Moving her underwear aside, I push my finger inside of her. She’s ready for me. I go deep, finding a place within her that produces musical moans. I play her as she writhes against me. Her quick orgasm comes with a sudden shock. Warm breath washes over me, sending tingles that ripple all the way down to the base of my cock. She sits back, gasping.
“I need to feel you,” I tell her.
“Do it, then,” she says, hand at my zipper. When she strokes, I’m gone. Everything in me empties and all I know is the heat of her body, and the hot liquid in her green eyes. “Do it fast,” she goes on, rubbing quicker. “Do it hard. Do it like you mean it.”
She bends over, offering herself. Her panties are clinging wetly to her. She still has her boots on. Her jeans trap her. She’s driving me wild.
I can’t get my cock out of my pants quickly enough. I slide it through the zipper and bring all of me to her entrance.
We both groan as I slide the tip into her pussy. I arch my back and push deep. She reaches back with her hand and seizes onto my hip.
“Hard,” she cries. “Fast.”
I fuck her like my life depends on it, her pussy so tight it’s like a flaming fist gripping me. Her ponytail comes loose, hair flailing, wild. I can’t stop. I keep pulsing and then she’s biting down on her knuckles, her whole body quivering.
“I can feel you coming,” I tell her.
Her pussy gets even tighter. I push in deeper, harder, a tight coil around the base of my cock.
“I can’t hold it any longer.”
“Don’t!” she cries—whether to me or to herself, I am not sure.
I roar and collapse on top of her, tasting her shoulder for one brief moment before she slinks away.
Already, she’s pulling up her jeans, grabbing for her shirt. “You broke my buttons,” she says somewhat abruptly.
I harden myself. It was just sex. And we’re done now. Yet I find myself taking off my jacket and handing it to her. “Here. Keep this.”
She shrugs it on, unwilling to look at me. How is it possible that only a minute ago we were desperate for each other? Now, she looks like she wants nothing to do with me.
“That’s never happening again, Carlo,” she says. “Carlo what, by the way?”
I laugh. “Why do you care?”
She shrugs. “I don’t.”
With a shrug of my own, I say, “De Maggio.”
I think I see her stiffen, but then she’s pulling on the jacket. “Call me a cab,” she says. “I think we’re done here, don’t you?”
I bite back a response, thinking that I have never been more right about someone. She is fire; she is snow.
And then, she is gone.
3
Hazel
Three days. Three long days, and yet that jerk Carlo is still on my mind. I still don’t know why I did what I did with him. To be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know—mostly because I don’t want to spend a single nanosecond more thinking about it. Or about him. Or about nightclubs, or Italians, or handsome strangers in expensive suits.
My thoughts of Carlo are as persistent as the bastard himself, though. I find myself wondering idly about him whenever my brain wanders. That name, De Maggio … I’ve heard that before, attached to some less-than-savory rumors. I have no desire to enter his nasty world. I lost myself for a few blistering moments, but that’s over now. I won’t be going back.
So I decide to let him go. Heck, I decided that right after I left the club.
But that begs the question: why, then, am I wearing the jacket he gave me as I chop vegetables for my soup? I’m even using a cookbook, something I rarely do. I usually rely on gut instinct. But right now, I’m downright distracted. I’ve heard of phantom-limb syndrome before, but never phantom-dick syndrome. It’s like I can still feel him inside of me. I love it. And I hate it.
I curse when, in my distraction, I over-salt the soup. Now, it’ll taste like a sweaty sock. It doesn’t take Martha freaking Stewart to know that’s not exactly the palate pleaser we’re going for.
I decide the jacket is to blame. I tear it off and hurl it into the corner, and then go into the bedroom and walk over to the crummy little treadmill I