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My eyes roll back into my head as I cling to his arms for dear life. God, are they muscly. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who could literally carry me without breaking a sweat. Although there’s plenty of sweat on my end of things.
There’s still that little nag, nag, nag in the back of my head that’s trying to remind me that I’m forgetting something important. But it’s very hard to concentrate when he’s pushing himself deeper and deeper inside of me.
And concentration is absolutely needed, because the man isbig.
His teeth nip at my neck as I squirm against him. My nails must be tearing his back to ribbons, but he doesn’t complain. He just starts pumping.
“Yes,” I moan. “Yes, yes, yes… ahh…”
I’ve never been particularly vocal in bed—er, I mean, on dining room tables or whatever. But apparently, I wasn’t actually having sex before now. Because this feels so much different than anything I’ve ever experienced. It feels like I’mflying. Except I’m not scared of falling—because I know instinctively that if I fall, he’ll catch me.
It’s weird to have that much trust in a stranger. But he’s not a stranger, right? We shook hands. We broke bread. He bandaged me up when he could’ve had me arrested instead.
A bad guy wouldn’t do that, right?
An asshole wouldn’t do that, would he?
So I let myself disappear in him. And I let myself enjoy every minute of it. I surrender to spontaneity and lose myself in each thrust.
There are moments when it gets almost violent. Like when he swirls his tongue over my nipple and then bites down so hard that I scream. Like when he twists me around on the table, grabs a fistful of my hair and starts ramming his hips against mine from behind like he’s trying to break me in. Like when he starts slapping my ass so brutally I’m equal parts afraid and excited by the thought that he’s going to leave a permanent imprint on my skin.
But at no point during any of these moments do I try to stop him.
At no point during any of these moments do I feel unsafe.
Maybe that’s why I have not one, not two, but three orgasms, each one on the heels of the last. And when I can’t possibly come again, maybe that’s why when he spins me back around and comes inside me with my legs clamped around his waist.
I don’t feel used or taken advantage of. I don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed.
I feel desired and powerful.
And extremely satisfied.
Of course, the post-sex haze lingers for mere seconds before reality sets back in and I realize that I’m drenched in my neighbor’s cum and wearing only a pair of unwearable black tights.
I use one of the discarded napkins to wipe the sweat off my forehead before I grab my shirt and pull it on. “God, it’s late. I… I should get going.”
Uri doesn’t try to stop me. In fact, he doesn’t say a word or move a muscle. So I take the opportunity and retrace my footsteps back to the front door. I’m lucky it’s dark because I manage to hide my total state of undress as I rush, cat burglar style, all the way back off his property and back to the safe zone of my decrepit little bungalow.
Is he watching me? It feels like he is.
Don’t look back.
I get all the way up to my bedroom and collapse into my bed before it strikes me what that little nag, nag, nag in the back of my head was trying to tell me when we’d started to get all hot and heavy.
I just had dirty, steamy, aggressive,unprotectedsex with my next-door neighbor, who may or may not be a mobster.
And just like that, I’m terrified again.
6
ALYSSA
Breathe, Alyssa.
I have a Plan A, which goes by the name of Plan B.
I’ve resolved to wake up bright and early tomorrow morning, drag my ass to the pharmacy, and correct my colossal fuck-up with that lifesaver of a pill. How on earth did I forget aboutbirth control?
