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I feel his breath on my skin, the brush of his forehead across my naked mons. I want him to fill me, physically, as he has filled me emotionally and spiritually. “Lie down,” I instruct.
He rolls onto his back, opening his fly, knowing what I want, never once breaking eye contact with me. His cock bounces free, long and hard, oozing. Climbing over him, I lift and lower, taking him inside, my sex hungrily eating him up while my boots bite into his flanks. Looking down at him, I know that what Daniel saw in me may never have been revealed by anyone else, and that makes me snatch at him, my nails driving into his shoulders as I grind down onto his cock. He recognized her in me before I did. He told me he could see her, showing me the real me.
I make love to him fast and hard. Taking him, using him, devouring everything he gives, until his body bucks up under me. He spurts inside me and then I come, with loud and determined force, reveling in the sense of power and release. The inner vixen, risen and reigning supreme.
Sign Your Name
Saskia Walker
Kind of weird, that’s how Molly thought of herself. She told guys that, but mostly they thought she was referring to her attitude or her dress sense, both of which were also kind of weird. She was skittish and wayward, punky, yet quiet and thoughtful. And it wasn’t just that. The thing that got Molly off sexually was pretty unusual too, and she felt it was only fair to let potential lovers know what she needed, up front. The only way to do that was to show them how it worked. Mostly, they didn’t take her seriously. That is, not until Doug came along.
Doug had a spark of curiosity in his bright blue eyes, and a warm, subtle sense of humor. He was intuitive. She liked the way he looked, had done since the day he first walked into her workplace. He had cropped and spiked black hair, and smiled slow and long, kind of like Mickey Rourke. He ran the secondhand music exchange down the street, and he chose quiet times to come and collect his dry cleaning from the outlet where she worked, times when he remembered that she’d be working her shift – and was just about to shut up shop. He brought her black Nubuck leather jeans, and a multitude of cool Dragonfly shirts, shirts he wouldn’t trust to his beat-up old washing machine – or so he said. She’d already warmed to him when he began to chat her up more purposefully.
“You know, Molly,” he said, leaning over the countertop to close the gap between them, “we get on so well. Maybe we could go for a drink sometime.” He smiled that drawn-out smile, and it made something inside her tick hopefully.
She put her pen down on the countertop between them, making a line in the space there, and nodded. “Okay.”
“Great. Give me your number and we can work out a time.” He picked up the pen and flipped over his till receipt, ready to write on the back of it.
Molly stared at the pen in his hand, immediately aroused and self-aware. The key to her kink was right there in his hand. She liked to be written on – in fact it aroused her to the point where she could come from that act alone. This was the time to show him; then she could see how he would react.
She took a deep breath. “Tell you what . . .” Her voice sounded shaky, and she hated that. She didn’t want this to go wrong. She wanted him. Badly. “Why don’t you give me your number? It’ll be better that way. Really, I promise.”
Before he could question her, or show doubt about why she’d said that, she shoved her forearm out across the counter between them, pulling up the sleeve of her top. She ran her finger up and down the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of her forearm. “Write it . . . here. Please.”
Would he laugh at her? One corner of his mouth was still lifted and stayed that way. He toyed with the pen, his eyes assessing. Her breath was trapped in her throat. A moment later, he slowly moved one hand and held her wrist down on the counter with it, while he began to write on the spot she had indicated with the other.
His hand around her wrist was warm and strong and sure. And then – oh. The pressure he applied through the ballpoint on her skin made her nerves leap, the sensation chasing itself up her arm and through her body, flooding her with arousal. She bit her lip.
He looked up from the place he was writing and back at her. She could tell he’d sensed this wasn’t just about exchanging numbers. A needy moan escaped her lips.
He stared; one eyebrow lifted, the pen, also. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She could barely get that one small word out, and when she did, it was with a breathless, relieved sigh. She shrugged. “I’m wired weird. I just wanted you to know. Up fro
nt.”
She snatched her arm away, bracing herself for the disbelieving laughter, the snide remark. Tension hung in the air between them, seemingly endless. Then he looked down at the countertop. What was he thinking?
He glanced up. “Kinky girl, huh?”
She stared him directly in the eye, her heart beating fast as she braced herself for rejection. “Does it bother you?”
“Quite the opposite,” he replied, and flashed her a grin. “If I know what turns you on, it gives me power . . . and it just so happens I like to be in charge.”
Oh, that made her hot. It was so far from what she had expected him to say, so direct. And then he moved. In a heartbeat, he levered himself over the counter, jumping lithely down onto her side of it. For the first time, he had breached the physical divide between them – and he’d brought the pen with him. Holding it raised in his hand, he put his free hand on her shoulder and walked her through the rails of plastic-covered clothes, backing her toward the wall behind those rails, out of sight of the shop front. He cornered her up against the wall.
Her body pulsed with the thrill of his actions.
He grasped her two hands easily in one of his, and lifted her chin with the pen under her jaw, an action that shot sensation down her neck and chest, right into her hardening nipples. She gasped for breath, her eyes closing and her head moving back to lean against the wall.
“Oh yes, it really does it for you, doesn’t it? How bad is it?”
He still had the pen under her jaw, controlling the position of her head and where she could look. Could she tell him? Her eyes were shut and she kept them that way. “I need it.” Her voice was a mere murmur. “I can’t come any other way, not the way I do if . . .”
When her voice trailed off, he moved the pen just enough to apply pressure to the sensitive flesh beneath her jaw. Her eyes flashed open.
“Is this making you wet?”
