Dance for Me(4)

Sex with my mystery man is never nice. It is hard and fast and sometimes it leaves marks. For instance, I know my scalp is going to hurt tomorrow. He is riding me like a cowboy on a bronco, yanking and tugging on my hair so hard, it’s difficult to concentrate on the hard cock between my legs. The hold he has on my hip is going to bruise, too. The force of his body slamming into mine is something I always relish, though. It’s our connection. As long as he’s buried inside me, I can pretend he’s mine.

“Touch yourself,” he demands, his words grating past his clenched teeth. He’s getting close, and if I don’t rub one out now, I’m going to lose out. What I learned early on is that he chooses when I get to orgasm and how. Sometimes he takes the extra time and care to work me out. Other times, like tonight, he plays then dives in. He doesn’t wait. If I don’t take care of it now, I’ll be taking care of it later, alone in my bed.

The thing is, and what the romance books won’t tell you, that sometimes it’s friggin’ impossible for a woman to get off, no matter how hard she tries. She can concentrate until she is blue in the face, or relax and let it come to her, but it’s all a joke. Orgasms are like bobbing for apples. Sometimes you get one, but most of the time, you just ended up with wet hair, smeared makeup, and a backache.

Tonight, no matter how hard I try, I can’t get there. So, I do what any woman would do who wants to please their man—I fake it.

“Ohhhhh ahhhhh,” I moan into the bedding, really laying it on thick as I clench my inner walls around him. He thickens almost immediately, grunting as he comes inside me. Thank fuck for birth control and condoms. The man is so potent, it’d be stupid not to double up.

Dropping down on top of me, my arms collapse under his weight. The only sound in the room for several minutes after that is our sawing breaths and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears as I struggle for adequate oxygen.

Finally, the pressure leaves me as my mystery man rolls away. From out of nowhere, I hear the loud crack and my ass cheek burns accordingly. “Mother fuck!” I screech, no longer in my sex-hazed delirium. There is no buffer to ease the sting this time. Shooting off the bed, I grab my cheek and send him a death glare.

His smirk is both an act of defiance, and a challenge. “Remember that next time you decide to fake it.”

My mouth gapes open as he walks toward the bathroom. My indignation over being hit out of context and the shock of getting caught, burns away like fog on a sunny morning when I realize where he is going. Heat takes its place. “Need someone to wash your back?” Usually, he’s good for at least two rounds—sometimes more. But he always takes time for a little aftercare. Those times are my favorite because it is the only time he’s sweet. His behavior could almost fool me if I wasn’t so accustomed to his ways.

“If you’re offering. There are a few other places that could use some special attention, too.”

A smile blossoms on my face as I push open the door and step inside. The water is already running in the shower, and the view of his naked ass, round and solid with muscle that rolls up to a smooth, toned back with broad shoulders, nearly sends me into a tizzy. A lesser woman would drop dead from the sight, it is so damn perfect. Me? Screw the washcloth. I plan to lick every inch of that skin.

He takes me twice more that night—once in the shower, filling my mouth with his cum, and the last in what is apparently his new favorite spot—in front of the window. Yes, my mystery man is a dirty boy, and I love it.

When the alarm on his phone goes off at five in the morning, just a few short hours after we fell asleep in each other’s arms, I’m not ready to get up.

“Get up,” he says, the words clipped. “I’m checking out in twenty.”

Rubbing my eyes, I roll out of bed feeling as if I have one foot in reality and the other still in dreamland. “Why are you leaving so early? You usually get up at seven.”

“I have to be somewhere.”

“This early?” I’m immediately aware of my tone. He doesn’t like complaining. A fact I’m reminded of as he glances over his shoulder—those harsh, onyx eyes threatening to level me if I don’t shut my mouth fast.

Holding up my hands in surrender, I search for my clothes and begin dressing. “Forget I mentioned it. You want me out, I’m out.”

I refuse to let his kicking me out hurt my feelings. Still, there’s no denying the rejection stings a little.

Meeting me at the end of the bed, he places his hands on my shoulders, and I pause as I look up into his eyes. Is that regret I see?