Not the Marrying Kind Page 20

  I’d never been a religious man. Making women come was the closest I came to prayer. With every woman I took home, I was deeply satisfied with their own satisfaction. That devotion was there, turning my rational thoughts to mush. But Fiona wasn’t some beautiful stranger I’d never see again. Her pleasure wasn’t just a fetish I enjoyed.

  I wanted Fiona to come because it was Fiona. Because my little crush wasn’t a crush at all but real, romantic feelings, and I might have been walking on Mars for all the expertise I had in that area.

  I wanted to fuck her, yes. But I also wanted to take her out for ice cream or to a movie that would make her laugh or pick flowers for her in a field somewhere…

  Above my head, she cried out through another climax, pressing her thighs against my ears so hard they ached. After bringing her down gently, with soft kisses and sweet pressure, I finally flipped her skirt over my head and peered up at the woman I wanted to try for.

  She smiled down at me, lazy and feline. Her hair was a snarled halo around her face. “I’ve been sufficiently worshiped.”

  I laughed, holding her gaze as I bit down on her thigh. “You taste delicious, by the way.”

  She sat all the way up. Then placed her finger beneath my chin as she kissed me. Slow and long, her fingers threading through my hair as the fire between us built higher and higher. “It’s never felt like that before,” she said. “Not on any date, not ever.”

  “Any man that doesn’t make you feel like that every time doesn’t deserve you.” The kiss that followed was firm. I gathered her against me, kissing her harder, bending her back so I could fully fuck her mouth with my tongue. It never felt like this for me. It wasn’t that I had sweaty palms and clumsy limbs anymore.

  It was that I suddenly believed I could leap tall buildings with ease for Fiona.

  And if that didn’t mean I needed a doctor I didn’t know what did.

  “You should fuck me now,” she whispered, fingers at my belt, then my zipper. “Like now.”

  Lips still locked, I reached behind my head and tore my shirt off. Scooped her up before turning her back around, palms on the table. If the princess wanted rough, I was prepared to honor that request in the best way I knew how.

  From the dirty look on her face, I knew I’d made the right call. I lifted the hair off her face so I could kiss along her throat and put on a condom at the same time.

  “Fiona.” I kissed her again, sliding the condom down my cock. “I’ve wanted this since the moment you stepped out on to that fire escape. But I know what you want. And I understand what this means.”

  We’d just had sex, were about to have more sex, and even though commitment scared the living shit out of me, I knew I wouldn’t be doing this if I’d been able to walk away. That had to make me different. I had to be different.

  “I trust you,” she whispered, eyes locked on mine. There. Maybe that was all she needed. Not a concrete commitment but a promise to try my best. A trust that my intentions were pure. Which they were, even if my fear was unsettling and the complications of my upcoming move were extremely real.

  But there was no turning back now.

  I smoothed my hand down her spine, shifting her skirt high, revealing her round ass. I squeezed her possessively, kneading her skin, spreading her for my starved gaze. Fiona arched like a cat for me, let me tangle my fingers in all that hair and pull. With a deep breath, and every last bit of restraint I had, I thrust my cock deep inside of her. The pleasure was so intense and dizzying I had to tip my head against the back of hers, blowing out a big breath. My fingers bit into her waist as I seriously contemplated my ability to keep going.

  She laughed. I wrapped my fingers around her throat and kept her mouth close to mine. “Something funny?” My voice was strained and ready to break.

  “You feel incredible,” she sighed. “So fucking big.”

  I slid all the way out, watching as I did. And then I rammed home, jostling her forward on the table. “You like it big, huh, gorgeous?”

  “I like you,” she said. My ego tripled in size. Not because she’d complimented my dick but because I’d secured her affections. And she wasn’t the type to fall for just any man.

  I thrust so hard she flew up onto her toes, releasing that laugh-sigh-moan again. “I like you too,” I murmured, kissing her cheek as I set a steady, punishing rhythm between her legs. I placed my palm in the square of her back and shoved her face toward the table. Kicked her feet wider and held her down.

  I squeezed her ass again, wondering what else she liked. I wrapped my fingers gently around her throat, squeezing harder when she gave me that same dreamy, pleased smile.

  “Do you want me to spank this perfect ass, Fiona?” I asked. “Is that the kind of rough that you like?”

  She stretched her arms out, gripped the very front of the table and held on as I fucked her fast. “You would be the first.”

  Possession—primitive and ancient—roared through me like a goddamn thunderstorm. Being Fiona’s first anything made me feel like a king on his throne. And she was lucky. I had a handful of little kinks that I liked, and spanking beautiful women happened to be one of them.

  I paused my thrusts, only to press my chest to her back and caress her hair. I was deep at this angle, really deep, and her eyes fluttered with pleasure. “I’m going to mark you with my palm, but only in the way that you like. Only in the way that makes you comfortable, okay?”

  I kissed her temple, smoothed the hair away.

  “I think… oh fuck, that’s good… I think you’re going to do great,” she said, laughing softly. I grinned, bit her ear, gave her my deepest thrust yet. She released a mouthful of curse words that only got me hotter.

  Then I stood back up, sped up my pace, and slapped her right on the ass, watching closely for her reaction.

  Which was extraordinary.

  Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, but then she did scream. “Do that again,” she moaned.

  I spanked her again. My red palm blossomed on her pale skin. I wanted to bite her, bruise her, mark her everywhere and declare her mine.

  “More, please, again,” she begged. My own orgasm was gathering at the base of my spine with a vicious precision. I spanked her a third time, then a fourth. Then I fucked her fast and dirty as my palm turned her ass red and I watched her reach some kind of paradise right in fucking front of me. She was slick, fire-hot, internal muscles clenching me so hard I had to send up a handful of prayers to stave off my own climax. Reaching around her, I slid my fingers against her clit and rubbed her in fast circles while I spanked her—the hardest one yet.

  Fiona came, lovely and wild and laughing. And I let go, fucking into her one last time before pressing my mouth to her hair and groaning out her name. It was a once-in-a-lifetime orgasm. It was every single moment of tension between us this week, finally given room to breathe. It stole my breath, blanked my thoughts, had my heart trying to climb right out of my chest.

  Panting heavily, I kissed her face, her hair. “Are you still with me?” I asked softly.

  “In the best way possible,” she sighed. I laughed, sliding out from her carefully before disposing of the condom. I desperately wanted to collapse onto the floor, but the space was too small and the last time this floor had seen a mop was probably in the nineties.

  So I pulled on my pants, sat on that table, and gathered a thoroughly fucked Fiona against my bare chest.

  “We should have done that the first night on the fire escape,” she said.

  I smoothed her hair down, nuzzled the strands. “Wouldn’t have been the same,” I said and meant it. “This was sweeter because of the wait.”

  She tilted up her head. “Are you sure you’re not an expert in dating?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing,” I said. “Like whether what just happened between us was…” I trailed off.

  “Normal?”

  “Where would this go into your spreadsheet, for example?”

  She laughed, leaning
back on her palms after tugging her dress up and covering her absolutely magnificent breasts. “What happened in this supply closet exposes my spreadsheet to be a fucking fraud.”

  “That good, huh?” I teased.

  She bit her lip. Brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “That different.”

  I caught her hand. Pressed it to my lips. “Are you… still scared?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “God, yes.” I wasn’t ready to confront all the questions I was going to need to find answers to. Like whether the way I’d been living had been a lie or not. Or whether my mom’s endless advice to keep moving, keep it light was as much a fraud as Fiona’s spreadsheets. Because what did that mean for the way I’d been living?

  And could I truly change?

  The woman in front of me—looking coy and shy and blissfully happy—begged me to reconsider. And I owed it to her to try, like I’d promised.

  “I think as long as we’re both scared together… it’s okay,” Fiona said. “And thank you. For the worshiping. And the three orgasms. And the spanking.”

  I leaned in, caught her mouth for a filthy kiss. “Did I watch you have an out-of-body experience?”

  “I think so,” she laughed, kissing me back. “You made me feel safe. And listened to.”

  I tucked a strand behind her ear. “You make me feel a lot of things.”

  Beneath our feet, we could hear the driving chords of David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream.”

  “Goddammit, I love this song.” Fiona hopped off the table, smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and tugged her hair up into a messy bun. She looked properly fucked and hot as hell. “Are you coming or what?”

  “Fuck. Yes.” I tugged on my shirt, winked at her, and yanked the door open. “Let’s go hit that dance floor.” She moved past me, but I grabbed her wrist before she could get too far. “And afterward, can we discuss details of our second date?”

  Her green eyes shimmered with hope. “Fuck. Yes.”

  29

  Fiona

  I stood outside my childhood home—a ramshackle, slightly run-down Victorian in Queens from where my parents had proudly hung both an anarchy flag and a gay pride rainbow flag. Both fluttered in the warm spring breeze as I climbed the steps and opened the old, warped door.

  The total absence of sound—specifically, music—was the only indicator that my parents were setting up for Sunday night band practice. Their tour schedule was all over the map, and they were often gone for weeks at a time during the year, touring up and down the East Coast. But when they were home, band practice was always open for anyone who wanted to come and watch. Sometimes that was our neighbors or family members. Sometimes that was visiting bands that used to stay at our house, debate music over our dinner table, and roll up the living room rug to teach us their favorite dance moves.

  Tonight, it was only me.

  Or so I thought.

  “Mom? Dad?” I called, setting my keys down on the stack of records we kept by the door for that very purpose. “I brought Thai food.”

  There was a clashing sound from the garage, so I headed that way, passing through our living room and kitchen, which were as chaotic as ever. Every room in our house was full of worn, cozy furniture, shelves of records and books, and pictures of me and Roxy shoved into frames and hung on every flat surface. There were no less than three record players in the entire house plus two large stereos and a guitar and bongo set in most rooms.

  “In case the muse strikes!” my dad would always say.

  I set the Thai food down on the table, frowning when I saw that all of my many reminders on the fridge were now hiding under a bunch of takeout menus. I uncovered them, made a giant space, and re-centered the colorful pieces of paper. They listed doctors’ appointments, the upcoming quarterly tax deadlines, and an appointment I made with a contractor to check out a leak that had sprung in the roof last winter. My parents always relented and tackled these tasks eventually. But it required a constant, steady hand and all the reminders.

  “Mom?” I called again, hearing voices. I reached into the fridge, grabbed a beer. There was a twinge in my lower back that had me smiling. I spent the morning soaking in a long, luxurious bath. I was sore everywhere—from dancing with Max for three straight hours, of course.

  And then from the three incredible, life-changing orgasms he’d given me afterward. Every time I sat down, I winced. And then I was treated to a slew of fun, filthy, dirty memories of Max’s hands and their magical spanking powers.

  We’d danced until closing time and kissed a lot more. And before the cab even had me home, Max had texted me to confirm our second date. Tomorrow.

  I’d squealed, pressed the phone to my chest, too excited to listen to the voice in my head still urging caution. The concert was in seven days. But even more troubling, Max’s new job started in eight—which we’d barely discussed.

  But like Roxy had said, we were here to trust and here to feel. And the way Max made me feel put my feeble calculations from last year to shame.

  I opened the back door, stepped out into our backyard, which was filled with a messy, verdant garden and a small path leading to the converted garage. A second later, I heard my parents start up a cover of a song by The Stooges—a typical warm-up. For the first time in a long time, the combination of nostalgia and music here was a comfort and less of an aggravation. It must be a lingering effect of last night’s musical healing, which I carried around in my heart all day.

  I pushed open the side door to the garage. “I’ve been calling you guys—oh.”

  There, sprawled on the collection of old couches and chairs, were Pop, Mateo, and a handsome man I assumed was Mateo’s fiancé, Rafael.

  Leaning against the wall, arms crossed with a wicked half-grin, was Max.

  A chorus of “Hey, Fi,” sprang up from the couch. Meanwhile, Max was speechless while simultaneously blushing around a smile that weakened my knees.

  “There’s our brilliant daughter!” A second later, I was descended upon by my parents, who both had blue hair now and were dressed down for the evening in just one piece of leather apparel each.

  “Um… hi?” I laughed, squeezing them back. Over my mom’s shoulder, Max arched a single eyebrow my way. I shrugged, mouthed what are you doing here?

  “With everything happening with The Red Room, we thought it might be nice to have Pop and Max over for band practice. Reminisce about old times. And celebrate all the good work you’re doing.” My mom’s eyes were sparkling with delight. “Plus, Max brought over his best friends. Did you know they’re getting married?”

  I beamed a grin at Mateo and Rafael. “I sure did.”

  “We’re playing at the wedding now,” my dad said. The second he turned his back, I shot a discreet glance at Mateo, who only laughed as he raised a beer. When I finally extricated myself, I made my way over to the couch, giving Pop a pat on the shoulder.

  “Has Angela written back yet?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “This morning. She likes the idea of a date at the park.”

  I caught Max’s eye. The affection there briefly stopped my heart.

  Mateo gave me a hug, whispering, “Of course they can play at our wedding.”

  “Okay, but don’t feel pressured,” I whispered back, turning to meet Rafael for the first time. He had a shaved head, light tan skin, and an incredibly friendly smile.

  “I’m Fiona,” I said, taking his hand. “It’s nice to finally officially meet you.”

  He shook my hand with a playful expression. “Max told us all about you. And your date.”

  Max snorted. “Traitor.”

  I stepped back, looking between a red-faced Pop and my smirking parents. “I’m sorry. But is this a setup?”

  “What’s a setup?” My mother was all faux innocence.

  Pop shrugged. “I’m happy you and Maxy are dating. So fucking shoot me.”

  “As usual, Pop says exactly what’s on my mind,” my dad said. He pul
led three folding chairs close to the couch and sprawled in one with his guitar in his lap. The light plucking of the strings, the bluesy scale-picking, yanked me back to my childhood. “Your mother and I were delighted to hear that you and Max finally went on a date. Although the amount of money I lost to Mateo makes me embarrassed.”

  “What?”

  My mom patted my knee. “Your father and I predicted—well, placed a bet—that you and Max would be dating after only three days. I mean, look at him.”

  I dropped my head in my hands. “Oh my fucking god.”

  “Thank you, Sandy,” Max said. “I’ve been known to turn a head or two in my day.”

  “What if our first date had been awful?” I pinned my parents down with a scrutinizing gaze. “What if we’d gone out and realized we hated each other and had nothing in common? Or that secretly Max is really boring?”

  Mateo coughed into his hand. A cough that sounded suspiciously like the words supply closet.

  Max was laughing softly, shaking his head. He dragged a chair next to mine to sit in, long legs spread in his usual loose-limbed confidence. He tapped my foot with his boot. Just once. But if a foot-tap could be a caress, this would be it. The brief touch pulled my eyes directly to his.

  And then he winked at me like a smug bastard. “Yeah. But that didn’t happen, did it?”

  My parents laughed, but it was good-natured and happy sounding. Mateo and Rafael were watching us with dual expressions of silly fondness. Pop, arms crossed, was studying his son carefully.

  “No,” I finally said. “That didn’t happen. It was a very… a very lovely first date.”