Not loneliness. Not exhaustion.
Lust, pure and simple.
To say she wasn’t my usual type—if I could be said to have a type after years as a bachelor—would be an understatement. I had been attracted to the sort of women my social-climbing parents approved of. Wasp-waisted girls with expensive highlights in their long hair, fresh, south-of-France tans and a modeling contract or at least a friend who was royal-family-adjacent.
Now what tortured me was no designer-clad runway model with a
practiced pout. It was the heat and energy of a blonde waitress with a ponytail. Thinking of her was like sinking into warm honey—sweet and spicy and clinging. Wanting her was as elemental as breathing. I had fought it all I could. I’d let myself think of her, let myself fantasize, one time. Just once to get it out of my system so I could behave normally around her from now on. Then I could forget the look on her face when I’d made the guy in the bar back off—the mix of heat and vulnerability in her expression that had made me want to crush her in my arms.
That’s what I wanted. A second chance at that moment. Instead of dealing with the asshole, I’d make a different choice.
“Come with me,” I’d say to her, my hand on the curve of her back, reassuring and protective, not presumptuous or crude like the other guy had been. She’d let me lead her out of the bar to get some fresh air, to breathe in the quiet starlit darkness. She’d lean against me a little, sagging with relief, knowing that she could trust me.
“I’ve got you,” I’d tell her.” I’m sorry he did that.”
She’d shake her head, thank me, say it wasn’t a big deal. Then I’d argue and say he had no right to put his hands on her, that no one did unless she wanted it.
“I want it now,” she’d say. “It gave me chills in there, I was scared. Make me warm again, Max.”
That would be all she had to say. I would take her in my arms right there and hold her, tenderly at first, gauging her comfort level and making sure she felt protected. I’d stroke her hair, maybe say something about her ponytail, toying with it in my fingers. She’d look up at me, waiting to be kissed. I’d snuggle her against my chest and lower my face to hers, first our lips brushing together and clinging for an instant, the fiery reaction ripping through me like a tornado. Then I’d gather her face in my hands and slip my tongue in her mouth. Her body would come to life, desire flaring, and she’d kiss me back, eager and vulnerable and so sweet. I’d stroke her face and brush the pad of my thumb over the hammering pulse in her throat and smile against her lips. She would rise on tiptoe to be able to kiss me better. The wild energy of our kiss would grow more passionate, a back and forth of tongues and lips and teeth until it was necessary to get her someplace private.
She’d tell me where she lived, that it was closer than my place. We’d drive there, with her pressed to my side, my hand on her knee, rubbing suggestively, just savoring the lines and curves of her and looking forward to having those legs wrapped around me. Rachel would grab my hand and pull me toward her little house, unlock the door.
I’d slide my hand beneath her ponytail, cupping the nape of her neck. I’d kiss her then, and I’d feel her melt in my arms, consumed y the breathless chemistry between us, the attraction neither one of us bothered to deny any longer. Her fingers would find the hem of my shirt and push it up, running her hands over my abs and chest, making me feel a trail of tingling sparks across my flesh wherever she touched me. I’d help her pull off my shirt and then I’d pull hers off, too, then throw it aside, gliding my big hands up her bare back, unfastening her bra so her full breasts spilled out, bigger and rounder even than I’d imagined. Overcome, I’d bury my face in them, caress her with my hands, kiss and lick her, rolling those responsive, rosy nipples in my fingers. When I caught a nipple in my mouth, sucking it hard, taking as much of her breast as I could, she’d moan and push her fingers through my hair, gripping me to keep me in place where she was enjoying the pleasure. I could feel the flex of her stomach as a shudder ran through her. My hand would roll over her belly and dive into her jeans, sliding right down the front, cupping her sex, her folds slippery and hot already. I’d groan at the proof of her arousal and drop to my knees. In moments I’d have her jeans off and my mouth between those lush, fleshy thighs, lapping at her clit, tracing her sex with the tip of my tongue and then fingering her, working her over with the teasing pet of my knuckles and the backs of my fingers stroking over her opening and then just one finger breaching her. I’d make her cant her hips and grind into me, begging for more sensation, more pressure, more invasion from my touch.