Page 11 of Hard Rider

Well, of course he'd bring me to his apartment. Outside of Alson Park, it was the site of all our high school experiments. It was where we'd twined and curled our bodies together, countless sleepless nights, sweating through the sheets...

“I can't believe you still live here,” I said as Cross walked into the kitchen and started making noises. The décor was mostly unchanged. Boy-sparse, if you know what I mean. Milk crate for a coffee table, rips in the couch cushions, an ashtray overflowing. The TV didn't look like it could possibly work, but it probably did.

The only thing that looked cared for was the liquor cabinet; that was fully stocked. And the bookshelves; those were fully stocked, too. I’d never met anyone who read as much as Cross did, though he tried to hide it from everyone. Like he was embarrassed that he had brains and brawn. I could understand that. Growing up the way we did, it wasn’t good to show off.

“Rent's cheap, and all my stuff's already here,” Cross yelled from the kitchen. I walked through the living room to the hallway. The kitchen was on the left. The bathroom was right in front of me. I did not want to explore the bathroom – there were probably specimens on his shower curtain that would interest NASA. If I turned right, I'd end up in his bedroom.

It had been such a nice day. I could almost forget what I was doing to him. What a dirty, awful rat I was. How little I deserved him. How I should just walk out, right then, and run away and never come back. Guilt curdled in my stomach as I looked down the hall to the kitchen. It sounded like Cross was just banging pots together to make noise. I looked to the right, to the bedroom. The door was open.

The whole apartment smelled like him.

My legs still tingled from the roar of his engine between them, the feel of his bike and the smell of his leathers in the wind just like coming home all over again. It was the smells, I think, that did me in. They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. And boy, was I remembering some shit, standing in that hallway, staring at that bedroom, knowing everything I learned there on that bed, every time I cried his name. I turned my body to the right and took a few steps.

“Bex?”

I jumped at his voice behind me, looked over my shoulder. He was empty-handed, but his eyes were full. My heart thudded dully in my chest, my blood in my ears, making them ring.

“Bex,” he said again, not a question this time. He came to me, stood right behind me, and I turned again to face the bedroom, the open door of the bedroom, the side of the bed visible through the open door of the bedroom...

He brought his hands to my neck, and his fingers rolled across the knot at the top of my spine. Spreading his hands wide, his fingers traced my skin, moving back and forth along the sides of my neck. He knew that was where I was most vulnerable, my body responding immediately.

“Cross,” I moaned, feeling my body shift backwards against his. His fingers kept grazing my neck, wrapping around it just to pull away, over and over and over...“What are you doing?”

As if I didn't know. His fingers stilled, then dropped, and then suddenly he was in front of me, his blue eyes blazing, his body casting a shadow over mine.

“I'm taking you to bed,” he growled, closing the distance between us, grabbing my cheek in his hand. When his thumb ran over my flesh, I melted, closed my eyes, purring for him like a kitten. “And you're going to come.”

He said it like he knew it, and I believed him. No one – ever – had made me come like Cross. Wild, delicious release...I could feel it at my fingertips, so close.

“Cross,” I moaned, “I only been back two days...I can't...”

“Can't what, darlin'? If you tell me to stop, I'll stop. Maybe you been gone ten years, but the way a man like me feels for a woman like you...”

I sighed, eyelids fluttering closed, letting my heart believe him for as long as I could. Letting my body pretend this was real. Wanting it like my lungs wanted air to breathe. It had been so long, and my skin was tight from desire. There was an itch in me, to feel that stubble against my cheek, to dig my nails into his wall of muscle, to scratch and bite and love him up until it was gone.

“And how's that, Cross?” I asked. “How is it that a man like you feels for a woman like me?”

I opened my eyes, found his eyes waiting for me. Like I thought, maybe, we'd just been waiting for each other, not even knowing it. I didn't know how hollow I'd felt until I was in his arms again, feeling so full.

“Like startin' over, baby,” he said. “Like lovin' you right, all over again.”

“Oh,” I moaned, and it was my way of saying yes.

Cross reached down, tugged at my belt loops, pulled me along as he walked backward down the hallway. And he still hadn't kissed me, had barely touched me, but I was on fire for him. He slammed the door shut behind us, his bedroom sparse – but I wasn't really looking at anything but him, those blue eyes holding me as tight as his arms.

“Get this off you,” he growled, yanking at my jeans. My fingers flew to my jeans, undoing the button in the space of a heartbeat, letting them slide down my hips into a puddle on the floor. My shoes were a little harder to get rid of, but Cross took the chance to walk away from me, studying me from across the room, on the other side of his bed. My heart was thudding heavy in my chest, my body exposed for the first time in a long time.

“The shirt, too, Bex,” he said, arms crossed, blue eyes blazing. “Everything. Give me everything.”

Oh, fuck. I was going to; I had to. My body was already his. I stripped down to nothing but my bra and panties, skin puckering and rising in gooseflesh. He ran a hand through his hair, his reaction to my body as hot as a touch. My breasts were shaking slightly as they spilled out of the top of my bra, and his hands fisted.

“Come here,” he said. “Now.”

I loved it. I loved how he took control. In this room, the two of us, alone, there was nothing but pleasure. No fear, no guilt, nothing. Just flesh on flesh. I stepped forward, kneeled on the bed, crawled forward on all fours, eyes never leaving his.

“Fuck, Bex,” he grunted, watching me crawl towards him with my lips open and my body bared for him. His. He grabbed me, pulling me up in those impossibly strong arms, and finally our lips met. It was quick, and dirty, and I moaned against his tongue as it pressed against my own. He kissed me like he was starving, and I was the only food for miles.

His hands moved to my ribcage, then to my breasts; frustrated by the fabric keeping him from my skin, he ripped my bra away, tearing the clasp. My nipples hardened as he brushed them with his thumbs, tightening with each passing second. Pinching them between his thumb and forefinger, he drew a muffled cry from my throat.

“Cross...” I could barely say his name as he pulled away; it was so sudden that I swayed slightly, and he grabbed my thighs, pulling my legs out from under me. This time, I cried out in surprise, as I found myself on my back, ass bouncing against the mattre

ss, my panties being ripped away from my slit. I was wet already, I knew; soaked, actually. My body had been preparing for him since he picked me up that morning. My body knew what it wanted, what it needed. Him, his tongue, his fingers on my flesh...

“Fuck, yeah, baby,” he crooned, taking in the sight of me, spread-eagle and naked on his bed. His hands grabbed at my thighs, kneading and stroking the flesh until I was writhing, grabbing the bedsheets for traction, moaning in desperation. My pussy ached, my clit throbbed for him. I felt like the slightest touch would send me over the edge; and Cross knew it, too. He knew it, and he was going to use it against me. Sweet, sweet torture.

He moved one hand from my thigh to my breast, cupping it from below while his fingers found my nipple and tweaked it, hard. I cried out, thrashing my head to the side, my hips bucking, reaching for the lips and tongue he was denying me.

“You want to tell me what you want, baby?” He teased from between my legs, moving his other hand across my torso, clutching and teasing my breast, pinching and twisting each nipple. I remembered this, all too well; the way he always wanted me to say it, say the dirty words, tell him exactly what I wanted. He wanted to hear me beg.

“Please,” I whispered, grabbing at his hair, so long now compared to before. I loved it, the feel of each strand flowing through my fingers. “Please, Cross...”

But no matter how I tugged, he was stronger, always stronger, and he was going to wait until I was pleading with my last breath.

“You gotta be more specific than that,” he said, and now his mouth was so close that I could feel the air propelled by his words against my lips, driving a stake of need through my stomach. His hands left my breasts, grabbing at my thighs and swinging them over his shoulders, my lower back lifting from the sheets.

“Fuck me, or lick me, oh God, Cross, do something, let me come, Cross, please, please, please,” I cried, giving in to him. And I was rewarded. Cross leaned in and rolled his tongue around my throbbing clit; at the same time, he thrust two fingers into my slit, curling them upwards and finding my g-spot in seconds. My spine went stiff and I fairly levitated off the bed as every nerve sparked at once.

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