When she finally stills, she props herself up on her elbows, looking at me with a different expression now. It’s softer, almost dazed. I drag my fingers out of her pussy in a sloppy squish and bring them to my lips, painting my bottom one with her taste and then lapping it up with my tongue. Her chest rises and falls like she’s catching her breath. And then, like she’s suddenly snapped back to reality, she moves.
She flips onto her hands and knees, arches her back, red waves falling in a messy curtain down her spine as she looks over her shoulder at me.
“Take me from behind,” she whispers.
I stand, yanking my belt loose, shoving my jeans down while ripping off my shirt. I tear open a condom from my pocket, roll it down my length before gripping her hips, smoothing my hand over the curve of her ass then up to her spine to position her perfectly.
And that’s when I see it. A tiny, delicate bird tattoo, inked right at the top of her left shoulder. It’s small, just the faintest outline, but something about seeing something so gentle on this woman stops me. My thumb traces over it, my other hand flexing against her hip as she shifts backward, pressing her ass against my cock.
“What’s this for?” I ask, memorizing the simple outline.
She glances over her shoulder at me.
“I got it for my mom,” she says softly. “It’s a bluebird. It symbolizes hope, peace and renewal. She was a big believer in slowing down and always finding the beauty and romance in every moment. Sadly, she passed away a few months ago.”
My hand stills over the tattoo, and something about it hits deep. I know exactly what it feels like to watch a daughter lose her mother. My little girl lost hers—my late wife—way too damnyoung. I know that kind of grief. The hollow ache that settles into your bones and never really leaves. You just learn how to carry it. I’ve seen it in my daughter’s eyes for years now. I’ve tried to love it out of her but it’s still there.
Three years ago, I thought I was giving her a second chance at having that kind of love again with my ex. Turns out, I barely knew that woman at all. I was just trying to shove something into the empty space and hoping it would fit.
I drag my fingers over the ink one last time before lifting my gaze to Brianna. She’s still watching me over her shoulder, eyes heavy, bottom lip caught between her teeth, and I have to force myself to look away before I do something reckless.
Like ask if she wants my number after this.
Tell her I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.
Instead, I grip her hips and line myself up before pushing into her in one smooth, hard thrust. She pulls me in tight, hot and slick around me, and fuck, every coherent thought leaves my head. There’s nothing left except her and me and this simple moment where we’re both after nothing but pleasure.
And through each thrust I see that bluebird. I think about hope and how it’s a funny thing that finds you when you least expect it.
Chapter 3 – Brianna
Seth is wide, long, and thick, and frankly, I’m a little impressed with myself for making such a drunk, reckless decision and somehow having it work out in my favor. Because sleeping with a player on my dad’s new hockey team isn’t just about my frustration over moving to New York City, interning for his team as a condition of employment, and finishing my degree—it’s fun. Completely out of character. A little wild. And when he pushes into me, bottoming out with a groan like he needed this just as badly as I did, the only thing I feel is the faintest flicker of remorse.
Not for using him as my own personal plaything, but for not doing this muchsooner. Because for most of high school and my undergraduate years I was in a monogamous relationship. I never experienced the thrill of a one-night stand with a stranger I’ll never see again. And this makes me feel alive.
I press my face down, arching my back harder as his fingers tighten around my hips in a grip so punishing that I already know I’ll be wearing his fingerprints in the morning. Bruises stamped into my skin like a brand from a man with a cock that has tears forming in the corners of my eyes it’s that good.
It’s been a while. Okay, along fucking timesince I’ve been properly fucked. When I moved to New York City just two weeks ago, I left everything behind including my safe, predictable, midwestern boyfriend. The one I’d been with for years, through college and beyond. The guy who was kind and patient, who never raised his voice, never made me feel anything other than safe and cherished. The guy who thought “wild” meant keeping the lights on during sex now and then.
Yes, we had sex. And when we did, it was slow. Gentle. Respectful.Romantic. And I thought I liked that. I thought I liked a quiet love. A simple, easy life where passion wasn’t something to be taken, just something that existed in soft kisses and warm embraces.
But now as Seth pounds into me from behind like he’s unraveling, his hips slamming against my ass, his fingers working my clit in ways that my ex never knew how to do without using a toy or his mouth, I think that maybe I was wrong about sex. Maybe the soft, easy, gentle sex has its time and place. But untamed, reckless, feral sex is something that I need in my life too.
This entire experience is unlocking something deep inside me. Something I don’t know if I want to tap into. Something dark and primal. Something greedy, and something that wants to be used. Because shit, Ilovethis. I need this. I’ll never be able to look at sex the same way again.
“You’re unreal.” He curses from behind me as he drives into me, changes his angle and lets out a deep, throaty groan. My body clenches around him. “I’ve never felt anything like you. You’re so soft, it’s addicting.”
Oh… oh, he’s a talker. The kind of man who talks you through it while he takes you apart, like he wants you to know exactly how much he’s enjoying you. That’s another thing my ex never was. And apparently, another thing I’m discovering I really, really like.
Is this… romantic? Could I somehow romanticize a one-night stand with a complete stranger? Maybe it is, in a strange, poetic way. A girl finding pleasure in the exact kind of man she never would’ve expected for herself.
I always assumed the best sex of my life would be with some quiet, bookish guy. The librarian type with glasses slipping down his nose. The kind of man I’d think about when I’m eighty, telling my children,he was the greatest night of my life.The guy a lot like my ex. Not a man who wears a Sloth mask and fake teeth for Halloween. Not a man with a pre-teen daughter, shoulders so broad he feels like a wall when he’s behind me, and hair just a little too long to be considered respectable.
Seth fists my hair, yanking my head back until I have no choice but to meet his eyes over my shoulder. His free hand wraps my long strands around his wrist, binding me to him before he tugs hard. I let out a surprised hiss and then I feel the pain travel from my head down to my nipples and across my clit.
Holy shit. That’s new.
“Fucking love this red color of your hair,” he growls.
