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31
Lila
Hawkbusiedhimselfscrollingthrough something on his phone, leaving his omelet half-eaten. He was avoiding me and this conversation. If I didn’t lighten the mood on this family topic, our weekend might be over before I got another chance to lick the outlines of his abs.
“Well, Karma’s my family now.”
He looked up. “Seriously? Your dog?” His voice was full of doubt.
“Absolutely,” I said in a voice full of pep. “Why not? I love her to bits.”
“You’ve only had her for a few weeks.”
“So? She cuddles on the couch with me, we take walks together, and she licks my chin when I’m sad. Don’t you consider Rambo your family?”
“The word family never had a good meaning for me. So, no. What Rambo and I have is so much more.”
Well, melt my heart.
We spent the rest of the weekend talking and fucking and sleeping in each other’s arms. The fucking turned into something gentler, less desperate. Not quite lovemaking, but somewhere in between. Sometimes rough and wild. Sometimes slow and tender.
And always different. He fucked me hard in the shower, water splashing all around us. I rode him in the jacuzzi, slow and more intimate as we stared into each’s eyes.
Then we had a quickie on the couch. I went down on him again, and he was just as commanding and in charge as the first time. He ate me out, and I was just as wild and ferocious with my nails as the first time on my desk.
Hawk admired the scratches on his arms, saying he hoped they’d scar forever so he could always have a visual reminder of the pleasure he had given me. And he loved that I had put my trust in him when it came to my body, letting him do whatever he wanted.
I convinced him to let me take charge a few times. I pinned him to the bed as I had my way with him. Almost. I wanted to tie his hands to the headboard, but he refused. As he glanced at the exit, he explained it was too dangerous, and he needed to stay on guard, whatever that meant.
Apart from that one condition, I took control as I straddled him, bringing myself down on him only by an inch. He tried to thrust his hips up to get more than the tip of his cock in me, but I wouldn’t let him. Not for a long time. I rode only the head as I pinched his nipple. He groaned and moaned. I waited for him to beg, but he never did. He probably had too much pride for that.
As I rode his tip, torturing him, I tried many tactics to get him to beg. I fondled my own tits. His eyes had grown wide, but he said nothing. I circled my clit with my fingers until I came around the head of his cock. He swore. A lot. But never begged.
To my surprise, he seemed to love it when I took charge, the pride evident in his eyes. Finally, I slammed down onto him. His roar of pleasure was the most erotic and satisfying sound I had ever heard. I rode him fast. He didn’t need long, as he was already so close after all the teasing I had done.
In between our sexual romps, our conversations grew longer. And deeper. I told him about my career ambitions of becoming the most renowned addiction psychiatrist, specializing in psychotherapy, in the country. I told him why I chose this field of work. As a psychiatrist, I could have focused on working in a hospital, prescribing addiction medications, and rushing off the patients to a 12-step program, but I wanted to have a greater impact on people’s lives. I wanted to find the root cause of their problems and aid in their healing. Help them overcome their pain and make their lives better, so I focused my career on the psychotherapy side of psychiatry. I told him about the self-help book I was working on so I could reach more people.
He listened and whispered something about dark beauty. Then he told me about his investment firm, along with his hope of one day winning the Hedge Fund Lifetime Achievement Award. After some careful probing from me, he opened up about how challenging it had been to get into investing when his father hadn’t been supportive. Hawk was very vague when he spoke, but I read between the lines. From what I guessed, his dad had forced him into a life of crime, and Hawk was still in that life, even though he had this legitimate side business.
We talked about our dogs. He told me about his cat, Daisy, and the way she bossed him around, making him cater to her every command.
I told him about my Fettuccini Alfredo analogy and my ex Bradley. He hugged me tight and told me repeatedly how beautiful and perfect I was. He gave my tummy so many kisses and affection that I finished the weekend believing my body actually was beautiful.
We discussed the future, skirting on the subject of relationships without implying either of us in it. We both shared that neither of us wanted kids because our careers were all-consuming. I confessed I hadn’t had a real relationship since Bradley. He confessed he hadn’t had one in a few years since some ex named Fiona. He had spit out her name like it was poison.
We both blamed our careers, but I knew my real reason. Trust. I didn’t know how to trust again. At least I didn’t think I did until I met Hawk. Just my luck. The first man I trusted in over ten years and he wanted nothing to do with me past Sunday night.
I toyed with the hope that he’d change his mind. That maybe he’d developed feelings for me as I had for him. But he reminded me a few times that we would never see each other again after this weekend. Even though his eyes were less and less convincing, he still repeated the same words.
Our last time together before we had to get ready to leave was… different.
He palmed my cheek and gazed into my eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Lila. Remember that.”
I blinked a tear away. He kissed me everywhere. My forehead. My nose. My lips, where his kisses started gentle but grew harder, full of passion. Then he continued to caress my body with his mouth. He roamed over my breasts, my hips, and spent extra time on my tummy.
When he settled on top of me, we gazed into each other’s eyes. I kept mine open the whole time, wanting to memorize the arch of his brows, the curve of his nose, the tempest brewing in his eyes.
He thrust into me slowly, filling me up. I gasped and hung onto his shoulders, clutching at him. His strokes were slow and gentle. Neither of us demanded control. Instead, we savored each other’s embrace.
