him about the closet fantasy. Scholar that he is, he admires the perfect symbolism: the dark, secret hideaway; the disapproving public right outside the door. He asks you how big your closet is. You tell him “big enough.”

He's rough when he pushes you up against the wall, trapping you with his hard, feverish body. Yet his lips are tender, almost teasing. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your ears, your neck. All the while his cock presses against your belly, and you hope somehow it will leave a permanent mark on the skin.

You whimper and push your hips against him and he calls you “impatient” and tells you he'll fuck you soon enough. He pinches your nipples steadily, and the flaming sensation shoots straight to your cunt, until your thighs are shamefully slippery with sweat and juice. At last he crouches slightly and starts to probe your slit with the head of his sheathed cock. You push up on tiptoe and tilt your pelvis forward so he can reach the hole. He slides in. The sensation is so very different from any other coupling, as if you're straddling a pole, riding it. His shaft pushes up against your clit, rubbing it with each thrust. Your legs start to wobble and shake. You're gasping and moaning
and he's growling in your ear what a pervert you are for liking it so much, fucking up against a wall like a street whore. It's a risky thing to say, but it's exactly what you want to hear. It's the words as much as his cock that makes you come—very loudly. He starts to plow you before your orgasm fades. Again your secret flesh spasms in sympathy as he comes into you, grimacing and grunting.

You lean against each other, laughing softly and so damned proud of yourselves. It's past midnight and without another word you both collapse onto your bed. When you wake up, it's dawn. You lie there and watch him sleep for a long time. Strangely, he seems most yours now, even more than when you had him wrapped in your arms and legs and cunt. You think of that hole in your pocket, and how you sewed it up after your night of selfish pleasure because it was your favorite pair of jeans. You still have them in your drawer, although you don't wear them much anymore.

The last twelve hours were a gift of pure magic. You know the end will be magic, too. The moment he wakes, the hole will mend itself. The golden veil of purity will descend. But for now you steal this moment to gaze at his face and wonder how one person can give you so much pain and pleasure all at the same time.

You smile when it hits you that after this night, the pleasure will always outweigh the pain.

 

 

 

 

 

N
o one ever aspired to be a maid when she grew up, Allison Ferreira thought as she pushed her cart down the hallway of the Suite Spot. Everyone wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor or a CEO, not the woman who tidied up after them. But that was about the only job available after she'd fallen off her career ladder. She'd taken it, just as an interim thing, to buy herself some time to figure out what she really wanted to do.

A few minutes later, Allison had just finished making the bed in Room 402, and was placing the finishing touch—the hotel's trademark “suite sweet”—on the pillow, when she heard the door opening. She'd only been working here for three days, but one of the first rules she'd been taught was that she was supposed to be invisible to the guests, like a guardian angel, taking care of their every need, without ever being seen.

Allison moved as unobtrusively as possible toward the exit, keeping her eyes focused on the carpet. As she was about to pass him, she murmured a soft “Excuse me.”