Nancy

 

I’ve never been a slut-shamer or a sex-shamer, a lust-shamer, or a hate-monger, but my first instinct when Fink pushes me up against the tree is to shove him away and tell him that I’m not that sort of girl. I don’t stop to think about what “that sort of girl” is, but the thought strikes me nonetheless. And with any other man, I’d follow that thought without question. But Fink feels so damn good pressed against me, his hard body, his hard leather, his biker’s hand sliding between my legs. His hand holds strength in it: the kind of strength capable of powering a bike for hours and hours and hours.

 

So I don’t push him away, because I don’t want to push him away.

 

Instead I open my legs and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me as we share in the kiss. I throw myself into the embrace like I never have before, hurl myself into the pleasures of the kiss without giving thought to where we are, the birds chirping faraway, the cars growling. It’s just us in this tree-shrouded universe; nothing else matters. Our tongues wage war, the tips clashing, and tingles buzz between us. I push my tongue further into his mouth and he fights back, pushing in return. We kiss more deeply. Our teeth click together. Passion outruns us.

 

Then his hand reaches my pussy, up my skirt, his middle finger pressing firmly against my panties. I gasp, unable to continue the kiss because he has stolen my breathing. I gasp over and over, pushing down on his hand, his finger probing harder against my clit. He rubs side to side, slowly at first, and then quickly, quicker and quicker each moment until the pleasure begins to grow larger and more difficult to ignore. I bite down on his lip, draw blood. Neither of us cares.

 

He breaks off the kiss and looks down at me, his light green eyes solid and intent. It’s his mission to bring me to climax; that’s the look on his face. I stare back up at him, the handsomest, most dangerous-looking man who’s ever touched me. His face is stern. This is no laughing matter for him. He rubs me quicker, his eyes locked on my lips, and then my breasts, my shirt with my bra flashing through.

 

I close my legs around his hand, tWolfing from side to side, grinding against him so that my back scratches against the tree. Quicker and quicker, harder and harder, he rubs me and I grind until the pleasure grows almost unbearable. My cheeks are hot, my chest is hot, the deep place inside my pussy is hot, my clit is burning. Everything starts to burn as he presses even harder.

 

I close my eyes, listening to my panting moan rise into the air. I know I should be quiet, but an orgasm is coming and I can’t stop. The pleasure claims me. I writhe on his hand, his hand, which is like a power-drill now, never running out of power, vibrating against my clit. I gasp one last time, and then—

 

“We’ll go to the movies later.”

 

“Yes, that’ll be nice.”

 

The pleasure recedes, robbing me of the orgasm moments before it strikes. A couple walks by on the opposite side of the trees. I press Fink’s chest, pushing him away. “Stop,” I whisper.

 

For a half-second he just stands there, and then he steps back. I think he might pout and I steel myself to distance myself from him. Pouting after withheld sex is the most unattractive quality in a man, even if I understand it. I feel like pouting right now, with my pussy screaming at me for his strong hand.

 

“Damn,” he says, grinning.

 

“Damn,” I agree, and then I giggle tipsily. Tipsily, not drunkenly.

 

“What now?” he asks.

 

“I guess you walk me home like a gentleman.”

 

He offers me his arm. “Come on, then.”

 

I link my arm with his and we walk. Today has been bizarre, I reflect, starting with drunk Dad and ending with this stranger who does not feel like a stranger. He walks me to my apartment and looks down at me.

 

“When will I see you again?” I ask.

 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I reckon your old man might have a problem with it, and your old man is a cop—”

 

“Was a cop,” I correct.

 

“Was a cop,” Fink says. “But still, I bet he has cop friends—you told me he does. So . . . I don’t know, Nancy.”

 

“Are you saying you don’t want to see me again?”

 

“I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head. “When did I say that?”

 

“I’m asking you a simple question.” I know my voice is getting prissy but I can’t help it.

 

“And I’m telling you the truth. Look, this isn’t easy for me. I’m not usually into this dating stuff. I’m a Son of a Wolf, and your dad’s a cop. I want to see you again, though.”

 

“Don’t worry about it!” I snap, vaguely aware that I sound like Dad, vaguely aware that this just might be the alcohol talking and not me.

 

I turn quickly and pace into my apartment building, striding up the stairs and only stopping once I’ve collapsed onto my bed. I stare up at the ceiling, the world spinning. I know it’s the shots making the bed spin, the room spin, but it doesn’t make any difference. I’m on a rollercoaster and the only way to stop it is to sit up and wait.

 

Sometime later my mind returns to Fink, to his strong hand on my wet pussy. My pussy is still wet and aching and bothering me.

 

I lie back and slide my hand down my panties, toying with my clit and closing my eyes, imagining Fink with his oil-flecked body glistening in the garage.