Time Served Read online

  Liar, my conscience chides me.

  Shut up, I think. I want Todd.

  Liar.

  Is it my imagination, or does the ache between my legs diminish a little when I think of him? And increase tenfold when I think of Dean?

  Oh crap.

  I head to the fridge, snatch up an open bottle of white wine, and drink straight from the bottle. You can do this, I tell myself. Put on your pretty new underwear and go.

  So that’s just what I do. The feel of the lace on my skin makes my nipples hard, the soft fabric of the dress brushes my freshly shaved legs and makes my flesh tingle. I leave my hair loose so it’s a mass of shiny dark waves falling halfway down my back, its unfamiliar weight a strange pleasure. I put on blush and an extra coat of mascara, a swipe of red lipstick and a spray of perfume, then step into my heels and check out the results in the full-length mirror.

  Not even in the early days of dating Todd did I put this much effort into looking good. Normally we’d just meet up after work to get dinner or a drink, stiff and formal in our work outfits. I never get to indulge like this. Or like I’m going to, in approximately twenty minutes.

  My nipples tighten even more and my pussy begins to throb as I ride down in the elevator, counting the floors as they pass. No one gets on. Everyone is already out with their friends, their family, their lovers, enjoying their own version of Independence Day. Well, this is mine. I’m finally going to relax. Big time. Todd does not know what he’s in for.

  I stride down the sidewalk and dig around in my purse for the pack of gum I keep in case of emergency, but instead of gum I find a crumpled piece of paper. Frowning, I pull it out and unfold it, heart thudding against my ribs as I recognize Dean’s scrawl. Dean’s address.

  I swallow thickly and shove the paper in a nearby trash can. Suddenly I’m so dizzy I have to stop, resting one sweaty palm against a lamppost for balance.

  “You okay?” someone asks, a disembodied voice in the increasing dark.

  I nod, even as I feel my skin grow damp behind my knees, beneath my arms, between my legs.

  Move, I order my new shoes. Get me to Todd’s so I can drink this wine. Do what I planned to do. Do whatever it is that that ellipses promised. Go. Now.

  I’m suddenly too weak to walk so I flag down a cab, feeling silly as I give the address, though the cabbie doesn’t seem to care so long as I pay the fare. And I look like I can pay the fare. I look like a million bucks, and this effort is not going to waste.

  I spend the entire ride fighting with my conscience, biting my lip so I don’t beg the cabbie to turn around, take me home, take me to that other address. The right one.

  But I don’t say a word.

  When he stops the car I pay and climb out, peering around the dark, empty street, nearby revelers heard but not seen. The door is propped open. There’s no doorman present to turn me away and urge me to make better decisions, so I walk right in, climb four flights of stairs and knock on the door.

  Chapter Five

  At first I think he’s not home. There’s no light coming from under the door, no music, no voices. Of course he’s not here, I think. It’s the Fourth of July. He’s probably out with his friends, or a woman who didn’t break his heart.

  I knock again, just to make the trip worthwhile, and I’ve given up and taken two steps down the hall—one relieved, one disappointed—when the lock turns and the door swings open. I freeze and look over my shoulder, unable to do more than watch as Dean sticks his head out and peers around, first right and then left, spotting me.

  His surprise is evident but he doesn’t speak, and I turn awkwardly, suddenly feeling as foolish and stupid as I knew I would if I came here. I open my mouth to apologize—again—or make up an excuse, but already one of those big hands is reaching out the door, gripping my wrist and yanking me inside.

  Dean slams the door and locks it, pinning me against the scarred wood with his chest. He’s wearing a tank top and basketball shorts, feet bare. I can make out very little of the apartment beyond him, getting only the general sense that it’s a large open space, sparsely decorated, with a television flickering against the far wall.

  I’m stalling and he knows it, waiting until my eyes cautiously lift to meet his, glaring down at me from inches away. With our gazes locked he uses one hand to take the wine and my purse, tossing them on an unseen table, then lifts both hands to cradle my face. I jerk slightly as his thumbs stroke the soft skin of my throat, his flesh fiery hot, rasping over me like a brand. He leaves one hand there, holding me in place, and the other slides down my right side, giving my breast a cursory squeeze, feeling the dip of my waist before going right between my legs, pressing through the fabric of my dress and panties so hard I flinch.

  “Say lawyer if you want me to stop,” he orders, voice tight and low.

  My heart tries to leap out of my throat. I don’t need a degree to know he’s giving me a safe word. Dean Barclay, issuing safe words like it’s a daily occurrence. As though the women in his life are gasping and writhing and begging desperately, so flailing and frantic that they need a safe word to make him stop. That no is just part of the game.

  But instead of kicking him in the balls and running away, instead of shrieking “Lawyer!” at the top of my lungs and taking my leave, I look him in the eye and nod.

  Dean groans, something low and feral that I can feel vibrating through his chest, and buries his face in my neck, lips and teeth hard and seeking. I whimper as the hand between my legs gathers up my skirt until it’s bunched at my waist, held in place by his thrusting hips, and he forces two fingers beneath my brand-new panties and into my pussy without a word of warning. I feel a hint of pain, but mostly I’m relieved.

  My head falls back against the door with a thud, my breath fleeing my lungs. I’m overwhelmed by him. He’s so big. He’s so fast. Like the day we met at the gym and I’d struggled to keep up, this is the same thing. He’s too much for me. And I hate myself for still wanting whatever it is he’s threatening to give.

  “You like that?” he grunts, forging in with a third finger, forcing me to spread my legs to accommodate him. “Feel good?”

  I whimper my response and the hand at my throat turns my face to his so our eyes meet.

  “I asked if it feels good,” Dean repeats harshly. “Answer me.”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “It feels good.”

  “This for me?”

  He thrusts in roughly, his passage eased by my copious juices. I know he’s referring to my wetness, asking if it’s because of him. I want to lie and tell him it’s for Todd, Todd who has hopefully given up on waiting for me and headed out to enjoy the fireworks alone, but I don’t. I nod, feeling his fingers dig into my neck, making it hard to breathe.

  He looks smug. “Good,” he says darkly, then pulls away. “Turn around and hold your skirt over your hips.”

  My breath hitches but I obey, turning on shaky legs to face the door, forced to rest my cheek against the cool wood as I use both fumbling hands to lift up my skirt and hold it in place. Dean grabs my hips and jerks them back so my ass is thrust out, and I feel his fingers hook under the lace at my sides and work it down my legs with surprising care.

  “No,” he says, when I lift my foot so he can slide the panties off. “This is good. Spread your legs as far as you can.”

  I lick my lips nervously but follow orders, stepping apart until the flimsy fabric is stretched between my ankles like shackles. The position opens me up, the night air washing over my sticky skin and chilling the moisture that coats my inner thighs. I don’t know that I’ve ever been this wet—or this wary.

  “Nice,” Dean says, nipping my ass cheek briefly as he straightens behind me. “Even better in person.”

  I close my eyes at the thought of him picturing me like this, skirt hoisted over my hips, shiny with arousal, anxiously awaiting his next move. He pushes one thick finger back inside, stroking roughly as his other hand kneads my ass, thrusting his cock against my b
ack. I can feel the smooth fabric of his shorts on my heated skin and the sensation makes me moan.

  “You like that?” he whispers, biting my earlobe lightly.

  “Yes,” I groan.

  “How about this?” Without warning, he slips his finger out of my pussy and pushes the drenched digit hard and deep into my ass.

  I cry out as I feel the virgin muscles stretch over his thick finger, the first and second knuckles forging through until it’s lodged all the way. The initial pain is sharp and burning, though it ebbs just as quickly. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and war with the urge to cry “lawyer” when we’ve just gotten started.

  If this is how it begins, I think, trembling, I’m not sure I’m ready for how it ends.

  “Say the word,” Dean goads, reading my mind. “Say it, Rachel.”

  I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, but shake my head as best I can against the door.

  Dean trails his tongue down my throat. “Good girl.”

  The finger in my ass starts to move in short, slow strokes, almost tender now that he’s gotten the reaction he was looking for. His other hand unzips my dress and pushes the top down, exposing my breasts to his callused palm. I hiss in a breath as he gropes me roughly, shoving down the lacy cup and pinching my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He lingers for a moment, lips sucking the side of my neck, biting lightly on the tendon there, soothing with gentle, misleading kisses.

  The hand in front slides its way over my stomach and finally—finally—covers my throbbing center, holding me for a long moment, as though letting the moisture gather in his palm. He pushes one finger in, moving it and the one in my ass in tandem, enjoying his hold on me. If not for his labored breathing, I’d think this was all for sport, just a power trip, one thing to cross off his sexual bucket list: Fuck Rachel Moser in all three holes. And make her like it.

  The rough skin of his palm rasps over my throbbing clit and makes me moan, a sound that rattles up from somewhere in my belly and escapes against my will. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and Dean pushes two more fingers into my pussy, alternately fucking my front and back. I feel the orgasm building, stomach muscles contracting, breath coming in shallow, needy gasps. He picks up the pace, at times pressing so hard and deep that I have to stand on my tiptoes to bear it. I wince, my breath hitching with occasional bites of pain, but my body continues to bathe his slick fingers in invitation.

  When I can’t take it anymore, when I’m positively desperate to orgasm, he stops. Dean removes both hands from my body and steps away to collect a condom from the gym bag on the floor, breathing heavily. I’m frozen for a moment, a lewd, needy tableau, waiting for my common sense to return. The first thought reminds me to drop my skirt, which I do, though instead of bending over to hike up my panties, I step out and kick them aside. Then I turn cautiously to face Dean, his face half-hidden in the shadows, every muscle of that big body taut and ready.

  Was this his plan? Show me he can turn me on then kick me out? My pussy clenches frantically at the idea but I keep my face blank, unwilling to beg, not even if he demands it.

  But Dean doesn’t ask for anything, startling me when he pushes his shorts down just far enough to free a raging erection, wrapping it in his hand and jerking himself roughly. “Go sit on the table,” he orders, twisting his head to indicate a pool table in the center of the cavernous space, balls neatly racked at the far end.

  I hesitate, watching him fist himself, wondering why he hasn’t asked me to touch him.

  “Sit on the fucking table,” he barks when I don’t move. “Lay back, spread your legs and put a foot in each pocket. I’ll be there when I’m ready.”

  My back stiffens in indignation at the order. When he’s ready? As though he’s doing me a favor? My pussy urges me to hurry over to the table and get into position, but my pride rears its stubborn head and flatly refuses.

  “No,” I say firmly.

  His eyebrow arches and the hand on his cock stills. “No?”

  I shake my head, meeting his angry stare. “No. Do it here. Face-to-face.”

  He takes a step forward and it’s hard to keep my eyes on his, not to ogle the massive erection that’s the answer to my most pressing issue right now. “Or what?”

  I shrug like I don’t care. “Or keep jerking yourself off like you were going to spend the night doing anyway.”

  His lips twist in what might have been a smile, but whatever it is vanishes in an instant, replaced by a tight, determined scowl. He covers the short distance between us and backs me into the door, the smooth wood bumping my shoulder blades.

  “Skirt up,” he whispers.

  “Condom on,” I counter.

  He does smile then, just for a second, and I lift my skirt as he sheaths himself. There’s no time for second-guessing because the next thing I know he’s got my knee in one hand and he’s hoisting it up over his hip, so high my toes barely touch the ground, even in my shiny silver heels.

  He lines himself up at my sopping entrance and pushes inside, so big and hard that I have to force myself to relax—ha—to let him in. He gives me a few seconds to adapt then forges in some more, burying half his length inside me, tender muscles squealing in protest. A tiny whimper of pain leaves my mouth and he stills, eyes fixed on mine, trying to judge my acquiescence.

  After a moment he moves again, a little gentler than before, still watching my face. He works himself in like this, careful but determined, until my breath is coming in frantic pants and my fingers are latched on to his biceps like they’re a lifeline. He exhales on a shuddering breath when he’s buried all the way inside, so large I can’t imagine how I’m going to walk normally tomorrow.

  But then he moves and I can’t think about tomorrow, can’t think about anything but right now, his cock stroking my tender insides as he fucks me slow and deep until he’s gliding easily through my juices. He begins to thrust harder then, as though my lubrication is permission to really unleash. He pounds into me, my tailbone banging against the door, making me wince. All too aware, Dean releases my knee and slides his hand down my spine, using it to cushion the blows. It also angles my hips forward more, allowing him impossibly deeper access.

  “Oh God,” I cry, as he hits my clit on each thrust.

  “You want to come?” he grunts.

  I nod, eyes squeezed tight.

  “Open your eyes, let me see it.”

  It takes another three thrusts before I can open my eyes, hazy gaze slowly locking on his, inches above me. Despite the fury of the act, the sweat dripping down his temples and between my breasts, Dean’s eyes are still that unnerving combination of hot and cold, as though he resents his desire.

  His left hand has been alternately fondling my breasts and fisting in my hair, and now it jerks my head back to expose my throat to his teeth before sliding down my torso to the slippery place where our bodies are joined. He spreads out his fingers to feel himself fucking into me, then positions his palm so he’s rubbing my clit, hard.

  I come.

  I come with a sound I’ve never heard myself make before, one I cut off by slapping a hand over my mouth. My pussy clamps down on Dean’s hard length, momentarily slowing his thrusts, milking him tight enough that he buries his face in my hair and groans as if he’s in pain.

  When the initial spasms ebb Dean grabs my other leg and forces it over his hip so I’m wrapped around his big body, ankles barely meeting at the base of his spine. He holds me to him, grinding his hips into mine, torturing my painfully sensitive clit. “Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  I stroke his back, his sweat-damp hair, the side of his face. He feels so different from how I remember. Not just bigger, but harder too. The planes of his face are sharper, his jaw more defined, lips made more sensual because of it. And then, without planning to, I kiss him.

  Dean jerks as though I’ve shot him in the heart, yanking his head back and staring at me through wide, stunned eyes. And for once he’s not hot and cold, he’s not angry an
d intimidating, he’s the old Dean, the one who laid himself bare for me and lost his heart in the process.

  “Fuck,” he mutters again. “No.” But he’s not talking to me, he’s talking to himself, and obviously losing the argument. His fingers tangle in my hair, holding me in place as he slants his lips over mine and dominates my mouth, forcing his tongue between my lips and teeth, tasting every inch of me.

  I kiss him back, surprised by the passion I feel even with my lust sated. Dean’s hips piston in and out, bruising my inner thighs, and I can’t imagine that any part of me will be left unmarked by this tomorrow. I do my best to hold his head in place, forcing him to slow the kiss, acknowledge each slide of lip and tongue.

  I feel him come, feel it in the tense set of his shoulders, the straightening of his spine, the way his hips jolt forward in short succession, spewing his release. He moans into my mouth, the sound tender instead of angry. I swallow his sighs and meet them with my own, feeling the fight drain out of him. When he’s done he turns and staggers back to slump against the brick wall beside us.

  I slowly disentangle myself, avoiding his eyes as I lever myself off his softening cock, struggling to find my footing on weak knees and high heels. My skirt falls back into place. I have never felt so used, so thoroughly, well, fucked. So well-fucked, actually.

  I smooth sticky hair from my cheeks and turn my back to Dean as I tug my bra and dress into place. I jolt a little when he zips me up, even though he touches me no more than necessary during the process. I look around, trying to remember what happened to my bag and the wine, accidentally catching Dean’s eye. He’s pulled up his shorts and leans against the wall, only the sheen of sweat on his forehead and shoulders offering any indication that he’d done anything more exciting than watch the fireworks tonight. He jerks his head toward the door and for a moment I think he’s telling me to get out, then I realize he’s pointing me toward my bag.