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Toward the back of the complex, past the pool and clubhouse, Eight found Marcella’s SUV, parked in a carport, facing a courtyard. He found an empty slot and parked.
Jesus, this was stupid. But okay. Let her tell him that and send him packing. Maybe what he needed was a spat with an angry woman. If he could figure out which apartment was hers.
At the mailboxes, he took a stab—and yeah, the boxes had both last name and what he assumed was apartment number on each little metal door. One read 1921—LEWIS.
Up ahead were three buildings, each with a plaque on the wall near the central stairs: 19, 20, 21. He went to building 19, saw apartments 10 and 11 on the first floor, climbed the stairs and found apartment 21. Did that make this address 1921?
As one of the approximately hundred Magic 8 Balls he’d been given as gag gifts over the years might attest, ‘outlook good.’
Still with no fucking idea what he was doing, why he was doing it, or what the hell he’d say if she opened the door, Eight knocked. Then he waited.
He waited a full minute and knocked again. This time, within a few seconds, he sensed someone at the other side of the door. Not a sound but a feeling, like she—if he was at the right door—was leaning on it, looking through the peephole. He knocked again, more softly, and opened his mouth to say her name, but no sound would come out.
The door swung open, and Marcella stood there. She’d changed out of her leather pants and flowing blouse and was wearing a bright yellow flowered robe, like a kimono. He could see the outline of her body; she wasn’t wearing anything at all under that skimpy silk. Her hair was wrapped up in bright yellow silk, too, and her face shone like she’d just washed it.
He tensed, waiting for her to yell at him, maybe even strike out, but she didn’t. She just stared.
Eight stared, too. He was here because he’d needed to talk to her, but he didn’t know what he needed to say. There were no words in his head at all. Just a howl. Wind through an empty room.
And then an impulse grabbed him. He took a step toward her, into the threshold. Marcella held firm, but rocked her body back a bit, like a flinch she’d tried to fight off.
He took her head in both his hands, keeping her in place, and kissed her.
As soon as his lips covered hers, Eight understood. Not everything, not most things, but what he’d needed tonight. Not talk. This. He needed to fuck Marcella.
For a moment, she did absolutely nothing. She didn’t kiss him back, or open her mouth. She didn’t fight him off. Like a statue, she stood there. But when he pushed his tongue against her lips, she made a noise, a grunt or a whimper. Her hands came up and took fistfuls of his shirt, over his shoulders, and her mouth opened.
The change between them then was so swift and powerful, Eight wouldn’t have been surprised to hear an actual thunderclap blast through the room.
He walked farther in, pushing her with him, his tongue deep in her mouth, her tongue writhing against his. Swinging them both around, he shoved her against the door, and it slammed closed as her body struck it.
Her hands were still fisted in his shirt, pulling on it so she had it mostly off his shoulders, the buttons straining. Eight let go of her head and grabbed her hips, shoving her up on the door so he could drag the yellow silk off her shoulders and bare her fucking gorgeous tits. He gave up the kiss and sucked one dark nipple into his mouth, deep and hard, making the skin drag against his teeth. She cried out and wrapped her legs around him.
Fuck yeah, this was it. This was what he needed. He’d needed it for fuckingweeks. For the first time in weeks, he had a woman in his arms and was rock hard in his jeans. Like his dick had decided it wanted only her.
She was fucking naked under that robe; her bare pussy ground hard against his hip as he sucked her tit. She’d let go of his shirt and wound her arms around his head, her fingernails scratching his scalp like she meant to draw blood. He felt the hot wind of her panting breath gusting over his head.
Goddamn, he needed to feel her on his dick. He had never needed anything this bad in his life. Leaning into her, pressing her in place with his body, he scrambled for his wallet and got hold of a condom, dropping the wallet and letting it swing from its chain as he fumbled the packet open and got the thing on. Every muscle in Marcella’s impatient body undulated on him. When he positioned himself and shoved in, hard and fast, balls deep, she screamed on an inhale and slammed her face to his shoulder, shoving her hands into his shirt and digging her nails like talons into the meat of his delts.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck. She smelled like soap and coconut and dried sweat, and it was hot as hell. Opening his mouth, he sucked her flesh in so it covered his tongue.
He fucked her hard and fast, with everything he had, and she came quickly, grunting loudly, her nails digging deep and her teeth biting down until he felt the skin break. He fucking loved it.
When her throes were over, she leaned back against the wall. Her bottom lip showed a light smear of blood—his blood—and she licked it slowly away.Jesus.
He hadn’t forgotten what a great fuck she was, but he had, a little. He’d forgotten this feeling, for sure. Hooking his free hand around the back of her neck, he covered her mouth and tasted his own blood as his tongue plunged deep.
Despite his longest dry spell since McAllister, despite his dick’s recently unreliable behavior, he hadn’t come, was still painfully hard, and Marcella began to move again, twisting and writing between him and the door, wringing his dick out with her tight sweet pussy.
Groaning, he hooked her legs more firmly around his waist and lifted her from the door, looking over her shoulder at the unfamiliar room. Her sofa was right there, the back in the middle of the room, and he pulled out, swung her around, dropped her face-first over it, and shoved himself back in, all before she could do more than gasp as he filled her again.
Again, he drove hard, letting his jeans and boxers drop to his ankles as he slammed his hips against her ass, each strike an audible slap cracking through the room. Marcella grunted and squealed with each thrust, her hands flailing, seeking purchase on the sofa and scrabbling at his hands with her polished nails. They weren’t very long, but damn, they were sharp.
He grabbed her hands and crossed her wrists, holding them together in one fist, at the small of her back. The silk around her head had come loose and flopped at her shoulder as they slammed together; he snatched it from her hair and tossed it away, then twisted her hair in his other fist and rode her like a bronco until she screamed into the sofa cushion and her pussy clenched a desperate throb around him.
Still, he didn’t come. He could feel it building, a storm massing deep in his gut, but it hadn’t struck yet. He meant to keep going just like this, but Marcella surged up, her back arcing like a bow, and worked her legs until she had her feet at his knees, pushing him back.
His bad knee wouldn’t take much of that, so he backed off, pulling out again. His dick bobbed. Fuck. Was she not going to let him come?
