Читать книгу Broken - Меган Харт - Страница 7

Chapter 03

February

This month, if I have a name, it’s lost in the pounding beat blaring from the speakers in the club. I’m wearing a short, tight skirt and a shirt made up of two scarves tied behind my neck. No bra, and my tits push against the silky fabric like twin melons. They barely bounce when I dance, and I’m proud of them. They’re worth the college tuition they cost to buy.

Guys have been approaching me all night. I let them buy me drink after drink, but I dance alone or with a girlfriend, shaking our asses in time to the pounding rhythm. My skirt rides up over tanned, taut thighs, and tawny hair glistens in the blue strobe lights. I’m hips and tits and hair. I’m smooth, fluid motion. I’m sex for the sake of sex.

There’s a guy watching me from across the dance floor. There are lots of guys watching me, but this one is different. He’s alone, not part of a pack. Just standing there, watching. His long-sleeved, black sweater hugs his shoulders and chest and fades into the black of his trousers, making him a shadow.

I put on a little more effort for him, a wiggle of my hips and ass and tits. I crook my finger. Come hither, stranger.

He detaches himself from the dark and moves forward, cutting through the crowd. I lose sight of him and frown, my dance losing a little of its steam until a moment later when the crowd parts and he’s standing in front of me.

He smiles. I smile. I raise my hands over my head and wiggle, turning, writhing. He likes it.

And damn, he’s a good dancer, too. He molds along my body. One hand goes to my hip. With the other, he curls my fingers around the back of his neck. The back of my head rests against his chest, because even in my four-inch heels he’s still about five inches taller.

We move in time, ignoring the other dancers who sort of bounce up and down, as if on pogo sticks. We move more like water. His hand on my hip drifts down to brush along the hem of my skirt and the bare skin of my thigh.

My nipples get hard. He’s subtle but I know what he wants. I want it, too. It’s not like I’m here to find Mr. Right. More like Mr. Right Now.

The song changes and some people on the dance floor leave. Others join. I turn and tilt my head to smile at him. Fuck, he’s got pretty teeth.

We can’t talk, really. The music’s too loud. We communicate with a look, a touch. He’s good at that, too. He actually looks at my face.

If we’re not going to dance, we need to get off the floor. Besides, I’m hot and thirsty. I gesture toward the bar and he nods, so I grab his hand and tug him along to the bar where he buys me a margarita and he orders a bottle of water.

I don’t think he’s drunk, which is really interesting, considering it’s Saturday night and the entire bar is halfway to wasted, including me. I lift my margarita, and he toasts it with his bottled water. We smile and sip. It’s quieter here by the barest margin, but still not enough for real conversation.

“You wanna go someplace?” I have to shout the question twice before he answers.

He leans in to say directly into my ear, “where do you want to go?”

That’s how we end up at my place. I feel okay with him driving me home since he hasn’t been drinking, and it saves me cab fare, anyway. I live on the third floor of a converted brownstone, and the margaritas have made the stairs too steep for me. Laughing, I stop to take off my shoes. His eyes follow the motion of my fingers unbuckling the ankle strap. His eyes look dark until he raises them to my face, and then I see they’re not dark at all, it’s just that the pupils have gone wide and black.

At the top of the stairs I unlock my door and push inside, then turn and grab him by the front of his black leather jacket. I back him up against the door, closing it, and press my body to his, still cold from being outside. He smells like winter air and leather and smoke, and I pull him down to kiss me, but he turns at the last second so my mouth lands on his cheek.

His hands have found their way to my tits without a problem. His hands are cold, too, and they slide up over the silk scarves and my tight nipples. I push his jacket off his shoulders and toss it on the floor. He bends to pick it up and hang it over the back of a chair.

“Oh, you’re fussy,” I say, as if that’s cute.

He doesn’t deny it. He even smirks a little. Maybe he’s proud of it. I take off my jacket and make a show of hanging it up on the coatrack, using exaggerated movements he watches without changing his expression.

“What’s your name?” This I toss over my shoulder as I head to my kitchen and yank open my freezer to pull out a bottle of lemon vodka.

“Joe.”

I set out the bottle, a shot glass, the sugar bowl. I grab a lemon from the basket on the counter and slice it into quarters.

“Joe, you want a lemon shooter?”

When I turn for his answer, I see he’s followed me into the kitchen.

“Sure.”

I pour a shot, wet the back of my hand with the lemon and sprinkle it with sugar. “Bottoms up.” Down goes the shot, lick the sugar, bite the lemon.

He does one, too. I like the noise he makes when he sucks the lemon. It’s a little half-growl. I wonder if he’d make that same noise if I sucked hard on his cock. And suddenly I want to find out.

I move closer to him and grab his belt. I’m not as drunk as I was an hour ago but I’m still pretty buzzed. Holding his belt helps keep me steady. I’m glad I took off my tottery heels.

“C’mere,” I tell him. “Be nice to me.”

His hands come up to hold my hips. I don’t bother with trying to kiss him. I undo his belt with a couple quick jerks that move his whole body. He’s already hard, and I stroke him through his pants. Up and down. I look up at his face. He’s still smirking, but I recognize the bright gleam in his eyes. He wants to fuck. Well, don’t they all?

As soon as I undo his button and zipper, I push his pants and briefs down over his thighs. He’s got a nice dick. I take it in my hand and stroke it couple of times, hard, and he puts a hand over mine to hold it in place against him.

It’s my turn to smirk. “Too rough?”

“You don’t want to break it.”

He thinks he’s clever, and I have to admit, he’s cute enough to get away with it. Besides, I’m not exactly thinking clearly at this point. I stroke again, moving both our hands along his erection, but softer.

“That better?”

“Your mouth would be better.”

My heart skip. “Yeah?”

He looks down at his cock, and at our hands, then back to my face. “Yeah.”

It’s because he’s looking at my face when he says it that I get on my knees. The tile is cold and hard but I don’t really notice. Maybe tomorrow I will, when I’m sober and my knees are black and blue, but right now I’m focused on taking him in my mouth.

My inhibitions are loose and so’s my throat. I can take him all the way in, a skill I’m proud of. I close my lips around the base of his prick and suck, working my mouth on him a couple seconds before sliding off to add some suction to the head. He pushes forward, into my mouth. I put a hand on his cock to control it. I don’t want to gag. Drunk as I am, I might just puke all over him.

My hand also lets me stroke and suck him at the same time, so he gets twice the pleasure. In another minute, he makes that growly noise and I smile. I suck him a little bit more, getting into the rhythm the same way I did at the club. It’s just a different kind of dance.

He puts a hand in my hair and his fingers tangle, pulling. I wince and suck him a little harder. He’s thrusting hard, now. I let my mouth pop off and look at his cock. It’s wet from my saliva. I pump my fist up and down along it, looking up to watch his face. He’s not looking at me now. His eyes are closed.

A second later, he opens them. “Get up.”

I’m a little clumsy from alcohol and being on the floor for so long, but he helps me with his hands under my elbows. I laugh when he pulls me upright, but the laugh becomes a squeak of surprise when he turns me so fast my head spins. He pushes my hands flat against the table.

I’m bent over at the waist, surprised at how fast he moved. He pushes my skirt up to my hips. Cool air caresses my ass, bared by my thong panties. He runs a finger along the string at the small of my back, then pulls it out of my ass crack and takes my panties off before I can say a word. He pushes my feet apart with one of his and I bend further over the table, my hands skidding along the slick surface. I knock into the shot glass, which rolls off onto the floor but doesn’t break.

I’d protest but he’s already stroking my clit. My pussy’s as surprised as I am, but way faster at acclimating. I’m already wet, I know, because he pushes a finger inside me and then brings it up to my clit again and every motion gets smoother, coated in my slickness.

I make a noise, too. His cock nudges my ass and I spread my legs wider on my own. I lay along the table, pushing my ass into the air so he can reach my cunt. When he puts two fingers inside me, I cry out. He’s doing this thing to me that feels so good I shake, something with two fingers inside me and his other hand fingering my clit. He puts a third finger inside, stretching me as he pinches my clit. The sensation’s so startling, I jump and moan.

“Where’ve you been all my life?”

He doesn’t answer, but I don’t care because he’s finger fucking me so good. My hips rock and I push my cunt against his hand, wanting to take all of him inside me.

“Fuck me!” It’s a command and an invitation. I grope for my purse, slung over the back of the kitchen chair. I pull out the rubber and pass it back to him.

“Just a minute.”

I moan a protest but in a second he’s started up that twin fingering thing again and I’m jittering and jumping under his touch as if he’s hooked me up to a socket in the wall.

I’m so wet he fits a fourth finger inside me. He jerks my clit, up and down, rolling it every so often in a way that makes me fucking mindless.

I think I’m begging him at this point, even though I don’t really want him to stop doing what he’s doing with his hands. All at once I go from “ooh” to “hell yeah!” And there’s no way I could stop myself from coming even if I wanted to. My fingers clutch the table and I shout.

My pussy closes around his fingers. My clit spasms. He stops moving for a moment while my body shakes around him. I lay my cheek on the table and close my eyes. It’s good, so good. I’m spent, breathless.

He takes his hands away. I don’t move. I’m boneless.

He puts one hand on my hip. His cock nudges my cunt.

He pushes inside me slowly, and I make a sleepy noise. He fills me all the way. I push up on my hands a little to take the pressure off my boobs.

He sets a slow steady pace, and I’m happy to take it because I already came and I really don’t care what he does to finish himself off. My clit’s buzzing a little, but I’m not really ready for another orgasm.

“Yeah, baby, fuck me harder.” This seems like a good thing to say.

He keeps the same steady pace. I push up higher, and he unhooks the clip holding my shirt closed behind my neck. The scarves fall open. He reaches around to grab my tit, tweaking the nipple upright. That feels good, too. My clitty’s buzzing harder, oh, fuck, and I’m so wet he slides in and out of me as easy as anything. I moan and push my ass against him.

Maybe this is what he was waiting for, because he moves faster. Our bodies make a slapping sound. His thrusts move me and the table, which skids on the tile floor. I moan louder when he twists my nipple, but what I really need is a finger on my clit to get me off again.

Sudden wetness on my back startles me. He’s stroked the lemon wedge across my shoulder blade. He takes the sugar. Grains tickle my back. The next moment his tongue follows it and he licks me clean.

Wow. I’m really getting closer now. He’s fucking me so hard and fast I have to clutch the table edge to keep from moving. He’s making small, sexy grunts that are driving me crazy with lust.

I’m getting closer but I need a little more. Just a little more something. Then, he gives it to me. His fingers trace the cleft of my ass, probing. His thumb presses against me back there, right on my pucker. My moan catches in my throat and I jump. My hips buck forward. Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, that’s not what I was expecting, but damn, it’s so good…

In another second I’m coming for the second time. My breath stutters out. I try to gasp in another but my orgasm has stolen my breath and the best I can do is sip at the air.

He thrusts into me once more and cries out, voice hoarse. We pant together after that, coming down. My legs tremble and my belly hurts from where it’s rubbed on the table edge, but don’t really care too much because I’m so utterly, totally sated.

He pulls out. By the time I turn around and tug my skirt back down over my thighs, he’s already tossed the rubber in the trash and pulled up his pants. He washes his hands at the sink while I watch.

I’m bleary and tired and still mostly drunk, but I give him a big, smug smile. “Wow.”

He looks at me over his shoulder. Like an afterthought. He smiles. “Yeah, thanks.”

I move closer to him, lazy and cuddly the way really good sex makes me feel. I reach for him, and he lets me hug him but even though I tilt my face up to his, he doesn’t kiss me.

“Hey,” I say, soft and purring. “Be nice to me.”

He bends and kisses my cheek, then gently but firmly pushes me from him and leaves the kitchen. I stare after him, pissed off. I follow him.

“Hey!”

He’s put on his coat. He turns, hand on the doorknob.

“You’re leaving?” I put my hands on my hips, indignant. “Just like that?”

Joe nods once, so solemn I feel like I can’t really rage at him. I mean…it was a hookup, yeah, I get it. But it was really, really great sex, the kind that’s worth breakfast, at least.

“But…”

He shakes his head, stopping me. Then he opens the door and leaves. Only when it’s closed behind him do I realize he never bothered to ask my name.

Joe twirled a straw paper in his fingers, knotting it. He didn’t look at me. He hadn’t looked at me since he sat down.

“Why didn’t you ask her name?” I hadn’t eaten anything. I hadn’t even opened my lunch bag. Though I was only a few inches away from Joe on the bench, it might as well have been miles.

He turned, slowly. Our eyes met. I drew in a breath and held it. The look he gave me was a challenge of some sort.

“Because it didn’t matter.”

Maybe her name didn’t matter, but his reason for not asking did. His story comforted me. This was the Joe I knew, the teller of tales and splitter of peaches. Not the man who last month had threatened to upset the balance of our relationship by wanting to change.

“About last month,” I said finally. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “You were right.”

I nodded, as if he’d made a longer explanation. Not even when we first met had our silence been so uncomfortable. I had to look away, at last, afraid my face showed too much of what I couldn’t say.

“I wasn’t even planning on going home with her,” he said after a minute. “Or with anyone.”

“So…why did you?” I couldn’t help the fascination.

“C’mon, Sadie. You know how it is.”

“No, actually. I don’t.”

Joe let a puff of air seep from his lips, not quite a whistle. “You’ve never?”

“No. Never.” I shook my head to further emphasize my point.

“You’ve never been with someone only once.” His tone sounded disbelieving or envious, I wasn’t sure which.

“I’ve only been with one man.” The admission wasn’t shameful, just…the truth. It seemed to shock Joe, who probably couldn’t comprehend my experience any more than I could his.

“Only one.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head a bit. “Good for you.”

I laughed a little. “You’re avoiding the question. If you weren’t planning on going home with someone, why did you?”

“Because I could. Because she asked. Because…I always do.”

I made a small noise, shaking my head as I unwrapped my lunch. Joe looked over at me as he unscrewed the cap on his bottle of soda. He took a long, slow drink. I imagined him tasting like lemon and vodka and kept my eyes carefully on my sandwich.

“Haven’t you ever done something just because it’s easier to do it than not?”

I didn’t have to think long before answering. “Of course.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not as exciting as your story, Joe.”

He smiled, leaning forward. “No? That’s too bad. Tell me, anyway.”

I was used to giving people what they wanted. Joe was used to getting it. I told him.

“When I was growing up, my sister and I fell into these…stereotypes, I guess you could say. I was the smart one. She was the pretty one. We kept it up through college, and I guess even now. It’s stupid, but you know how families are.”

“Try being the disappointing one.”

I leaned back on the bench to study him. He was impeccably dressed, as always. Today his shirt was blue, his favorite color. It made his eyes seem greener than usual. He was the epitome of a clean-cut businessman. Whatever he did, he did it too well to be a disappointment.

I laughed. “Oh, you aren’t. You can’t be. Look at you, Mr. Successful.”

He shrugged, smiling. “My parents aren’t impressed with fancy suits and expensive ties.”

I knew he had a sister who was married with children and a brother who’d died. This was the first time I’d heard him talk about his parents.

“As far as ties go, it’s a very nice one,” I told him. “Even if they don’t like it, I do.”

He gave me a one-eyed, squinting grin that made me laugh. “Yeah? You’re impressed by this tie?”

“Keep in mind my knowledge of men’s haute couture is pretty limited.”

He stroked the fabric. “I like this one, too.”

The silence between us wasn’t awkward this time.

“Sometimes,” Joe said after a bit, “it’s just easier to keep being what everyone expects you to be. Even if that’s what you’re not, anymore.”

I nodded, agreeing, and he got up to toss his trash into the pail. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back, after what I said.”

“I couldn’t stay away. I thought about it all month. Just not showing up.”

“So…why did you?”

A slow, hot smile spread across his mouth. “Because I always do.”

I was trying to decide between two mugs of the same shade but different shapes, my concentration entirely focused on my choices, when the distinct sensation of a foreign gaze on the back of my neck prickled my skin. I glanced up, but the man across the aisle appeared as engrossed in his shopping as I was. A look to either side showed us as the only two customers in housewares. Convinced I was imagining it, I bent back to my decision.

Again, I sensed someone staring. This time, instead of looking up, I let my eyes shift from side to side. Nothing. A gradual turn of my head revealed my fellow mug aficionado had moved a bit closer. He picked up a flowered coffee mug, turning it to and fro, then set it back on the shelf.

I turned back to the selection in front of me, but couldn’t concentrate. I wanted something new for my bathroom. It wasn’t brain surgery. I needed to pick one, just one, and yet my every sense now strained toward the man standing behind me. I grabbed up one of the mugs, finally, and stuck it in my cart. I looked over my shoulder.

He was looking at me.

“Excuse me,” he began.

Time slowed as I turned, expectant of something benign. A question. “What’s the time?” or “Do you work here?”

“Are you available for dating?”

My face must have shown my shock. “What?”

Details registered. He had long hair, more than a bit unkempt. He wore a shapeless fatigue jacket and matching, slightly ragged pants. Oh, lord. He was probably part of some outpatient program at the V.A. Hospital.

“Well, I didn’t see a wedding ring…”

I looked automatically to my left hand, where I was, indeed, wearing my wedding ring. I was so stunned by this, the first outright proposition I’d had in as long as I could remember, that I couldn’t even speak. I could only stare.

He moved closer, looking hopeful. “So? Are you?”

“I’m…no, I’m not.”

The man took off running down the aisle. I looked after him, the absurdity of the situation giving the entire experience a surreal flavor. I paid for my purchases, fumbling with my change and laughing too hard at the cashier’s unfunny jokes.

I’d carried myself as a married woman for such a long time, I’d considered myself under the radar of outright flirtation. Either men didn’t notice me, or I didn’t notice them noticing. After the ineloquent come-on, though, I kept my eyes open a little wider. Was the man in the next car checking me out? Was the guy holding the elevator door for me doing it to be polite or was he giving me a once-over when I reached to push the button for my floor? Even if they weren’t, the possibility that they might be preparing to accost me with the offer of a night on the town kept me smiling.

Adam didn’t find it so amusing. “What did he say to you?”

I paused in showing off the new mug. “I told you. He asked me if I was available for dating.”

“He asked you on a date? In the middle of the store?”

“Well, to be honest, I think he was a little off, Adam.” I put the mug back in the bag.

Adam maneuvered his chair away from the computer desk so we were face-to-face. “What did you say?”

“I said I wasn’t.” Even now, the memory made me laugh. “And really, if you’d seen him—”

“What about him?”

I described the man, exaggerating a little to make the story better, but not too much. “I think he was probably on outpatient leave from a mental program. He had that look. Poor guy, his therapist probably told him to go out and take a chance, ask a woman out, and I shot him down. I probably set him back months in his progress.”

Adam didn’t laugh. “Right.”

“Adam,” I said with a sigh. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Some guy comes on to my wife and it’s not a big deal?” Agitated, he swung the chair around. It was big and heavy, and though he could operate it with agile grace, it still needed room to move. He nudged the edge of the desk and let out a curse when his papers fell down.

I bent to gather them up. A few lines of text caught my eye, phrasing from his lectures. I put them back in the folder.

“Honey, he wasn’t even cute!”

The look he gave me was long familiar, sardonic, verging on mean. “What does that mean? If he had been cute, you’d have taken him up on it?”

A snappish response teetered on my tongue but managed to cling to the inside of my mouth without spitting itself out. “Don’t be silly,” I said instead.

Adam grunted. His version of pacing was to rock the chair back and forth in small arcs. The room wasn’t big enough for him to move more than that, the chair too bulky to allow for the tight turns he’d need to crisscross the space.

“Adam, it was a funny story. I thought you’d like it. I’m sorry I told you.”

His eyes flashed. “What does that mean, Sadie? You won’t tell me about it again?”

“I’m sure it won’t happen again,” I replied with a sigh. “C’mon. It was just a fluke.”

He grunted again and stopped the pacing. “Were you wearing that outfit?”

I looked down at my clothes. “I was, yes.”

He’d always been a master of expression, with words or without. His snort made his feelings very clear. “Well, no wonder he hit on you.”

That made me laugh out loud. “Oh, really? Because this outfit is so sexy?”

My work clothes were the farthest thing from sexy I could ever imagine, most of the time. Then again, so was I. The Beatles might have written about Sexy Sadie, but that wasn’t me.

“I don’t like men hitting on you, that’s all.” Adam sounded less fierce, more what Mrs. Lapp called grexy.

I went to him and kissed his cheek. “You have nothing to worry about.”

He wasn’t so easily appeased. “Weren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”

That was it. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Yes. I was! You act as if I was out trolling for business! Stop it!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have told him the story, which had been amusing and a bit of an ego boost to me. Adam was moody on the best of days. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why, but once he’d had a much better sense of humor. It was hard to remember he wasn’t the same man I’d seduced with a red ribbon stuck in a book of poetry.

He stopped talking. He went back to his computer and ignored me. I took my mug and left the room.

If he’d been cute, would I have taken him up on the offer? Gone out with a stranger I met while buying a mug? Maybe gone home with him, to his bed, or to a hotel room, to a car, to a back alley where he’d push me against a wall and merge his flesh with mine in anonymous passion?

According to Joe, things like that happened all the time, to him. But Joe never came on to me. I only listened to him talk about it, month after month, and wondered what it would be like to be asked and answer, “yes.”