“Here,” she said, and took it from him. He braced both arms against the cabinets on either side of her head, watching as she smoothed the condom down his shaft. She tilted her hips. He gripped the base of his shaft, nudged forward to align them, and slid inside. All the way inside, gliding into her. Thoughts chased one another—I must be really wet … this angle is different from being on my back … it’s so sensitive I think I could come again … he’s really really really big—before all she could do was push back with her hand to force herself forward so her clit was pressed against his pubic bone.
His arms curved under hers until his fingers curled into her shoulders from behind, pressing into her collarbone. She slid forward until her bottom was on the very edge of the counter, his hip bones pressing into her inner thighs. He started to thrust, steady upward and inward jerks of his hips, and suddenly she couldn’t keep quiet. She arched up, her head thumping against the cabinet door so she could hear the glasses clinking inside. He had her right where he wanted her, fingers denting her flesh hard enough she knew she’d have bruises in the morning, his hips thudding into her, every stroke gliding his thick cock over a spot inside her she was intellectually aware existed but had no firsthand proof of, until now. The glancing blows to her clit, the raw, hot presence of a man driving into her, pulling her legs tighter and tighter, winding her up like a top, until he used his stubbled cheek to turn her mouth to the side and bit down on her jaw.
She came again, harder, only vaguely aware of sharp cries, of the tight arch of her back, his teeth against her skin. As her awareness returned, she felt him grunt, stiffen, then pull her hard against his body as he came. One final sobbing sigh eased from her throat as she felt each intimate pulse inside her.
“I’m still wearing my socks,” she said stupidly.
He gave a rough little chuckle and slipped out. “Bathroom?”
“Second door on your right,” she said, gesturing vaguely through the dining room. The muscles in her thighs were firing randomly, making her legs twitch, which was embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as trying to stand up would be. So she was still sitting on the counter, contemplating the possibility that her life had just spectacularly derailed, when he came back into the room, his cock at half-mast.
*
One of the reasons why Jack got into so much trouble in life was that he could both talk himself into it and act himself into it. So when polite coffee turned into coffee with a side of trouble then took a hard left into my place in or out, his verbal skills shut off and his action side turned on. He’d never been the focus of such raw need. “That was intense,” he said as he shook his underwear free from his jeans and stepped into them.
She showed no signs of moving from the counter, and that tendency to check the time on the microwave’s clock had disappeared. “I want that bike. I need that bike,” she said.
He didn’t laugh at her, just shook out his wet jeans and pulled them on. “And?”
“He wanted to sell me something I didn’t want. He wanted me to settle. It’s a button, I guess. I know he didn’t mean to push it—”
That was a loaded fucking statement if he’d ever heard one, and coming from a sexily disheveled woman with the sex flush still fading from her cheeks and throat, he was a goner. He left his jeans half zipped, just enough to keep them on his hips, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at her. The look she cut him, full of restless, angry energy, her hair a wild nimbus around her head, sent another zing of desire through him.
“He was hammering away at it like a total fucking oblivious moron,” Jack said. “It’s not his job to tell you what you want, what you can handle. It’s his job to sell you the fucking bike.”
When she realized exactly how naked she was, she straightened away from the cabinets, adjusted her breasts in the bra, and pulled the straps back up on her shoulders.
“My ex-husband,” she began as she buttoned her blouse, “no—that’s not how I’m telling this story. Marriage is about compromise, but I got in the habit of settling, not only for less than I wanted, but for things I didn’t want, and for not getting things I did want. We had goals. Plans. I no longer had goals or plans.”
“It’s just a motorcycle,” he said.
“A donorcycle, he called it,” she said with a sage nod.
He snorted. “Sure. But you ride safe, wear a helmet, wear leathers.”
She lifted her hands to her hair, then winced. “I’m going to have to take a shower,” she said, and started unbuttoning her blouse. “A fast shower,” she amended as she scurried past him to the bathroom. “I said I wanted that bike, and I mean to have it.”
The last was called to him over the sound of water running into the tub, then the shower switching on. He turned to his right, training compelling him to keep an eye on the back door, the bathroom door, and the enormous living room window overlooking the street. She reappeared in the bathroom door, switching her weight from one foot to the other as she tugged her socks off.
“And now I’m one of those women. I’ve gone through a divorce, and you know a lot about it.”