Still standing, he leaned over me, his big hands working the button on my jeans. I could see the sharp shadows beneath his jaw, down the line of his neck, his gaze moving over my bare breasts, my belly. There was a smattering of soft dark hair, flat against his skin, dusting his chest and his stomach. On his left arm, the No Time tattoo continued its intricate design of lines up his wrist and forearm, through the dark hair lining the top of his arm and the delicate skin on the underside. It was beautiful, masculine, mysterious, and the only tattoo I could see. His cock was semi-hard. He just came in my mouth, I reminded myself, and the thought made my back squeeze, my hips lift off the bed urgently as he pulled off my jeans and my underwear.
He tossed my clothes aside and spread my legs. He didn’t touch me, didn’t ready me. He just bent, lowered his head, and sucked.
I cried out and arched off the bed into his mouth. The heat was like a lightning strike, his tongue like an invasion and the only thing I wanted, the thing I’d been missing, at the same time. He licked down into me, then up around my clit, and I heard myself softly chanting fuck, fuck as I slid my hands into his hair. It was soft, just long enough to cover my fingers so they disappeared and I held on. One big hand moved up to cover my hip, pressing me down into the bed, stilling my squirming and bucking. The other hand moved between my legs, his fingers sliding inside me, pressing me as he continued to lick. This wasn’t going to take long—minutes, maybe. Seconds. Time disappeared as wave after wave slipped over and through my body.
His finger slid out of me and down, back, into my ass, so wet with my juices that his fingertip slid in easily, and I let out a breath as the pleasure built higher. His mouth stayed on me, over my clit, and when it swiped over me—ungentle, almost harsh—I came, biting back the sound in my throat, my hands twisting in his hair.
I should have been embarrassed. This wasn’t anything like me. I hadn’t had sex at all in over a year and a half—and who had it been with? Some guy I’d gone on a few dates with because I was lonely? I couldn’t remember names, faces, anything. How did something like that measure up with Devon Wilder sliding his finger out of me, putting his tattooed hand on my other hip, and kissing his way up past my belly button, his shoulders rippling in the dim light? I dropped my hands from his hair and watched him half in awe, catching my breath.
He licked slowly up the underside of one breast and raised his head just enough to look into my eyes. “That’s what it looks like,” he said, his voice low.
I want to watch you come, he’d said.
I gulped a breath, still watching him.
“I’m clean,” he rasped. “You on the pill?”
Oh, God. Oh, God. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Then spread your legs,” he said, “and watch.”
He pulled himself up, over me, and pushed inside me in one smooth thrust.
It was better than anything. Anything. I grabbed his shoulders, feeling the muscles moving beneath his skin, and dug my fingers in. He was thick, fully hard again, and I bent my knees by reflex, drawing them up to take him in deeper. He lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me, letting me taste myself mixed with the taste of his tongue.
He broke the kiss, his stubble brushing my sensitized skin, and said again, “Watch, Olivia. Watch me fuck you.”
I did. I looked down between us. He was propped up on his elbows, and I could see us in the shadows, his stomach arching over mine, his hips moving between my spread thighs. He bent his head, running his mouth along my neck, and I shivered, never taking my eyes from us. It was raw, dirty, and still I couldn’t look away.
His lips brushed my ear. “You like it,” he said. “My cock in you.”
“Yes,” I said, licking my lips. The pleasure was building again, intense so soon after my last orgasm. “I love it.” The words sounded good, and I had to say them again. “I love it.”
He gave me a low sound of appreciation. “Good,” he said, his voice growing tight. “Keep watching. And watch yourself come.”
And I watched—everything. The way my breasts bounced when he fucked me harder. The way the muscles bunched beneath his skin as he moved over me. The way his cock slid in and out of me, deep and sure. It was wild, purely pornographic, and my breath hitched, higher and higher. He ground against me, brushing my clit, and I came again, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He dropped his mouth to the spot where my neck met my shoulder and bit me as he came.
When he’d barely finished, he cupped my face and kissed me, but this time it was gentle. His mouth moved softly on mine, brushing my lips. I loosened my fingers from their grip on his shoulders and kissed him back, my body relaxing, my head spinning. It was surprising, how gently he kissed me, how gently he moved out of me and off of me. He rested on his side on the bed beside me, his hand moving down over my breast in a motion that could only be called possessive. Then he was still.
We lay there breathing for a few long moments. There was no other sound. I couldn’t hear anything from the corridor outside or the apartment across the way, and I wondered if the police were gone. With the thought, the world seeped back in to the space between us, with its complications and its disappointments and its impossibilities. I put my hand over his where it rested over my breast, my fingertips brushing the ridges of his tattooed knuckles, as if reminding myself that what had just happened was real.
“I should go,” he said, reading my mind.
“I know,” I replied. But neither of us moved.
I was in danger if he stayed here. I knew that. The cops might come back, might have some way to find him here. They might find out I’d lied. Devon Wilder could escape the consequences of tonight for an hour, maybe two, but he couldn’t escape them forever.
Still we lay, drifting. If he stayed past midnight, past one o’clock, I reasoned with myself, there was less chance a neighbor would see him leaving. Even less chance if he stayed until two. Until three.
But he wouldn’t. I already knew that.
We were quiet for so long, I lost track of time. I wasn’t asleep; neither was he. We just were, the two of us in my bed, in the small world of my bedroom, for just a little longer. We could have talked, I supposed. But what was the point? This was only this, nothing else. It wasn’t anything. There was nothing to say.
He fucked me again before he left. We went slower this time, his body spooned behind mine, his hand hooked beneath my knee. He pressed me into the bed and said everything filthy in my ear—That’s it, that’s right, take my cock, easy and slow, fuck me nice and hot, sweetheart—and we both came again, our orgasms quiet and intense, rocking through us like earthquake tremors. Then he got out of bed in the dark and I heard him dressing.
I lay on my back and pulled my knees up, watching his shadow. I could feel him trickling out of me, and I didn’t care.
“Listen,” he said after a minute as I watched him pull his shirt on over his head. “I have to stay away from you, and you have to stay away from me. There are people who would hurt you in order to hurt me if they knew about you. Do you understand?”
He wasn’t talking about cops. “Yes,” I said.
“I mean it,” he said. “Don’t give a fuck about me, Olivia, starting now. Save yourself. No phone numbers, no email addresses, nothing. I’m not going to tell you where I’m going, and you’re not going to ask. If it’s ever safe to contact you, I’ll find you. Not the other way around. Are we clear?”