THIRTY-SEVEN
Ryan
“Jesus, Ryan. What in God’s name did you do in there?” panted Willow as I hauled her out of the theater. A chill slapped me in the face as we stepped outside.
“Just what it looked like,” I growled, not slowing my pace.
“How could you do that?”
“He had it coming.”
“I need to go back.”
“You’re not going anywhere except with me.” I quickened my already frantic pace.
“I’m cold.”
“Put on my coat.” Shrugging it off, I handed it to her and paused for a second as she slipped it on. Then, clasping her hand, we were back on the move.
“Ryan, slow down! I can’t walk this fast. My feet hurt. Where are we going?”
“Home,” I barked. With my new bed, my place was her place. Or it was supposed to be. I didn’t stop.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Why? Give me a fucking break.” I was tinkering between sanity and madness, the latter winning.
“I can’t keep up. Please. I’m going to trip.” Stumbling, she missed a step.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say there was a part of me that wanted her to break a leg. And never dance again. But I cared too much about her.
She stumbled again and I had no choice but to stop and throw her over my shoulder. My rage got in the way of enjoying her in this position. My blood bubbling, I was on a mission.
“Jesus, Ryan. What the hell are you doing? Put me down!” She began to pound me with her fists. And kick.
Still raging, I gave her tight ass a firm whack. As she yelped, I squeezed the area below her seat tighter and marched her to my bike. I’d gotten a ticket for an expired meter, but I didn’t give a shit. I set her down, tempted like sin to bend her over the bike and fuck her hard from behind. But there were too many pedestrians passing by, and with my luck, some cop would be among them and throw me in the slammer. So, calling on all my willpower, I ordered her to mount it.
“Get on.”
She gave me a what-the-fuck look. I gave her a look back that shouted: don’t fuck with me.
“NOW!”
I watched as she silently spread her long, supple legs and straddled the back seat of the bike. It was a lucky thing the skirt of her cocktail dress was full, allowing her to part her legs. Little did she know she’d be parting them a lot wider shortly. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I hopped onto the bike.
“Hold on,” I shouted as I revved it up. The bike rumbled and we zoomed off, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Weaving in and out of the Saturday night traffic, I recklessly headed downtown, dodging cabs and running red lights.
“Jesus, Ryan, you’re going to get us killed,” she shrieked.
I didn’t respond. Truthfully, I almost didn’t give a damn if we crashed and burned. That’s how mad I was.
Twenty death-defying minutes later we reached my loft where I rode the bike straight into the elevator. I hopped off and lifted Willow off the bike. Making a fist, I yanked at her bun, now a mess from the wind, until her wild mane of hair fell loose. She winced.
“You like pain, Willow?” I swear I didn’t recognize my own voice as I shoved her against the back wall and yanked off the coat. Gripping her shoulders, I bit down near her neck, marking her flesh, as she winced again. I then pinched her nipples as hard as I could, twirling them as they hardened and elongated.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, her bottom lip quivering.
“Tell me, do you like it hard?” With a quick, sharp movement, I hiked up her dress and slipped my hand through the leg opening of her G-string, then plunged my middle finger up her pussy. She let out a gasp. Sweet Jesus. She was as wet as fuck. Dripping for me. I gave it another forceful thrust, hitting her soft womb, and then slid it out, her slickness coating my digit. My dick stood at attention, stiffening against the fabric of my tux pants. Our erotic ballet had just begun. Our pas de deux.
“Extend your leg,” I commanded.
Wordlessly, she lifted her bare limber leg so high and straight I was able to grab her slender ankle, and hook her foot over my shoulder. With her six-inch heels on, it was within easy reach. Her skimpy black lace G-string with its soaked cotton crotch exposed, it was the most erotic sight I’d ever seen. Breathing hard with my arousal, I snapped the G-strings, one after the other, then tore off her panties. I scrunched the damp lace scrap in my hand before tossing it to the floor. Then, I grabbed her glistening pink pussy and squeezed it hard. Mine.
She groaned again, her breathing ragged with her arousal. Holding her pinned against the wall with one hand, I yanked down my fly, freeing my enormous throbbing cock.
“You like it big? I’ll show you big. You like it hard? I’ll give it to you hard.”
On my next fierce heartbeat, I curled my free hand around the wide base and put the crown to her entrance. With a grunt, I rammed my cock inside her, taking her to the hilt. She shrieked again.
“It’s my turn to dance with you, Firebird,” I grumbled. Clutching her cinched waist to balance her, I began to pummel her. Fuck her without mercy. Bang her against the wall, each thrust faster and more forceful. The depth of penetration in this erotic position was like nothing I’d ever known before. So fucking deep. So fucking amazing.
“Is this hard enough for you, Willow?” I ground out.
“Oh. My. God.” She whimpered, her neck arched back, her face exquisitely contorted.
“Is this how he fucks you?”
“No,” she cried out.
Every muscle in my body tensed. Fury flooded my veins. Pulling her away from the wall, I slipped my hand under her dress and cupped her bare ass with my hands, allowing me to go deeper, as she balanced on one leg. She glommed on to my shoulders, the two of us face to face, our mouths almost touching, our breath almost one. Madly, I continued to fuck her. We were on fire, the fire spreading from the inside out. The incendiary heat consuming every cell, every molecule of my body. Melting me. Melting her.
“My little Firebird,” I breathed out, not slowing down, “I’m going to ruffle your feathers. Make you fall apart.”
We made our own music—a symphonic blend of pants, moans, and groans—and built to a crescendo. Her groans became whimpers; her whimpers became sobs; her sobs became shrieks.
“Oh my God, Ryan, I’m so close to coming.”
For a nano-second, I thought about pulling out of her, of making her beg, but the truth was I was so close to the edge I couldn’t. On my next powerful thrust, I sent her flying with a scream of my name as my own epic orgasm soared and chased hers.
Her body limp, I held my Firebird like she’d been shot down from the sky.
I wasn’t done. Our dirty dance had just begun.
“Turn around,” I ordered.
Submissively, she did as I asked.
“Bend over the bike.” Act 2. I was about to choreograph my fantasy.