I GREET LANCE AT THE FRONT DOOR WET FROM A shower, towel twisted like a sarong around my body.
He's in jeans and a black T-shirt, flip-flops on his feet. He doesn't say a word, lets me draw him inside. When the door is closed, he kicks off the flip-flops, pulls the tee over his head. He reaches for the towel.
I stop him. The memory of being sick beside the road is still fresh in my memory. "I don't want to feed. I want the sex."
He smiles. "I think I can accommodate you," he says. He unzips his jeans, peels them off. He's already hard. This time when he reaches for the towel, I let him snatch it away.
His hands start their exploration while his mouth covers mine, his kiss urgent and savage. One hand holds me at the hollow of my back, pressing his body against mine, letting me feel his hardness against my thigh. The other goes to work, massaging my breasts, pinching my nipples, tracing a path down my stomach. I try to hold back, to control the tidal wave building too soon, but when his fingers find their way inside me, desire, hunger and turbulent need take over. I pull Lance down to the floor, lock my legs around his waist and force him between my thighs. Only when he's inside, matching his movements to mine, do I relinquish the lead. His movements become deliciously slow and deliberate. Teasing, languid. He's watching me through the veil of his hair, his eyes glowing.
The pressure builds. For him, too, I feel his sex swell, filling me.
Still, he holds back. He wants me to cry out for release and when I can no longer bite back long, shuddering moans, he brings me to the brink and over. With a single thrust, he comes so deep inside, I feel it to my very core.
After, he waits for me to grow still, for the heat to subside. My muscles refuse to relax. I'm reluctant to let go of him. He's in no hurry. He moves gently, lowering himself on his hands until our faces are within inches of each other. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose.
"You are beautiful, Anna Strong," he whispers. "Why are you so alone?"
The question raises the hackles at the back of my neck. I put both hands on his shoulders and push him up and away. "I'm not alone."
An eyebrow arches. "Oh?" He makes a parody of looking around. "There's a husband I don't know about? A boyfriend? A steady fuck buddy?"
I start to protest, but he's hard again and he moves just enough so that the hot, wet friction sends ripples radiating through me. He smiles and rocks a little faster.
"I'm not alone," I whisper again.
He isn't listening. He doesn't care.
In another second, neither do I.
