Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

I want more than that. I want so much.

Her hand slips down another inch. Her finger bisects my chest, cleaving a line through my abs. She hooks it in the waistband of my jeans and pulls me closer.

“If we start now,” she says in a low voice, “it can be two weeks and eight hours.”

The night seems very dark despite the lamp lighting the street. I can hear the weeds in the empty lot rustle in on a night breeze. All my senses are catching fire. The sensation of her hand, warm against my skin, inches from my groin. I slide my arm around her, pulling her close to me for a hard kiss. Her lips open to mine.

And then there is no night. There is no lamp. There are no weeds to rustle. There’s just me and her and this shattering kiss. There’s only our hands, wrapping around each other, touching, wanting. Our bodies, closing the distance.

She doesn’t uncurl her finger from my jeans; instead, she undoes the fastening. She takes hold of the zipper.

“I’m undoing this on the count of three,” she says. “So if we’re not inside by then…”

I pick her up. She lets out a little gasp, but leans against me. Her weight is welcome. It’s wanted.

“One,” she says.

I take her across the street.

“Two.”

At least she’s counting slowly. I struggle with the gate. We pass the clothesline strung in the backyard, laden with shapes that are indecipherable in the dark.

“Three.”

True to her word, she’s unzipped my jeans by the time I’ve managed to unlock the door. By the time we’re inside, shutting the door, her hands are on my bare hips, sliding under my boxers.

“Tina. Wait.”

I can’t see her face in the dark.

“Two weeks,” she says. “And eight hours. I don’t know what I’ve been waiting for.” And she slips to her knees. She takes down my boxers, and takes me in her mouth.

I go from semi-erect to sledgehammer hard in the space of a few seconds. Her mouth is fucking hot; her hands slide up my thighs. She teases me with her tongue, tracing the head of my penis, then taking my full length again.

“Holy fucking shit.” My hands tangle in her hair. “Tina. Jesus.”

She pulls away briefly. “Don’t tell me to slow down.” Her voice is shaking. “I want to do this.” And then her mouth is on me, hot, sending pleasure shivering up my spine.

“I want to do things, too,” I growl.

In answer, her lips press around my length. The pressure intensifies. It’s so good, it takes control of me. My hips flex of their own accord. My hands tangle in her hair. My whole body tightens, tensing. I can’t take much more of this, not without blowing my load. And as much as I want that…

It takes an act of willpower to set my hands on her shoulders, to step away.

She looks up at me. She’s on her knees in front of me. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light filtering in through the windows.

“Tina.” My voice is a growl. “Do I get to touch you back?”

Her hands clench on my thighs.

“It’s easier this way. If I don’t have to…”

“Be vulnerable?”

I can hear her exhale. “If I don’t have to admit that I am vulnerable.” But she looks up, and then, very slowly, she stands. “But I am.” Her voice is low. “I am, Blake.”

“Hey.” I touch her lips. “You’re not alone.”

She reaches out and takes my hands. “Nothing is safe,” she says, and slowly, she stands. She puts my hands on her. She slides them under her shirt, and my fingers find her skin, warm and soft and inviting.

“Bullshit,” I say softly. “After all this time? You know how I feel. You know what I want. Maybe the rest of the world is dangerous to us. But you? Me?” I run my hands up her ribs. Her bra is soft and silky to my touch. Her nipples make hard dots against the fabric. She shivers, and I can feel her body tense all over. And then she relaxes, melting into my touch. Letting me stroke those hard points, letting that sensual desire coil between us.

“You know the truth,” I say. “We’re not dangerous, not to each other.”

She lets out a breath. “Not for the next two weeks and eight hours.”

And then we’re kissing again, lips melting into each other in the dark, hands fumbling with clothing. I pull her shirt over her head. Her bra follows next. I take one of her nipples in my mouth, nibbling on it, licking. Feeling her whole body flush with warm pleasure. She lets out little gasps.

She lets me undo her jeans, and then takes my hands in hers and guides them between her legs.

Touching her, sliding my fingers through her folds in the dark, discovering the slick feel of her desire, is everything. She lets me slip a finger inside her, lets me feel the heat of her clamped around me. Then she takes my other hand and shows me where to touch her—right there, lightly brushing that hard bundle of nerves. She shows me how to make her breath catch, how to make her body writhe, how to make her throw her head back.

She shows me all the ways she’s vulnerable to me.

There’s a condom in my wallet. I tilt the face into the moonlight spilling through the windows, long enough to check the date briefly—it’s still good—before handing it over to her.

She opens the packet and then slowly unrolls it down my length. Her fingers are warm against me, so good.

“I want you so much,” I say.

She looks up at me. “Come and have me.”

I pull her onto the bed with me and kiss her. She’s naked against my skin; her body presses against mine. She undoes the last buttons of my shirt, pulling it off, and then there’s nothing between us at all. Nothing but the heat of her breath—and then, as I take her mouth with mine, nothing at all. We’re skin to skin, our bodies pressed together. She wraps a leg around me, exposing her core.

She’s wet, so fucking wet. And after all this time, it’s easy, so easy, to adjust myself, to slide into her inch by heated inch. To claim her body as her hands drift to my chest.

She does something with her muscles, squeezing my cock, and I let out a breath.

And then I do what she showed me—finding that rhythm of my body, that spot she responded to. I want her to know that everything she gives me, everything we have… I’ll never use it to hurt her.

I try to take it slow. But when I get it right, the response is electric. There’s this one angle—I hit it, and she lets her breath out. Her body tenses around mine and her hips rise.

“There,” she says. “That’s it.” And we’re both lost in the slide of flesh, the give and take. The harder I go, the more she responds, until she’s gasping, until I can hardly breathe, either. Until we’re both nothing but flames. Her body clenches hard around mine. She lets out a

little noise and then a longer moan. I let everything go—every worry, every unfulfilled lust, every last desire. I come hard, pumping into her, and she holds me.

“You have a tattoo,” I say to her.

Half an hour later, after a little clean up, we’re still naked. We’re still touching each other because I can’t get enough of the feel of her. We’re still kissing, long and slow. We’re just recharging temporarily.

And she does have a tattoo—a little molecule on her left ankle.

“I got it a year ago,” she says. “Maria and I have matching tattoos. We got them after we got through Organic together.”

Funny that there’s still so much I don’t know about her. Funny that I want to know it all, to fit it into one night together. Funny that we’re not talking about the things that matter, even though we are.

“Is Maria premed too? I didn’t realize that.”

“Nope. She tapped out after Organic. She said it was too much boring memorization for her. So she decided to be an actuary instead.”

“Words that have never before been spoken: ‘Organic chemistry is too boring; let’s become actuaries.’”

Tina touches my shoulder and lets her hand fall down my arm. “So what about yours? When did you get it?”

“When I was eighteen.” I turn my arm to show her. “If you pop open a first generation Cyclone Tempest and take out the shielding plate, this is what you’ll find. Magnified by about a thousand percent. It was the first product I really worked on.”

“So you designed this?” Her fingers trace the circuitry.

“Nope. My input is higher level than circuit design. But I got this to remind myself that wherever I go, whatever I do, Cyclone will always be under my skin.”

My voice falls. I’m not sure how to go forward from here. I’m not sure how to face what comes after these two weeks. Cyclone is in me—but knowing I have to go back makes me feel restless even now.