Overruled

By the time happy hour officially rolls around, Sofia and Brent are way past happy. Not Jake, though—Jake’s the original designated driver. He enjoys a single-malt scotch as much as the next guy, but I’ve never seen him drink to get drunk. Unlike everyone else around him at this moment. Six o’clock on a Friday night in Washington, DC, the streets are a ghost town—because anyone who’s still here is already inside the bars.

Politicians don’t actually live in the city. If Congress isn’t in session, they go back to their home districts. Those who are married with kids head back to the suburbs. That leaves the rest of us—hungry, hardworking, and horny. And there’s no better way to blow off a whole lot of steam from a long-ass week at the office than having a nice drink in a noisy tavern. Sofia calls it the “Grey’s Anatomy effect.”

“Air bubble in the IV,” Brent suggests in a diabolical voice, leaning his elbows on the wood table cluttered with empty glasses. “Hard to trace, impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt—unless there’s video cameras in the patient’s hospital room, quick, efficient . . .”

“And totally unreliable,” Sofia quips, tapping him on the nose. “The amount of air to cause an embolism varies, plus the victim would already have to be in the hospital. Then there’d be a record of visitors . . .”

The perfect murder. It’s an ongoing discussion. Knowing the ins and outs of the criminal justice system, I’m actually surprised more people in the legal field don’t commit major crimes.

Or, how’s this for a mind fuck—maybe they do? Cue the creepy music.

“I still say poison is the surest bet,” Jake offers from the head of the table. “Something like ricin or polonium.”

His suggestion is met with taunts and heckles.

“Amateur.”

“Postmortem forensics is too advanced,” Brent argues.

“And where the hell would you find polonium?” Sofia adds. “Know many Russian spies, do you?”

“Remind me never to take you on as a client,” I tell him, pointing with my bourbon. “You’d ruin my winning streak.”

The dance floor in the adjacent room is filled to capacity with bodies, pitifully short on rhythm. Not many things are as funny as watching people who can’t dance but think they can.

Elated arms rise as the song “Oh What a Night” pours from the speakers. Sofia stands excitedly. “That’s my cue. Come on, Brent, let’s go shake what your momma gave ya.”

He rises. “Can’t, sweetheart, my date just walked in.”

“You have a date tonight?” Sofia asks.

“I do now.” He winks. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

As Brent walks off, Sofia looks to Jake. He sounds like Dirty Harry asking a punk if he feels lucky when he says, “Do you even need to ask?”

She saves me for last, ’cause she knows full well I don’t dance.

Still she tries, running her hand up my arm. “Want to show me your moves, Shaw?”

I chew on the toothpick between my lips. “Darlin’, I’ll show you every move I’ve got—just not on a fuckin’ dance floor.”

She giggles, then prances over to the swinging, shaking bodies. And I watch her with the gaze of a man who’s sure he’s going to get laid—and knows it’s going to be good.

Her rounded hips swivel in perfect time to the quick beat, confident and practiced. I imagine those hips straddling me—riding me—with the same fast rhythm. And I’m instantly hard.

Throbbing with remembrance and expectation.

It’s how she moves moments before she comes, tight and rapid, feeding off sensation, chasing that blissful grinding friction.

I suck hard on the toothpick in my mouth as she lifts her arms, circling her pelvis. Sofia likes her arms above her—pinned by my palms—against a bed, a wall, a hard oak desk. Fucking her is phenomenal on any given day, but screwing when she’s like this—just drunk enough—is particularly fantastic. She’s wilder, rougher—she pulls my hair just a little harder.

Begs just a little sweeter.

The bourbons I’ve downed have loosened my muscles and my mind. I’m not intoxicated, but relaxed enough to forget any worries—to give very little shit about anything. I pull at my tie as her foreplay show continues, content to watch unhurried, to let this anticipation build.

But then she turns around.

Her dark hair fans out, and I’m caught in those hazel fucking eyes. Large, almond-shaped eyes that practically glow with hunger.

She’s not just dancing in front of me, she’s dancing for me.

Her hands skim down her sides slowly, cradling her hips, squeezing. But it’s my hands she’s imagining, my grip she’s feeling. Sofia’s full lips are parted, breathing heavy, the gloss of moisture beading on her upper lip.

And I want to lick it off.

But that’ll just be the start—devouring that mouth—before licking down and around, until I’ve tasted all of her. Until every inch of her skin is branded with the feel of my tongue, my lips.

My teeth.

Twirling the toothpick against the roof of my mouth, I stand. And stalk her way. Before I reach her, Sofia turns her back, ass still swiveling.

Taunting.

Over her shoulder, she keeps her gaze trained on me. I don’t stop until I’m flush against her, my palm on her stomach, pulling her back. So she can’t have any doubt about how she’s affected me. Every hot, hard inch of effect is pressed against her ass.

“Change your mind?” she teases. “Want to dance after all?”

“I want to fuck,” I breathe against her ear, making her shiver. “You. In case there was doubt. Now.”

She thrusts back, trapping my dick between us, then sliding up and down, rubbing with sublime pressure. I swallow a groan.

“Then I guess we’re leaving.”

•   •   •

On the cab ride to my apartment, I make it a point not to touch her—no casual brushes of her thigh or a hand to help her exit the taxi. Because I know the waiting will key her up even more.

And because once I start, I don’t plan on stopping.

After a tense, torturous elevator ride, we stand in the hall outside my apartment door. As I put the key into the lock, Sofia’s body is close—not pressing—but near enough behind me I can smell her perfume. A clean, sweet floral scent; gardenia maybe.

We walk through the door, then I turn, using her to close it, slamming her back. Trapping her between the door and me. Hands grasp at air as I hold her wrists in one hand, high above her head, stretching her out, making her back bow. Straining for contact.

She gasps as I run my nose up her cheek, her breath escaping in tiny puffs. “You want to be fucked?” I rasp.

She moans. Squirms. “Yes.”

Sofia likes it rough—hard words, bruising fingers—and I’m all too happy to please.

I skim my free hand up her thigh, bunching her skirt as I go. “You want to come?”

She once told me one of her favorite parts of screwing me was that she can just let it all go. No worries, no stress, no shots to call. It’s the one area of her life where she’s happy to let someone else—me—do all the work.

Her chin rises, scraping soft skin against my stubble. “Please,” she begs.

“How bad?” I taunt, rubbing over her silk panties where she’s soft and hot. Her hips gyrate against my hand as I push the fabric aside and slide my fingers through her smooth, slick lips. My dark chuckle rumbles. “Feels like you want to come pretty bad.”

“Stanton . . .” She groans in an impatient plea.

And then my mouth is on hers, taking her words, sucking those plump lips that I watch all fucking day. She tastes so sweet—grenadine with a tang of tequila, making my head swim. She gives me her tongue, moist and warm. I move my lips over hers, plundering firmly, barely allowing for breath, and capture her lower lip with my teeth.

Her arms push against my grip, wanting to grab, to pull me closer, but I hold her steady. I press the length of my body against hers, feeling every soft, full curve against my hard angles. She moans, grateful for the contact while I ravage that mouth. Then I slide my lips down her jaw, leaving a wet trail, to her neck, feasting on her sweet skin like a starving man. She gasps and lifts her chin higher, giving me better access as I slip lower, to the top buttons on her blouse.

One-night stands, sex without feelings, stranger screwing—I’ve done them plenty of times before. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s just—mechanical—fulfilling a base physical need. But this, here with Sofia—there’s never been anything mechanical about it. It’s scorching flames, licking at our limbs, pulling us together from a space deep inside—making us clash like magnets separated too far for too long.

My mouth sucks at her tits, over her blouse, leaving a dark, wet mark on the silk. There aren’t any thoughts—just feelings and sensations. I release her wrists, grip the delicate fabric with two hands and yank, ripping it open, baring the gorgeous flesh that fascinates me.

I’ll replace the blouse—I don’t have time for fucking buttons.

I pull the cup of her black lace bra down and her hands sink into my hair, massaging my skull as I devour her breast. So warm, so soft. I place long, open-mouth kisses along the mound, suctioning the skin until Sofia cries out—leaving my mark—punishing it for distracting me. Then I run my tongue around the dusky circle of her nipple—flicking and laving. When I engulf it with my mouth, she bucks, then sighs with relief as I suckle.

Her head rolls on her neck. “Oh yes . . . oh God yes . . .”

As I move to the other stunning tit and ply it with equal attention, I slip my fingers back into her panties, wanting to make her come, make her scream just like this. Her thighs spread, making room for my hand, as my fingers circle her opening. Her hips rotate in opposite circles to mine, her nails scour my back over my shirt. With my teeth trapping one peaked, sensitive nipple, I plunge two fingers into her tight wetness.

“Fuck . . .” she whimpers.

Sliding my fingers in and out, pumping, I wiggle my thumb down to her waiting clit and rub. Her voice rises, becoming desperate, because release is so fucking close. Then I lift my head and take in the sight of her face. Eyes closed, dark lashes fanned out against bronze skin, parted, panting lips calling my name. If I had any talent for painting, this would be the masterpiece I’d capture. This pure, unguarded moment, when she’s completely bare before me—trusting me to give her hard, pounding pleasure, but leave her unbroken.

I have to kiss her.

Gently now, I coax her lips to mine, while my fingers pump faster, thumb rubbing harder.

And then she explodes. I taste her beautiful moan, as her arms clasp and her thighs squeeze, and her pussy traps my fingers in fantastic pulsating contractions.

When her limbs loosen and her hands are cupping my jaw and she’s kissing me slow and sweet and grateful, I slip my fingers out of her. I rear back, and she watches with burning eyes as I taste the wetness that coats them. Better than grenadine or tequila or fucking bourbon—Sofia’s juice is the elixir of the gods, and I’ll be sucking on that delicious pussy before the night is over.

But first it’s time for her to have her fun.

With a sharp grin and an almost evil spark in her eye, she grips my tie and pulls me back in for a kiss. I let her spin us around, so my back is against the door. As our mouths dance, I push my hands into her hair—gripping—pulling the way I know she craves. Then I’m pushing her down.

Down on her knees.

She looks up at me, those fucking eyes alight and hungry, as her open palms slide over my pants, up my thighs, unbuckling my belt with a clang. I watch, my hand running across her head, through her hair, as she tugs them and the boxers underneath down to my ankles. I step out of them and lose eye contact as she rubs up my legs, toned and solid with muscle.

“These legs,” she admires aloud. “They were made to be kneeled at.”

I chuckle darkly. “Thanks for the compliment, darlin’. But no more talkin’ now—I have much more interesting uses for that mouth of yours.”

She smiles and runs her tongue across her lips. My thick cock jumps, ’cause it knows what’s coming next. I grip my dick firmly, pumping slow, then trace the tip over Sofia’s lips, spreading the moisture already there across them.

I look into those eyes, eyes a man could drown in if he’s not careful—and I tell her, “Open.”

I don’t mind a woman who’s eager, and I’ve been more than happy to lay back and let a girl have her wicked way with me. But here—now—with Sofia, there’s a rush from her submission. A thrill at being above her, in charge of her. And I want to take my time, let her feel every inch of what I’m giving—instead of just allowing her to take.

Like the saying goes, giving really is better.

Her lips are swollen, rosy from my rough kisses. They spread as she opens wide, and I guide my dick into that wet, hot heaven. I push in slow, breathing hard, until I hit the back of her throat with a moan. And I sink into the fucking sensation of her snug, warm mouth wrapped around me. So goddamn good.

I look down, watching as I slide back out, her lips tightening, like they don’t want me to go. Then I push back in, a little harder, a little farther. I hold myself inside, feeling her throat constrict around me.

“Fuuuuck,” I groan.

It’s delicious torture—perfect agony that I want to last all night.

But I pull back out, just to have the chance to push in again.

Cradling her head, I tell her, “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Keep that mouth open, take it all in . . . fuck . . .”

I can’t hold back. Eyes rolling closed, I start to thrust. I don’t want to come, not yet, but I also don’t want to stop. Just a little more, a bit longer.

Sofia moans with excitement—loving it almost as much as I do—and the vibration goes straight to my balls, making them tighten, readying for the rapture that’s just so fucking close. Right on the edge, I grip her hair and pull her off. Then I guide her up to her feet and kiss that perfect mouth.

Now where to? The floor, the couch, up against the wall?

The bed just isn’t an option—way too far away.

I pick up my pants, retrieving the condom from the pocket, tearing it open and rolling it on with an expertise born of practice and desperation. Watching me, Sofia slips out of her skirt and panties, not bothering with the blouse that’s little more than hanging, torn scraps.

The floor it is.

Pulling her into my arms, fucking her mouth with my tongue, I descend to my knees, taking her with me, then lay her down, cushioning her head from the hardwood with my palm.

“Hurry, Stanton,” she begs. Screwing is the only time I’ll ever hear Sofia beg, and it’s awesome. “I need it. Oh God . . .”

She lifts her hips, rubbing against my stomach, her pussy even wetter now. We both groan as I push inside—stretching her stunning tightness—burying to the hilt.

Fuck, yeah.

Exquisite, harsh sounds come from her throat as I thrust hard, pummeling, building us both back up. Her nails dig into my back, making me hiss, and I grip her shoulders for leverage. I grind against her, my hips circling when I’m deepest, pelvises clashing.

“You want it harder?” I rasp, breathless against her ear.

Her legs tighten around me, heels digging into my ass in answer.

“Give me your mouth,” she pleads.

I lower my lips to hers, nipping and licking, fusing us together. Tingling sparks dance along my spine and I pump faster, giving her everything I’ve got, everything I’ll ever have.

I feel her flutter around me, tiny spasms gripping my dick, gaining intensity. “That’s it, baby, come with me . . . right there . . .”

Dots of light dance behind my eyes, and I bury my face against her neck. Her hips surge up one final time and hold, as I thrust forward and magnificent pleasure swells in my veins. Beyond the blood rushing through my ears, I hear her chanting my name as we spike together, coming at the same time—sharing that perfect fucking space where all that exists is her and me and bliss.

Breath against my shoulder, like the flutter of a bird’s wings, is the next thing I’m conscious of. It takes some effort, but I lift up and look into Sofia’s dazzling eyes. Her smile, tender enough to break my heart.

I brush the hair back from her face and press a delicate kiss to her lips. Without another word, I slip out of her and stand. Sweeping her into my arms, I head for the bedroom.

Because the night’s not over yet—not by a long shot.

•   •   •

Sofia collapses onto her back, laughing breathlessly. I peel off the second well-used condom of the night and toss it into the trash can beside the bed. We lay side by side, in comfortable quiet until a loud grumble from her stomach breaks the silence.

She tries to hide behind her hand, but I enjoy watching the embarrassed flush that spreads from her tits to her cheeks.

“We skipped dinner, didn’t we?” I say.

“Unless you count the fruit garnish on the Tequila Sunrises.”

I tap her leg. “Come on. Let’s see what we’ve got in terms of sustenance.”

I walk down the hall. Naked. I happen to like being bare ass. It feels good, natural. Sure I live on a busy city street and we don’t have curtains, but if people want to look up at my window, might as well give them something to look at.

Sofia follows, my blanket wrapped around her shoulders—I assume for warmth. We left modesty in the dust a ways back—around the first time she played jockey on my face.

She sits at the kitchen table while I get a bowl from the fridge and put it in the microwave to heat. I set two plates on the table, then two glasses of cold water. I feel Sofia’s undivided attention follow me as I move—enjoying the view.

When the microwave chimes, I take the bowl out—and burn the holy hell out of my fingers in the process.

“Shit!” I wag my hand, then suck on the injured digits.

“Careful,” she warns in an amused voice, “don’t singe any good parts.”

Using a towel, I carry the steaming bowl to the table. “Thanks for your concern.”

I dish us out two gooey, heaping servings of homemade macaroni and cheese. Sofia moans on the first bite, and my dick—no longer in fear of injury—takes notice.

“This is so good, Stanton. Did you make it?”

“Nah, I don’t cook. And neither does Jake usually, but his momma’s macaroni and cheese is the one meal he committed to memory. He can’t go a week without it. It keeps well in the freezer, which is convenient.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes, focused on the food. Then Sofia muses, “Today was a good day.”

I watch her hair fall over the bronze skin of her collarbone, the soft, languid glow in those hazel eyes. And it’s nice—just being here. With her.

“Sure was.”

After our plates are empty, I venture, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

I push the blanket off her shoulder, revealing the stunning swell of her right breast, heavy in its natural fullness. Her breath catches as I trace my finger down the side, to her rib cage, over the jagged eight-inch scar that mars otherwise flawless skin.

“How’d this happen?”

When I first noticed, it didn’t feel right to ask—not my place. Our early encounters consisted of getting each other’s clothes off as quickly as possible, staying hard as long as possible, and coming as many times as possible—without risking dehydration or unconsciousness. Didn’t leave a whole lot of time for talking.

But now . . . lately . . . I’ve found myself wanting to know more than how Sofia likes to be sucked or fucked. And more than the rudimentary stuff Brent or Jake would know.

I want her fantasies . . . a few of her secrets.

There’s no painful clouding of her features, no flinching at the mention, and for that I’m eternally grateful.

“Plane crash,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“I’m most certainly not shitting you,” she mimics with a smile. “When I was eight, we were coming back from visiting family in Rio, and the landing gear malfunctioned. We had to land belly first—hard.” Her voice takes on an airy quality—remembering. “It was loud, that’s what I remember most. The crunch of metal on metal, like a car accident . . . times a thousand. The armrest of my seat sliced through the skin—broke two ribs—but didn’t damage anything major. We were lucky, as far as plane crashes go. No fatalities; everyone recovered.”

“Damn,” I mutter, not sure what I was expecting—but it sure wasn’t that.

She gives me a small smile. “My second oldest brother, Lucas—he’s the philosopher in the family—he thinks it was a sign. A reminder that life is short. Precious. And that there must be great things for us to accomplish, because we all could’ve died, but we were spared. For a reason.”

I cover the mark with my hand, thinking of the pain she must have endured, wanting to somehow absorb it. But at the same time, it’s a part of her—made Sofia into the woman she is today. And there’s not a thing I would change, ’cause she’s fucking incredible.

My hand slides upward, cupping the warm softness of her breast, feeling the vibration of her heartbeat beneath. The sound of her breath—full and high pitched—spurs me on. Her pulse throbs quickly as I lean in.

She whispers my name, and I don’t think it’s ever sounded quite so damn sweet.

Before I can press my lips to the hollow of her throat, the rattle of keys in the door jars us both. We straighten up, like two teenagers in the beam of a policeman’s flashlight, and dash back to my bedroom. I close the door, both of us chuckling.

With a yawn, I flop down onto the bed, pulling the remaining comforter over me. Sofia watches me for a moment, then drops her own blanket and reaches for her clothes.

“I should get going.”

This is how it works. We screw, we dress, we leave: have a good night, see you at the office.

I glance at the clock showing 3 a.m. “It’s late,” I point out with another yawn. And the steady patter against the window pane registers. “And it’s rainin’. Why don’t you just stay?”

We don’t have set rules—nothing we’ve ever agreed to out loud anyway. We’ve just gone with it, done whatever works, whatever feels good. If we have rules, unspoken ones, there’s a fair chance sleepovers break them.

But I just can’t make myself give a shit.

I rub my face against the cushiony pillow and crack open one eye. Sofia stands there—beautifully bare—holding her bra in her hand. Looking at me.

Debating.

I throw back the covers, revealing the empty space in front of me. “It’s cold out there, warm in here. Don’t overthink, Soph.”

It doesn’t have to mean anything. And Sofia’s soft and smooth—having her to rub against is sure to bring on some sweet dreams.

She drops the bra and crawls in beside me. Her back presses against my chest, her ass cradles my cock, giving me new perspective on the benefits of cuddling.

My hand rests on her hip, the other under my pillow. After shifting around to get comfortable, Sofia whispers, “Did you know when you’re tired, your accent comes out more?”

Her hair tickles my nose, making me sniff. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I . . . like it.”

Just as I’m about to drift off, a pounding thud fills the room, like an unwelcome drummer boy.

Bang, bang, bang. It’s the sound of wood meeting Sheetrock—headboard against wall. Accompanied by a whiny, feminine voice. “Yes, yes, yes!”

I lift my head and yell at the wall. “Hey! Do you mind—some of us are tryin’ to sleep here.”

Jake’s uncaring voice calls back. “Do you mind? Some of us are trying to fuck over here.”

The banging resumes, but thankfully, not the whine of affirmation.

Sofia giggles as I yank the blanket up over our heads, drowning out some of the sound.

“Christ,” I grumble. “I really need to get my own place.”