Page 17

MIKA

Iwill admit, when I asked Dion to bring Lola into the clinic, I might have had an ulterior motive. After seeing her Instagram Live — I know, I’m crazy for doing that voluntarily — I was concerned, but not only about her bunny. I was worried about her too, and I’ve been trying not to reach out to her since Saturday. What was really a trifecta of concerns — about Lola, about Dion, and about what Nina might have said to Dion — has now become…a square of concerns? Because Dion’s kissing me, and all I can think about is the conversation I had with my sister almost six nights ago. That and the feel of Dion’s mouth on mine while she frantically tries to climb my torso. My hands wander down her back and I make things a whole lot easier by lifting her and placing her on the steel examination table. She pulls away, and squeals. “Fuck me, that’s cold.” Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is a mess, and I’m only now realizing she’s dressed in a t-shirt, and pajama bottoms. Her peaked nipples give away the lack of a bra, and when my gaze moves down her legs, I see the sneakers on her feet. She really is a mess, but the fact that my dick is currently trying to break the zipper of my jeans tells me my body doesn’t really care how she looks. My mind, however, is a train wreck of scenarios, the most prominent being how badly I want in those pajama bottoms. It takes me two seconds, maybe three, to decide what I want to do, and before Dion can say anything else, I lift her up, and carry her towards the waiting room. It’s late, the blinds are drawn, and no one else is here — might as well get to the point. “Where are you taking me?” Dion asks, her arms around my neck, legs around my waist. I really should get her wounds cleaned up, but I’m afraid that if I stop now, this window of whatever is happening between us will close, and she’ll leave.

“Somewhere more comfortable,” I tell her, aware of how my body is humming, of how my skin feels like it’s tightening over my muscles.

“Why do we need somewhere more comfortable?”

I quirk a brow. “I don’t make a habit of fucking my clients on the examination table reserved for patients. It’s unsanitary.” I don’t make a habit of fucking clients, period. But Dion has been on my mind from the moment she came to the shelter with her family — she’s been driving me batshit crazy ever since, with her sassy attitude, her lack of fucks to give, and her incessant ranting on Instagram. This pent up energy is a culmination of arousal and anger, which explains why my dick wants to punch its way out my jeans and into her.

Dion licks her lips, and breathes out, “Who said anything about fucking, Mika?”

I stop, somewhere between the examination room, and the waiting room. “I can clean you up, and you can go home.” Did I read this all wrong? “I thought—”

Dion cuts me off with what I can only describe as a growl, and says, “Shut up, Mika.” Then she’s kissing me again, and her fervor extinguishes any kind of doubt I might have had. Knowing the layout of the clinic, I don’t stumble, or walk into anything en-route to the larger of the two leather couches we have. Dion, on the other hand, manages to kick her sneakers off before I lower her onto the three-seater couch, and fit myself between her legs. Our mouths move in a synchronicity reserved for people who have known each other far longer than we have, and what should be an awkward encounter between near strangers, isn’t awkward at all. Dion moans, her hands slipping between us to unbutton my shirt. When her fingertips brush bare skin, I shiver, and, reluctantly, break our kiss. She looks at me, her chest heaving, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman. Not even Aroha’s mother is as breathtaking, and as much as I hate making the comparison, I can’t help it. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman, and I’m almost certain any woman who may have come before Dion didn’t make me want to be as reckless, and impulsive as she does. Without saying much, I remove my shirt, and hear Dion’s sharp inhalation. “Christ,” she mutters. “You were hot in my dirty fantasies —”

“You’ve thought about this?”

Dion nods, and with no shame, replies, “Hmm hmm. My fantasies didn’t do you any justice though, you are definitely the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, and oh, my God, if you don’t do something, I’m not going to shut—”

Up. I swallow that word with my mouth, and with hurried movements, desperate really, I’m sliding her shirt over her head with one hand and trying to pop the button of my jeans with the other. There’s a reason they say men can’t multitask, because we can’t — especially when we’re trying to undress ourselves, and our partner, in preparation for unplanned sex. Fuck, we’re useless if it’s planned sex, too. What does surprise me is how quickly we’re both naked — I don’t remember removing my shoes, or my jeans, but they’re on the floor alongside Dion’s pajama bottoms. The feel of Dion’s pert breasts against my chest short-circuits whatever neuron is supposed to make me care, or think straight, and her exploration of the planes of my torso sets my blood ablaze.

A hard push against my stomach makes me stop. “Condom,” Dion says. “Please tell me you fucking have one.”

Shit. I didn’t even — “I do.” I swallow, trying to catch my breath. “Well, my colleague does, in his —”

“Mika, if you have a condom, go get it. Now.”

“You’re not demanding at all, you know that, right?”

I jump when she slaps my bare ass. “So I’m told.”

I don’t think I’ve ever had a woman slap my ass before or during sex, and something about how brazen Dion is has me walking through my own clinic as naked as the day I was born. Shane, being the manwhore that he is, keeps a box in his desk drawer, and I take a strip out. He either won’t notice, or won’t think it’s me, he likes razzing me about my non-existent sex life. I stop short when I get back to the waiting room and find Dion touching herself. Her head is on the armrest, her eyes closed, and she’s biting her lip while she rubs her clit. I must make a noise, because she lifts her head, and opens her eyes — but doesn’t stop touching herself. And I’m quite pleased that her pussy is bare because it means I can see where her fingers are going.

I’m painfully hard, to the point that my dick is trying to find my fucking belly button. Tearing a square off the strip, I rip it open, stopping in front of the couch before sliding the condom on. I’m trying to figure out the mechanics of how we’re supposed to, you know, because I’m not a small guy, but Dion isn’t concerned. She sits up, and I falter, again, because she’s bare, and wet, and spreading her legs. Right then, I’m thankful the couch is as big as it is.

Dion snaps her fingers. “Hey, my eyes are up here, big guy, and I don’t have all night.”

I try to show some kind of finesse by lowering myself slowly, keeping my weight as evenly distributed as possible. Dion has other plans, though. My body jolts when she wraps a hand around my dick and uses it to stimulate herself. I’m fascinated, watching with rapture as she uses my body to prime herself.

“Dion.”

“Hmm?”

How do I ask her if I can, uh, stick it in yet? What is the etiquette when a woman is, for lack of a better description, playing with herself with your equipment? Do I ask her — she mewls, and I’m suddenly preoccupied with how she looks. Flushed skin, plump lips, wild hair, and blue-green eyes alight with want.

“God,” she sighs. “Mika…” Her gaze moves down, and then back up, at which point she lifts her legs and rests her feet on my ass. “You can move now, I’m pretty sure she’s wet enough for you to just slide right in.”

Her statement, said so unabashedly, makes me snort. I can’t fucking help it. “Woman, you have a mouth on you.”

She taps her lips, smiling. “Come here, and find out what I can do with it.” Listening to her is a mistake because in the process of seeking out her lips, I do in fact, slide right in, and before I can kiss Dion the way I want to, her mouth falls open, and her eyes go impossibly wide. Shit. I’m hurting her. I go to move my hips, but she shakes her head, grips my forearms — planted on either side of her ribcage — and swallows before saying, “Your train is bigger than the station, Mika.”

Uh. She must see my trepidation about carrying on because again, she shakes her head, and goes to speak, but it’s my turn to cut her off. “We can stop—”

“No,” she squeaks out, and I’m on the verge of deflating like a helium balloon when I get an idea. Slowly, I pull out, and help Dion stand. I lower my body onto the couch at an angle, spreading my legs, and help Dion straddle my lap. This way she’s in control. My hands on her hips, she lowers herself, rocking up and down, until she’s adjusted. And in true Dion style, it’s not long before she’s screaming profanities. It’s late as hell by the time we exhaust ourselves — two condoms later, and only because I stopped her from going a third time — and neither of us have any desire to move from the floor in the clinic’s waiting room. We’re sweaty, and we’re both going to have carpet rash on our backs in the morning, but I’m sated, and so is Dion. I’m also probably going to be stiff tomorrow, but the exertion will have been worth it.

“I had no idea a professional athlete’s stamina had stamina,” she exhales from where she’s lying on top of me. “I’m still waiting for your cucumber to become a banana.”

I puff out a burst of laughter and brush her hair from her face. “What does that even mean?”