“There’s someone else in the bathroom,” I moan. Words of resistant rationality spoken in a euphoric whisper.
“I don’t care,” Owen growls into my neck, making my body resonate to the deep tones of his voice. “I’ve been watching you all night and I wanna fuck you right here, right now. I’m gonna tear this dress right off you and feed you a hard dick until you scream loud enough for the whole bar to know.”
I groan as my body flexes and spasms against his with vibrations of desire. Pulling and clawing at his hair just as he does to my sides, teeth on my neck, his stubble scratching my shoulder.
“What about your date?” I gasp, like some dying breath, a last plea for life.
“I wish she was you,” Owen rumbles along a wet tongue he runs across my collarbone. “I imagine she’s you. I pretend. And then I look over and realize she’s not you.”
The words seem to bring on another rush of hard, tight lust, and Owen slams me up against the wall again, his hands now grabbing at my dress, fingers between my breasts and the cloth, pulling as he brings his lips to their soft flesh and bites with unrestricted violence.
“Owen,” I call out from what feels like a great height. “Owen…stop. Stop.”
Somehow the worst part of me pushes him away, manages to move my hands from his head to the front of his chest and push again until his face is level with mine, panting and focused with the intensity of a man who’s lost control.
“You’re gonna ruin my clothes,” I say, looking down frantically and trying to straighten out my dress. “There are cameras out there. Shit, they probably caught us coming in here together.”
Owen’s eyes are fixed on mine when I look back up, a little more decorum in his expression, though his eyes still burn like fire when they meet mine.
“Make an excuse,” he says in a hard, commanding tone. “Leave the date early and meet me back at mine as soon as you can.”
Stuck in his gaze like a rabbit in headlights, heat swelling in my body, already feeling like there’s a giant hole where he was just kissing and touching, I can’t say anything. All I can do is nod.
I see the muscles in Owen’s jaw clench one more time as he seems to resists another urge to press himself against me. Then he straightens himself up, opens the cubicle door, and leaves me there, ravaged and confused by what just happened, but electrified and thrilled by what I’m about to do.
13
Owen
By the time I get to my apartment I’m overcome with lust, tightened by it, at the mercy of it. A vision of how she looked on that bar stool is seared into my brain like a brand, her long legs crossing and uncrossing themselves over and over again in my thoughts, the line of her thigh disappearing up the tightness of her dress making my mouth water and my hands clench.
I enter my apartment feeling like I’m burning up in the atmosphere. As I move into the front room I undo a few buttons on my shirt, kick my shoes off, pour myself a whiskey neat and then go sit in the comfy seat, eyes on the living room entrance like I’m waiting for prey.
I take a long, slow sip of my drink and let my arms drape over the armrests. I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing, try to get some sense of time and place, but there’s no room for sense in me anymore, not when it comes to Margo. There’s no room for regret, or logic, or morality when a woman like that gets a hold of you. No room for anything but a deep, primal thirst to possess her completely. Trying to deny myself all this time has only made my need for her burn even hotter, and now it’s consumed me.
I know my date was beautiful, but there’s a difference between knowing something and feeling it—and the only feeling I had all night was directed at the girl with the glasses sitting at the bar.
There’s an anger inside me too, a sense of something out of place, jabbing at me. Unsettling and unresolved jealousy. I couldn’t stand to see another guy close to her like that, looking at her like that, making her blush and tuck her hair behind her ear. I know Margo’s dated before, and yeah I saw her with Brian at the golf course, but seeing her smile like that at another guy pierced me like an arrow, a sense of wrongness so physical I winced each time I saw it, jealousy making my blood run as hot and thick as lava.
The whole date felt like torture. But making an excuse to leave felt right, letting down my date felt right, cornering Margo in the bathroom and telling her exactly what I wanted felt right. I sip my whiskey one more time and clench my other hand anxiously; waiting doesn’t feel right at all. Doubts rise up in my mind—the camera crew might have tried to follow her here, she might have changed her mind about leaving her date early, she might be having second thoughts about letting me fuck her senseless again.
A knock at the door makes me open my eyes, pulls me from my imagination, where I’m turning Margo’s body over and over as if studying a sculpture.
“It’s open,” I call out.
Everything takes an eternity now, the words themselves, the empty pause before I hear the handle of the door. A slow clicking of heels against my floorboards. A tick-tock of keen anticipation.
Margo steps into the room where I can see her, and it’s glorious. Perfect is an understatement. I’ve seen a lot of girls wear a lot of clothes, but Margo and that dress make every memory of them obsolete; mere practice runs for what I’m seeing now.
She stands there, a little uncertain, her lips parted, and I look at her like I’m seeing heaven. The world around her slipping into irrelevance, out of focus. My gaze lingers over her for what feels like hours, as I allow the lines and curves of her body to hypnotize me into a natural high. She swipes her hair shyly behind her ear and even this is more than perfect.
“Owen—”
“Shh,” I reply, soft and firm. Slowly, I take another sip of whiskey and rub a palm over my mouth, the scratchiness of my stubble loud in the silent tension of the room. “Dim the lights.”
Margo freezes for a second, licks her lips nervously, then looks for the dimmer and turns it.
“That’s enough. Drop your bag.”
Again Margo freezes, a moment of hesitation, of understanding that to do as I say is to give herself to me inch by inch. She pulls the strap over her neck and drops it to the side. Again I look, again I allow myself to bask in all that beauty, now silhouetted against the solitary yellow glow of the floor lamp in the corner.
“Come closer.”
When she steps toward me now there’s less hesitation in her movements. One foot in front of the other, heels clicking, legs extending with balletic grace, eyes on mine with unashamed intent.
I dip a finger into my drink and set it aside, then stand up and move toward her with measured, purposeful steps.
“Open your mouth,” I tell her.
Margo obeys, her eyes on me the whole time. I run my finger over her lush lower lip, then watch her lick the taste of whiskey off it. When I slide my finger between her lips, she sucks it softly, whimpering with desire. I groan.