Sure Thing(3)


by Jana Aston

I swell in response. Hell, I was hard for her before I knew she was game. Her blouse hits the floor as I unbuckle my belt and unsnap my jeans before moving to my shirt and unbuttoning from the bottom up. Her hands pause for the briefest of moments before she reaches behind her and unzips what must have been a hidden zipper on her skirt. It pools around her feet and she steps out of the circle of fabric, leaving her sandals behind, then looks down with a tiny grimace before scooping her clothing off the floor and placing it quickly next to her earrings and bag.

She squares her shoulders as she turns back to face me, naked save for a pretty bra and pants set. Cotton, I’d guess, with delicate lace trim. Sweet. She’s sweet. And I wonder again what brought her to me tonight. I wonder if someone’s hurt her, but the idea of someone cheating on her seems ludicrous, as does me having that thought when I’ve known her only an hour. Actually, not even that. I don’t know her at all. I’ve not even kissed her yet. Why does she want this? Why now?

I drop my shirt to the floor and leave it there. My trousers follow suit and she glances at the pile of clothing for a brief moment, her fingers twitching. I think she’s contemplating picking my clothing off the floor like she did her own but she refrains with a slight shake of her head, then turns her attention to my bare chest with a smile. A feisty little grin that she must feel isn’t very sophisticated because she immediately tries to hide it.

“So,” she says with a small shrug as she places her palm on my chest, her fingers spreading outwards in exploration. The slight inhale of breath and bubbly grin tell me she’s happy with her choice for a one-off, gaining confidence in the moment. She presses her lips together to hide the smile then asks, “Now what?” Her head tilts towards the side as she asks, the hint of her pink tongue pressing between her lips. I can find a better use for that, most certainly.

That’s it. I’m not waiting any longer. I wrap my fingers behind her neck and yank her to me as I cover her lips with my own. Her lips are soft and warm and she tastes faintly like the cherry she sucked off my fingers earlier and smells of vanilla or possibly coconut. I think it’s her hair. And then she moans, the most delightful microscopic moan of excitement or approval. I like it, whatever it is. I dig my fingers into her hair as I maneuver her to deepen the kiss and it’s every bit as silky as I’d imagined. Thick, silky strands that feel seductive under my fingers. Strands I could hold like a leash while I fuck her from behind or while she kneels before me with my cock in her mouth.

I lift her off her feet, her legs wrapping around my waist as I walk her towards the bed, unsnapping her bra as I go. Her arms are crossed behind my neck, her fingers working their way into the hair at my nape as she breaks away from my mouth, moving her lips to my jaw and grinding her pelvis against me with a subtle lift of her hips. I set her on the edge of the bed and slide the straps of her bra down her arms till it’s dangling from my fingertips, then toss it aside. Her right shoulder hitches a fraction but her eyes don’t follow the bra so I don’t think she’s contemplating picking it up off the floor. Instead her eyes rest on my chest and she quickly bites her bottom lip before releasing it again. What is she thinking and why do I care? She’s hot and she wants me, end of.

“I didn’t expect you, Rose, but I’m glad you’re here. On my bed. Ready for me.”

She looks uncertain for a moment, as if she’s second-guessing her decision, and I wonder how experienced she is. If I should be worried about her being underage. It’s doubtful but worth asking. I’ve always subscribed to the ‘ask, don’t guess’ policy when it comes to women.

“How old are you, love?” I question and her eyes snap up from my chest to meet mine.

“Twenty-six,” she answers immediately, and she no longer looks uncertain, she looks irked. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-six.” I smile. I like her. I can’t imagine she gives a toss what my age is. I think she only spat the question out as some form of retaliation for asking hers.

“Thirty-six?” Her brows rise and she gives me a quick once-over before shrugging and working to clear her face of surprise. “Right, okay. I guess that’s fine.”

I raise a brow at her. Is this girl I’m never going to see again really giving me shit about my age?

She runs her eyes across my chest again and then tilts her head to the side with a, “Huh,” said to herself. Then she twists her lips before meeting my eyes again with a, “Yeah, okay.” I can’t recall ever knowing a woman so transparent with her thoughts. I find myself smiling again, amused with her.

I roll her nipple between my fingers and she inhales. Her reactions are stunning. Time to get this liaison back on track. I kneel on the floor in front of her, hook my thumbs into the sides of her knickers and pull until she lifts her hips enough for me to slide the material over her bottom and to the floor. Her toenails are painted hot pink and I slide my hands along the arches of her feet as I go about admiring how lovely she is. The soft arch of her hips, the shape of her calves, delicate ankles and a tiny birthmark on the top of her left foot.

I slide her knees apart and move between them, her thighs spread wide. Her breath catches as I grasp a nipple with my teeth and lightly pull. Her tits are as perfect as every other part of her, but they’re not my focus right now. I want to taste her—no, I need to taste her. I need the memory of her taste on my tongue when I think of this night or I’ll always wonder what I missed.

I push her back onto the bed and work my way down her stomach, my destination clear. Her legs flutter against my shoulders as if she’s tensed, but then they relax and fall further open as one of those delightful half-sighs, half-moans I’ve already come to associate with her emits from her lips.

I spread her apart with my thumbs and now I’m thankful for the light, neon or otherwise, peeking into the room from the street. Lovely. She’s so fucking lovely. She’s completely smooth and I want to cover every inch of her with my mouth, my tongue. She’s already wet and I’ve barely touched her, her arousal glistening at me like a dirty gift.

I place my tongue on her and run it slowly from top to bottom. By the time I pull her clit between my lips her hands are in my hair. Within another minute she’s got one foot flat on the bed for leverage while the heel of her other foot is pressing into my back.

Her enthusiasm is irresistible, her scent intoxicating. She really is a gift I wasn’t expecting tonight.

I slip a finger into her and she moans something about Jesus. That won’t do.

“Jennings,” I remind her. Her eyes are glazed and it takes her a moment to focus on the fact that my tongue is being used for talking instead of where she wants it.

“Right.” She blinks. “Right, I didn’t forget. I can call you Jennings, sure.”

She’s an odd little duck. A cute vixen with a dash of sexy and I want more. God, I want her. I keep my eyes on her as I slip my finger back into her wet heat. I love the feel of the inside of a woman—the warmth and texture, the slickness of her lubrication. I miss the feel of a woman bare against my cock with nothing between us. Fuck, it’s been forever since I’ve felt that. Not that I’ll be feeling it tonight either. I’m not an idiot.

But when I suck her clit between my lips again while pressing two fingers on that tiny bundle of nerves inside of her and she screams my name, I sort of wish I was.

CHAPTER THREE

Violet

Oh, holy hell.

That thing he just did was like a public service—a public service that should be open to all women, everywhere. Regardless of political party, race, religion or border. It should be law or something, I think with a laugh as I throw an arm over my eyes. I wonder what else this guy can do? How did he know how to get me off so quickly? We’re not even done yet and this has to be the best one-night stand in the history of sex. I can’t believe this is my life right now!

“Is something funny, love?” he asks as he stands and picks up his pants, retrieving a condom from his wallet before tossing them on the floor again. The skin around his eyes creases in a way that makes me think he’s amused, not hurt, by my laughter.

“No, nothing’s funny,” I reply, but I can’t keep the grin off my face.

I scoot back on the bed until my head is on the pillows. Then I remember that investigative news special I saw about hotel room bedding and cringe. I think I’m lying on a duvet cover though, and surely they wash those? But just in case, I slip my legs underneath and then flip the cover back and push it to the end of the bed.

The guy—Jennings—pauses with a small smile on his face, watching me. Whatever. Germs are no joke. I lean against the headboard and smile back at him. “So what else you got?” I ask and—what the hell—I run my eyes over him from head to toe. He’s still got his underwear on so I can’t check out everything, but I like everything I can see, that’s for sure. Broad shoulders. Impressive abs—how the heck is he almost forty? Narrow waist. Strong legs. Impressive bulge. What? Like I didn’t linger a moment there during my perusal? I pat the bed next to me with my palm and grin.