Seems I’m working on fifty million projects right now. Okay…I exaggerate. I’m actually working on five. One of which is a second installment of my novel In Her Closet coming out next year. (*Snort* I made a funny…in her closet…coming out.)
Anyways…So far, it’s a super angsty, m/f/f, menage story that doesn’t have a HEA. That’s right. No HEA and I like it that way so stuff it. It might work out to be a HFN ending but the first run through doesn’t end that way.
Oh, yeah. I was sharing so…here’s a lil’ taste.
So I bought a train ticket.
Got off at 8th and Market.
Walked the six and half blocks to her loft.
Her building has a bright red door. The paint is chipped and bubbling with age and neglect. I find her name and give the buzzer a firm, decisive press. The small speaker box crackles to life almost instantly.
“Yeah?” comes her voice over the static connection.
The door buzzes open loudly.
I pass a young couple in the stairwell on the way up to her apartment. They’re wearing well-worn jeans, trendy boots and jackets–dressed like the college kids and hipster types that populate this area. I wonder how I must look to them in my thigh high Christian Louboutin boots and ass-skimming, plaid, Burberry trench. The whole get-up is so cliche. I must look like an escort. Or else some rich house wife out to get some dirt under her nails. Their assumption wouldn’t be too far off the mark.
When I reach her door I find it slightly ajar. I press my hand to the reinforced steel, fingers spread wide, opening it slowly.
Her apartment is a long and narrow space careening toward a wall of windows looking out onto spring, green tree tops in the little courtyard behind her building. And there she stands, framed in it all, with her hands thrust in the pockets of her skinny jeans. The shadow of her pierced, dusty rose nipples showing through the thin cotton of her men’s A-line t-shirt. Her feet are bare. Long toes burying into the thick pile of the area rug.
“I thought you weren’t coming?” she says, a smirk curling the corner of her mouth.
God, that fucking mouth.
She walks around me to close the door, gently grazing my arm as she passes. The door is shut and locked. No escape.
She presses against my back. Her breath fanning against the exposed nape of my neck, those long skillful fingers working at the knot of my trench coat.
This is it.
If I don’t turn and run now, I will be that thing that I hate–a liar, a cheater. “I shouldn’t be here,” I murmur guiltily.
I feel a burst of breath against my skin as she laughs, then the hot wet feeling of her lips and tongue as she kisses the knot at the top of my spine.
“So leave,” she says nonchalantly but, her hands are anything but nonchalant, they’re inside of my coat now. Fingertips skittering over my taut and quivering belly down to the apex of my thighs. Her index finger plays along the seam of my pussy. My spine curves, hips tip, seeking more of that grazing touch.
“Heh–” she laughs, her hands trailing up my arms to my shoulders and curling around the collar of my coat. “You’re not going anywhere,” she gently growls in the hollow behind my ear.
The coat puddles around my feet and I’m naked and lewd in my thigh high boots. I feel exposed. It’s been years since I’ve been stripped this bare in front of someone other than him.
She trails a hand down my spine, brushes her lips against my neck.”How long can you stay?” she asks.
“A couple of hours…maybe three. I have to leave here by two…we have family coming over for dinner.”
“Hmmm…” she hums, circling my waist with her hands, drawing me closer. “I wonder if that will be enough time,” she murmurs, her breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of my neck.
Fear and a healthy dose of lust uncoil in my lower belly as my mind spins, wondering what she has planned.
She circles around me, her eyes roving over my exposed skin. Her scrutinizing eyes make my nipples harden at the anticipation of her touch.
“What’s this?” she asks her voice soft and nearly breathless. Her hand smoothes over my hip, fingers tracing the bruises on my pelvic bone. She spreads her fingers wide so that they fit over the evenly spaced marks he left on me, fingers digging into the coin sized contusions on the rise of my hip. Her thumb presses in where his thumb had. The dull ache makes me gasp and my knees weaken at the memory of how I’d received the bruises. Pinned under him, my hands restrained in one of his fists, his cock buried deep in my slick cunt. And that hand gripping my hip brutally tight, holding me in place.
A sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan seeps from between her lips. “I didn’t know he…” her voice trails off, leaving me to wonder what she was thinking. Before I can ask, she captures my mouth in a sultry, promising kiss. All of me turns liquid. Lips and tongue tamp down the voice of my conscience. That part of me that knows this is wrong. The part of me that demands that I stop this instant and walk out the door. I can barely hear it now. But that’s my pattern, isn’t it? I look around me and–finding everything too perfect–ask, “How can I fuck this up?” I don’t want to do this to him. But when she kisses me I feel a weightlessness. She answers a question in me that I never found the voice to ask.
“I love him!” I blurt out suddenly.
She frowns, pulling away from me a little to look in my eyes. “I know you do,” she says quietly. She catches the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. Her bright sea green eyes scan my face thoughtfully. “I know you love him. But you love me too. You always have. You’re just afraid to admit it. You’re afraid of what it means.”
“What does it mean?”
“For you I think it means that you have more than enough love for both of us. I think you’re the sort of woman who can love many but, leave none feeling neglected.” She sighs deeply and caresses my bottom lip with her thumb. “I can’t lie…I wish you didn’t love him.” Her hand strokes down between my breasts and my nipples draw up even tighter. “But I have to admit, knowing that you’ll be with him after this is strangely arousing. Take these bruises for instance,” she presses her thumb into his thumbprint again. The pain blooms bright once again, making my breath catch in my throat. “I should be angry that you came to me with his mark on you,” she whispers against my mouth. “But instead it encourages me to leave marks of my own.”
I open my mouth to protest but, she quiets me with a finger to my lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave any that he can see.”
I shiver as she pulls me in close, her hands sweeping down to squeeze and caress my backside. The thinly veiled threat echoes in my mind. The tip of her tongue traces along the curl of my ear. “Come on, kitten,” she whispers. “We have precious little time and I intend to make good use of it.”