Jade

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I’d known I was treading on shaky territory.

I had been so enraged at the thought of Fisher having burned the hotel, but even more I had been disappointed.

Hurt because I had been so wrong in my assessment of him. I’d known I had no cause to think so, but I’d been convinced that he was, if not a good man, then one who wouldn’t do something so horrible.

As I had watched that news report, become convinced that I had been wrong, I had sunk to the depths of despair.

And for me, despair meant anger, and by the time he had returned I had been practically exploding with it. My rage intense, an inferno, now as big as the one that had been consuming M. Lounge and Hotel.

I had anticipated his denial, and had been able to brush it off without a second thought. But when he had gone further, told me what he had been doing, it had changed everything.

It was beyond messed up that confessing to one arson obviated my anger at another, but when I thought about it, I knew he had been right.

Fisher hadn’t lied to me, and when I looked at him, I believed him when he said he hadn’t been involved.

But what had come after… All that had left me confused, unsure. I had meant it when I said that I didn’t want to see those two trains collide, but something about that, which as far as I could tell shouldn’t have been controversial, had gotten to him.

I still didn’t understand what it was, and now certainly wasn’t the time to try to parse it out.

I couldn’t, could barely do anything as he kissed me.

Instantly, I was transported back to my kitchen, remembering the temporary insanity that had led me to kiss Fisher.

When his lips touched mine, there was a spark of familiarity, remembrance of what it had been like before, but this, now, was nothing like that.

Before, Fisher had been surprised, unsure, and I had been in the midst of panic.

Now, though, Fisher wasn’t surprised, and I wasn’t panicked.

As he kissed me I felt the full weight of his emotion in every embrace.

His lips against mine warm, not rough, but they weren’t gentle either. It was as though he was kissing me in search of something, trying to unravel something, understand something that was just beyond his grasp.

And me, I was adrift.

I hadn’t intended to touch his arm earlier, but when I had heard the pain in his voice, pain I was instinctively certain he would never want me to hear, I had been unable to ignore it.

There was something familiar in that pain, something I recognized and something I wanted to fix.

I couldn’t fix his, couldn’t fix my own, but in those moments the need to reach out to him, to have some human connection, had been at the forefront of my mind.

And at the forefront of his had been rejecting it.

He hadn’t said anything, but he hadn’t had to. I had seen the moment of shock when I had asked what was wrong, had seen him rejecting that offer, and part of me suspected that this kiss was both comeuppance and his attempt to push me away.

But he wasn’t pushing me away.

I parted my lips, and his tongue entered my mouth, the novel sensation both shocking me and whetting my appetite for more.

Without knowing, I had curled my fingers around his forearms, clung to him, but I loosened my grip and stepped closer.

I sighed into his mouth when our bodies made contact, the feeling of his hard, muscled frame against my much softer one a delicious contrast.

He stroked his tongue against mine, his movements driven by whatever emotion had been there before, but now by something else, something intense.

I didn’t know how to combat that intensity, didn’t know that I wanted to, so I followed my own instincts and tentatively brushed my tongue against his.

He sighed just as I had moments ago, then deepened the kiss.

He closed one hand at the back of my head, holding me still as he ravaged my mouth.

I had locked my arm around his waist, and it took me a few seconds to realize my feet were no longer on the ground.

One moment we were standing in the far corner of the living room, and the next we were on that stupid couch that was definitely growing in my esteem.

I was shoved into a corner, one of my legs folded over Fisher’s thigh.

He broke the kiss, then stared down at me, his chest heaving with the depth of his breath.

His eyes had darkened and were glittering, the look in them one that I had not experienced personally, but one that I couldn’t help but see was passion, desire.

The intensity of that expression should have scared me, should have made me break away, but it didn’t.

Instead it made me feel powerful, made me feel something I so often hadn’t.

Made me feel wanted.

That feeling only intensified when Fisher reached for my hand.

He entwined his fingers with mine, the calloused tips brushing against my hand and sending shivers through my body. Then, moving slow, he pulled my arm toward him, not stopping until his lips hovered above my wrist.

My eyes had gone heavy-lidded, but I couldn’t tear them from Fisher, couldn’t do anything but watch as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against my wrist. I could feel my heart thudding at my pulse point, felt the most intense sensation from the feel of his breath on my skin, his warm lips against it, the slight roughness of his fingers against mine.

And the gentleness of his caress.

His face was rigid, intense, but his kiss was soft, languid, having the effect of simultaneously making me want him with a need that took my breath away and soothing me with its sweetness and calm.

He let his lips linger for a few moments and then released my hand. I let it drop down, rest on the couch, wedged between my knee and his thigh.

Our eyes were locked and we stayed that way for a long moment, me studying him, him studying me, the passion, the emotion that was arcing between us something that was undeniable.

My skin still tingled from where he had touched me, and I wanted more of that feeling. That desire, no the need, to touch him spurred me on.

I moved gingerly at first, turning my hand over and resting it against his hard, muscled thigh.

My heart was pounding, my breath coming erratically, and not only because of nerves. There were plenty of those, of course. I had no idea what I was doing, what he wanted, but even more than that uncertainty, the unfamiliarity of the situation, the depth of my desire, the urgency with which I needed to touch him was overwhelming.

It drove me, gave me the courage to slowly inch my hand up his thigh.

I went higher, rested my palm against his flat abdomen but I didn’t linger. Instead I kept moving, up the hard planes of his chest, pausing long enough to run a finger across his collarbone.

Went higher, brushing his stubbled cheek with the back of one of my fingers.

Shivered when I imagined how it would feel to have that rough yet soft jawline against my body.

My sex clenched, and I squeezed my thighs tight, trying to calm the thudding ache between them.

It didn’t work, but as much as I desired him, wanted him to take that ache away, I was even more fascinated by the thought of touching him.

So I did.

I gave myself to instinct and lifted my other hand. I moved them in tandem, brushing one hand down his strong arm, letting my fingers linger on the back of his hand, while the other stroked his chest, down his stomach, across one of his thighs.

I did that over and over again until Fisher’s breath was coming out in a near pant, one that reflected the rhythm of my own breath.

I had carefully avoided the bulge between his thighs, not yet ready to touch him, not only out of fear, but also out of anticipation.

But soon, the teasing wasn’t sufficient, and after a deep breath to gather my courage, I laid my hand against the hard ridge of his erection.

He was hot, warm, the feel of him a welcome, heavy weight in my palm.

I closed my hand, cupping his hardness, feeling a surge of pride when he inhaled sharply.

Even through the fabric of his pants, I could make out the clear shape of him, and used my fingers to chase the length of his shaft through his pants.

My entire body felt tense like a wire pulled far too tight, and I anchored one hand on his thigh for balance as I continued to stroke him.

He seemed to harden even further under my touch, something that sparked a new wave of pride.

It was strange to think, I was fully clothed, but I felt more sensual, more vulnerable than I had before.

But soon, I didn’t feel anything but the urgent need to see him.

I stroked his length one last time and then reached for his belt buckle.

Froze when he closed his hand over mine.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide, my heart starting to pound.

When I met his eyes, I could see his desire in the glittering amber orbs. I could also see the question in them.

He wasn’t sure if he could trust this, could trust me.

I wanted him to, wanted to show him that he could.

“I want to do this, Fisher,” I whispered.

My voice sounded ragged with the edge of desire that still raced through me, raw with the need that had my blood thundering through my veins.

Fisher studied me for a long moment, another, and then finally nodded.

He released my hands, and then threw one arm along the side of the couch while resting the other on the armrest. His position, and his eyes, told me that he was opening himself up to me, leaving this at my discretion.

I was both humbled and aroused, but more than anything, intent on finishing what I had started.

I found the strength to remove my other hand from his thigh and slowly began to unbuckle his belt.

The soft swish of the leather, the clanging of the pieces of metal were amazing, the sexiest things I had ever heard.

My breath was coming out short now, my desire making my hands tremble ever so slightly.

After opening his belt, I unfastened his button, and then slowly, carefully, lowered his zipper down around his hardness.

I curled two fingers on either side of the waistband of his underwear and when he lifted his hips, I pulled down.

My attention was rapt as his long, thick shaft was exposed.

The base of his cock was covered with dense, dark, almost brown hair from which he sprang.

I pushed his pants down and immediately forgot them, instead focused on the sight in front of me.

And it was just that, a sight to behold, a thing of beauty.

I had never imagined I would think of a penis as beautiful, but Fisher’s was.

His was perfectly shaped, the veins lining his shaft tempting me to follow each one, his crown angry red, glistening with the fluid that was leaking from him.

My gaze snagged there and I reached up, caught a drop of that fluid on the tip of my finger.

Fisher hissed, the sound a mix of excitement and torture.

I was driven by that sound and kept moving, trailing first one fingertip, then another along his crown, circling the mushroom head again and again.

Then I worked my way down, following one vein from tip to root and back again, then doing the same with another, then another.

My sex was fluttering wildly, the thought, the idea of the thickness under my finger filling me leaving me almost breathless.

But even more than that feeling, the desire to be satisfied, I was also enjoying the sweet tension, the anticipation.

After another moment I gently closed my hand around his shaft, and used the other hand to cup his heavy sac.

After the weight of his shaft in one hand, his sac was unfamiliar, but also welcome.

I squeezed gently, massaging his sac with my hand as I tightened my grip on his shaft.

I moved experimentally, stroking my fists about halfway up his length before dropping it back down.

He hissed another one of those breaths, and I froze, looked up to meet his eyes.

They were glazed, practically drugged with passion, and seeing that only gave me the desire to continue on.

I stroked him, moving halfway up his shaft and then back down.

I grew bolder, following the full-length down, then up, then down again.

I grew bolder, moved faster, then faster still.

Fisher’s reactions, the jerk of his shaft in my hand, the fluid that leaked from him freely now all spurred me on.

My hand was coated with liquid now, the moisture creating a smooth glide from his tip to his root.

Fisher moaned, then moaned again, and when I paused, he covered my hand with his, squeezed far, far tighter than I would have dared.

Then he set the rhythm, moving our entwined hands up and down his length, going faster, then faster still.

His shaft, already impossibly hard thickened, and I listened to the change in his breath, knew that his climax was imminent.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away, the sight of our hands, mine small, dark, nearly enveloped by his as we worked his length, his crown red, glistening.

He moved our hands one more time and then, Fisher flattened his shaft back against his stomach, and on a low, almost guttural moan, I watched as he emptied himself, his cock still pulsing as his seed flew from his body and landed on his shirt.

I couldn’t do anything but watch, watch and desire, the need to have that same feeling, only this time inside me.

I stayed quiet, watched as he finished, feeling both proud of myself for bringing this man to this climax, wanting even more of it.

I froze, watched him as he breathed out hard, seeming to come back to himself.

I don’t know how long it took, a few minutes, maybe longer, but I could sense the moment his senses returned.

Hated it.

He kept his lids lowered, and removed his hand from mine.

I let go, reluctant, but not knowing how to react.

He stripped off his soiled shirt, then tucked himself back into his pants and buttoned, zipped them, and closed his belt.

Then, finally, he looked at me.

“You should get some sleep,” he said roughly.

Then he stood, and was gone.