Perfect Strangers

It turns out to be convenient that I didn’t lock the apartment door on the way out, because it means I don’t have to stop kissing James to dig through my handbag for keys on the way in.

I simply turn the knob and we go right back at it.

We fall through the door, kissing madly. I drop my handbag on the floor. James kicks the door shut behind us, then pushes me against the wall and pins me there, his chest flush with mine. He clasps both my wrists in one of his big hands and holds my arms behind my back as he kisses me hard in the unlit entryway, his free hand firmly gripping my face.

It’s hot. It’s insanely hot, dominant, and passionate, just this side of rough.

When we stop to gasp for air, I start laughing.

“Oh my God, this is just like in the movies!”

“Only better,” he says in a husky tone, blue eyes glowing with lust. “Because it’s real.”

“It can’t possibly get better than this,” I say, panting. “Maybe we should stop at kissing, because this is absolutely epic—”

I yelp in shock when he swiftly bends and throws me over his shoulder.

The man throws me over his shoulder! Wait until I tell Kelly about this!

“We’re not stopping,” he growls, striding into the living room as I swing from his shoulder like something he caught in a trap in the forest and is bringing home to eat.

Laughter threatens to break from my mouth again, so I bite my lip to stop it. I feel crazed, possessed by the weirdest mix of glee and terror, like the feeling you get when you’re at the tippy top of a high, dangerous roller coaster, just about to crest over the edge and go zooming recklessly down.

James tosses me onto my back on the living room sofa. I bounce, once, then stare up at him wide-eyed as my heart threatens to burst inside my chest.

I’ve had panic attacks less severe than this.

He gazes at me with unwavering intensity as his fingers fly over the buttons of his shirt. “You look scared.”

“Shitless,” I admit, shaking. “You better hurry up and take off your clothes before I suffer some kind of serious health crisis and you have to call an ambulance.”

His shirt parts under his fingers. He shrugs out of it and lets it drop to the floor.

And I simply stare up at him with my mouth open.

Maybe God doesn’t hate me so much after all, because if he, she, or it did, I’d never have been given something as incredible as this.

He’s.

Fucking.

Perfect.

Chiseled, sculpted, carved, hewn…you name it, he’s all the adjectives there are for hard, masculine beauty. His chest is a masterpiece. His abs could make angels weep. This guy makes Michelangelo’s David look like something a first-semester art student at a community college glued together out of old newspapers and cat turds.

It’s only a nanosecond after that thought hits that it’s followed by another, far worse: I have to get naked in front of this walking piece of art.

My sudden terror isn’t lost on James. “All the blood just drained from your face.”

I say, “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just down here dealing with some major body image issues brought out in full force by how ridiculously ripped you are. Please tell me that eight pack is cleverly contoured makeup.”

He kneels over me, plants his hands on the cushion on either side of my head, and smiles. “You know it isn’t.”

Is my gulp audible? I bet it’s audible. I bet he can even hear all my cells screaming at the top of their petrified little lungs. “Spoiler alert: my body doesn’t look like that.”

He leans down to nuzzle my neck. “Good thing, too, because I’m not into guys.”

He inhales deeply against my throat. Goosebumps erupt over every inch of my skin.

“You know what I mean. Compared to you, I’m sort of…gelatinous. Jiggly. Like Jell-O.”

He lifts his head, gazes deep into my eyes, takes one of my hands and presses it against the monster straining for release under the zipper of his jeans, and murmurs, “I love Jell-O. Can’t you tell?”

Before I can sigh dreamily and slide off the sofa to lie in a bedazzled heap on the floor, he settles his pelvis between my spread thighs and lowers his upper body against mine, balancing on his elbows above me. Then he kisses me again, a deep, slow kiss that has me squirming underneath him within seconds.

I need to remember to send Estelle a thank you note for buying such a large and comfortable sofa.

James chuckles against my mouth. “Is all this wriggling an escape attempt or am I doing something right?”

“You’re fishing for compliments again. That’s a bad habit of yours, Romeo.”

His lips brush against mine, whisper soft. His voice comes very low. “It’s not about compliments. It’s about feedback. I want to make you feel good. I want to know what you like.”

Heat detonates throughout my body, leaving me tongue tied and sweating. The heat wave is followed by panic, because I don’t have any idea what I’m going to put on the list he demanded of all the things I want him to do to me in bed.

Though they’re two of my favorite things, cuddling and foot massage are probably not what he has in mind.

I say meekly, “Oh, okay. Um…this is very nice.”

One of his brows climbs. “Nice? Hmm.”

The hmm sounds vaguely threatening, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I’m too preoccupied trying not to die at the electric touch of his tongue against my bare stomach.

He pushes my T-shirt up so my bra is exposed and bends his head to my belly, licking and kissing a slow path from the bottom of my bra to the top button of my jeans. I lie frozen, panting, staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, convinced his tongue is equipped with tiny electrodes due to the pulsing currents of electricity shooting straight down between my legs.

When he sinks his teeth into my flesh, I jump, gasping.

“Too hard?” His voice is muffled by my skin. He kisses where he nipped, his mouth gentle.

“N—no. Just wasn’t ready for it. Ignore me. Busy dying. Proceed.”

He rewards my breathless blathering with an indulgent chuckle and a firm squeeze of his big hands around my waist. He flicks open the button on my jeans with his thumb, then eases the zipper down, nuzzling his nose deep into my panties.

When he gently bites me there, too, I moan.

“That sounds encouraging,” he whispers. “Let’s see if I can get you to do it again.”

He tugs on the waistband of my jeans, sliding them past my hips to the middle of my thighs. Then he pulls down my panties and stares at me, exposed and trembling.

His eyes burning black with desire, he licks the pad of his thumb, slips it between my legs, and presses down on the engorged bud of my clitoris.

I suck in a breath, closing my eyes. When he lazily strokes his thumb up and down, I give him the moan he wanted, this one louder than before.

“Tell me what you want, Olivia.”

“I want…” To not have to talk about what I want.

“Be brave. Talk to me.”

His voice is soft and hypnotic. His thumb is wreaking havoc on my body. It’s probably the combination of the two that makes me blurt, “I want your mouth.”

He makes a pleased hum. “Good. Where?”

“You’re killing me,” I say, panting, my eyes squeezed shut. My hips start to flex in time with the up and down strokes of his thumb.

He teases, “You’re a writer. Use a few of all those big words you must know.”

When he slides his thumb inside me, I groan, arching.

“Although I love that sound, it’s not a word. If you don’t talk, I’m going to stop.”

Through gritted teeth, I say, “Bossy!”

He chuckles. “You haven’t seen bossy yet, beautiful, but you will. Here, I’ll start a sentence for you. ‘James, I want you to put your mouth…’”

When I bite my lip and stay silent, he removes his hand. I groan again, this time in protest, and open my eyes.

He’s kneeling over me, staring down with bedroom eyes and a sultry smile. He lifts a hand to my face and slowly presses his thumb past my lips and into my mouth so I taste myself.

Then he kisses me, deeply, until I’m making desperate noises and pawing at him, at all those muscles of his and his warm, smooth skin. I grab his ass and grind my pelvis against his erection.

He moves his cheek against mine and whispers next to my ear, “Do you want my mouth on your pussy, Olivia?”

Dear sweet Jesus in heaven, I’m dying. This is it. I’m dying right here and now.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

Now that was bossy. His tone is low, rough, and unmistakably dominant, and sends a thrill straight through me. It pulls the words right from my lips.

“I want your mouth on my pussy.”This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

It’s barely audible, but it does the trick. In one swift move, he slides down my body and puts his face between my legs.

I realize the benefits of frank sexual communication the moment I feel his hot, wet tongue stroke over my clit.

I cry out, my back bowing from the sofa. He slides his hands under my ass and grips it as he sucks and licks me, making little grunts of masculine satisfaction that are almost unbearably sexy. My jeans aren’t low enough on my legs to allow me to open my thighs wider, but that small restriction seems unbearably sexy, too.

In fact, the only thing that doesn’t seem sexy at the moment is that I’m too aware of my hands. They’re clenched next to my hips. Am I supposed to put them into his hair? Fling my arms out to either side? Play with my boobs?

Obviously, I haven’t had sex since the dark ages.

“James,” I say breathlessly.

He lifts his head, licking his lips.

God, so fucking hot. “Since we’re being so verbally expressive, is this a good time to tell you I’m feeling awkward about my hands?”

“What’s wrong with your hands, sweetheart?” Still looking at me, he presses a gentle kiss on my throbbing clit.

“I don’t know what to do with them.”

A dent forms in his cheek. He’s trying not to laugh at me. Then he sits up and whips off his belt. “I know what to do with them.”

The thrilling dominance is back in his voice.

I could really, really get used to that.

He gathers my wrists together and quickly wraps his belt around them, slipping the buckle under one of the loops to keep it secure. Then he raises my arms over my head, resting my bound wrists on the arm of the sofa.

Looking deep into my eyes, he commands, “Don’t move from this position, or I’ll spank your ass until it’s red.”

I can’t decide which one I’m more: outraged or turned the fuck on.

I say hotly, “You will not spank me!”

He smiles. “Oh, yes, I will.”

“James! I’m a grown woman!”

“You are. A sexy, beautiful grown woman with an ass like a ripe peach that’s going to get spanked for disobedience if you move your arms.”

“I don’t like spanking!”

He pauses to examine my expression. “That’s something you’ve tried before?”

I twist my lips, loath to admit I haven’t. “I mean…not exactly.”

He’s still examining me with slightly narrowed eyes. “Is that a yes or a no?”

After a moment, I admit grudgingly. “It’s a no.”

“So you just object to it in theory, then.”

“Of course I object to it in theory! What kind of person enjoys pain?”

“Masochists.”

“Ugh, semantics! You know what I mean!”

Another pause as he gauges my expression, then he demands, “Tell me what really bothers you about it.”

I blow out a hard breath, annoyed that he can read me so easily. “Fine. Aside from the pain aspect—which I’m not into, for the record—it seems…belittling.”

“Okay. I hear you.”

I’m surprised by that. Now it’s my turn to examine his expression. Never in the history of my experience with men has one said, “I hear you.” For the men I’ve known, acknowledging a woman’s feelings is like asking for directions: it simply isn’t done.

“Oh. Well…thank you.”

“If I promised it wouldn’t be painful, but it definitely would be a huge turn on for us both, would you consider it?”

That exasperates me. “How on earth can slapping my bare ass with your bare hand not be painful for me?”

The dominant tone makes a reappearance. “Because I know what I’m doing, that’s how.”

All the breath leaves my lungs in a wheezing sound like a punctured tire leaking air. When I’ve recovered, I say, “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. And while you’re thinking about it, I’m going to make you come.”

Down between my legs he goes, the wonderful, wonderful man.

Except he’s not wonderful, he’s diabolical—all I can think about is not moving my arms. And what will happen if I do.

Exactly as he intended.

He strokes his tongue up and down and around, pausing to slide a finger inside me. Then he goes back to the stroking and the sucking as I close my eyes and rock helplessly against his face.

My nipples ache. I can’t catch my breath. My awareness narrows to that tiny bundle of nerves between my legs that’s throbbing under his tongue and the sensation of his thick finger pumping slowly in and out of me.

He reaches up with his free hand and tweaks my hard nipple, right through my bra. I jerk, groaning.

“You like that?” he murmurs, his lips moving against my sex.

“Yes. Both. Do both, please.”

He knows what I mean, despite my being speech impaired at the moment. Slipping his finger out of me, he reaches up with both hands, scoops my breasts out of my bra, and strokes his thumbs over my rigid nipples. When I whine in pleasure, he pinches them.

“Yes. Yes, that.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispers, lowering his head to suckle my clit again as he continues to pinch and stroke my nipples.

Oh God, it’s good. It’s incredible. My entire body tingles. Tingles and pulses and shakes. A wave of intense heat radiates out from my core. I’m sure I’ll set the sofa on fire. Then his teeth scrape over my clit and I almost lose consciousness.

Straining up toward his mouth, I beg, “Yes, please, don’t stop, please don’t stop, oh God, I’m so close—”

It isn’t until James freezes that I realize something is wrong. When I open my eyes and glance down at him, I discover what it is.

My fingers are clenched in his hair. Which means I lowered my arms.

Which means I disobeyed him.

Which—judging by his sly smile—was the exact outcome he was hoping for.