My mouth is hungry against hers, my lips greedy and aggressive. Surprised, she takes a moment to react, but when she does, she meets my intensity, and I nearly explode.
God, her tongue, her taste!
With a groan, I press against her. My hands wander frantically, trying to touch every part of her at once. I’ve never felt so turned on. Never been so blinded with need. Never wanted to be inside someone like I want to be inside her.
And I know, okay? I know that it always feels like this when I’m horny and about to bang. Like I’ve never been this aroused, never been this hard, never been this into a woman. I know this is just hormones and need. I know I’ll feel this a hundred times over. Probably feel it again tomorrow, even. With someone else.
But right now? As I kiss and grope and grind against her? Right now, this is the only moment that has ever mattered, the only kiss that has ever affected me like this, and whatever my head says about realistic shit, my body says fucking differently.
It’s Genevieve who manages to remember we’re still in the hall.
Untangling herself, she pushes me away. “We should go inside,” she says, breathless, her mouth swollen and her face flushed.
“Yeah.” Dazed, I step away as she works the keycard and shut my eyes tight, clearing my head. I’m on the brink of insanity, just from one kiss. My restraint feels threadbare, and if this is really how I always feel, I can’t imagine how I’ve managed to never go caveman having sex before. Because that’s for fuck sure what I want to do now. Want to swing this girl over my shoulder, carry her to the bed, and then beat my chest before devouring every inch of her.
Bring it down a notch, boy. Or seven.
Genevieve opens the door, and I follow cautiously inside. She drops her purse and crosses the room to the dresser. I hang back, trying to cool off a bit before touching her again. With her back to me, she removes her earrings. Then she reaches behind her to unzip her dress. She lets it fall to the floor, and when she turns around, she’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but panties and heels.
Holy fucking Christ.
I have to bite my cheek so I don’t come right there.
Dirty, filthy ideas flood my mind. Carnal, nasty fantasies. I picture me pushing her against the dresser, my fingers wound tightly in her long hair. I’d yank her head back until she cried out, then I’d pull it harder until she did it again. I’d bite and mark every inch of her creamy skin, starting at her neck. I’d ride her rough. I’d leave bruises. I wouldn’t be nice.
Unlike the feeling that I’ve never been this aroused, these desires actually are ones I’ve never had before. I’ve never had these wild thoughts. Never wanted to be brutal in the bedroom, and the things I want to do to this woman, the vile things I want to say to her—they’re the kinds of things that might be appropriate for lovers who are well acquainted, but certainly not for two people who’ve just met.
As inappropriate as they are, they’re there, pressing against my brain, begging my body to act. It’s tempting. More than tempting—the urge is nearly impossible to fight.
But I have to. I can’t let it win. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what I’m into.
Taking a slow breath, I clench my fists at my side then, as I exhale, I force the vulgar thoughts away. All of them.
When I move toward her, I’ve resumed control. I’m me again. A nice guy. A gentleman. Chandler Pierce—the considerate lover.
It doesn’t take long before I’m in my groove. I’m good to Genevieve, just like I’m good to every woman I’m with. I lick at her ears and along her jaw. I lavish her breasts with attention. I kiss and suckle down the pale skin of her abdomen. I bury my face in her pussy and give her two orgasms with my fingers and my mouth.
Later, when I crawl over her and push inside, she’s warm and tight and the third time she climaxes, I feel her clenching around my sheathed cock. It triggers my own release.
It’s awesome. Like sex always is. Like sex is supposed to be.
I dress quickly after. I clean her up and tuck her in. Pressing a soft kiss to her lips, I tell her I had a good time, and then I leave, just like I promised, just like I do every time.
Her scent clings to me the whole drive home. My body feels hers wrapped around it. My skin still burns from touching her. These lingering remnants of our night will wash away with a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. I know this from experience. Lots and lots of experience.
I am a pro at this. I’ve left many women in many beds, and Genevieve is just another. She’s not the first. She won’t be the last, and tomorrow I’ll have forgotten all about her. It’s only tonight that I imagine I still want more.
3
A handful of days later, I still want more.
I can’t get Genevieve out of my mind. Can’t stop imagining being inside her. My dick is practically raw from how many times I’ve beat off thinking about her.
The thing is—I’m not just thinking about what we did. That wouldn’t be so unusual. I’ve previously had quite a few amazing rolls in the sack that begged to be recreated in my mind later, and who am I to deny those recollections the honor they deserve?
So, yeah. Whacking off to memories is totally standard protocol. I just make sure I don’t think about the specific woman too much when I’m in recall mode, you know, to stay true to the don’t-get-attached part of my objective. It’s generally not a problem.
But with Genevieve, it is.
Her face is etched into my brain. The memory of the silky feel of her skin gnaws at my fingertips. Everywhere I go, I think I hear her laugh in the crowds around me. Seriously, I’m starting to think I’m going insane.