Page 8 of Fake Dark Vows

She smiles like she thought I would never ask, and I grab my jacket, slide off the stool and wait for my spinning brain cells to settle down. Wren’s smile widens when I offer her my hand. Julia has never mentioned her little sister—what we do outside of the office remains outside of the office. I don’t bring my personal life into the workplace, and I expect my colleagues to conduct themselves in the same manner. Yet it irks me now, although I don’t understand why.

We weave our way through the crowds and step out onto the street. The cool air hits me, and I sway a little, the buildings moving in and out of focus. I’m way drunker than I thought.

“My apartment is a couple of blocks away,” Wren says.

“Wren, pretty name.” My tongue feels thick inside my mouth, and I can’t be sure, but I think my words are slurring. “Did I just say that out loud?”

Wren shakes her head, a movement I’m struggling to follow with my cotton-candy brain, and giggles. It’s a nice sound, not irritating or nasal like some giggles … this is more like a gurgling brook, one I could dive straight into and come up smiling.

“You said that out loud too,” she says, her grin lighting up her face.

“I’ll be quiet now.”

“Can you walk and be quiet at the same time?”

She loops her arm through mine and leads the way, and I walk with her, concentrating on the feel of her left breast through her flimsy dress. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her perfume is light and floral, not overpowering, more inviting. Come closer, it whispers in my ear.

“You smell good.”

“I bet you say that to every woman you meet, huh?”

She’s right.

“No.” I shake my head and regret it instantly. “Only the ones who smell good.”

She props me up against the exterior wall of an apartment building while she finds her key and opens the front door. I follow her inside. A sensor-activated light flickers on in the narrow hallway, but I’m too busy staring at the nape of Wren’s neck to pay attention to my surroundings. She has a tiny bird tattoo behind her left ear.

Tossing my jacket onto the floor, I reach out and stroke it with my finger. Her flesh is warm and smooth, and she tilts her neck, inviting me in. I don’t need to be asked a second time. My lips brush the ink behind her ear, and a soft groan escapes her lips.

The need to have her overtakes everything else.

I press her up against the wall, my body flat against hers, and find her mouth with my tongue. She tastes like whisky mixed with something sweeter. I suck her tongue, my fingers drifting towards her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her squirm. She obliges, and I smother her mouth with mine, breathe into her, combine her oxygen with mine until I feel her body relax.

My head is swimming and I ride it like the Bahamas surf. Make it part of the experience. I use my free hand to tug her dress up over her thighs. She’s naked underneath.

“The door,” she breathes when I move my mouth down to the base of her throat.

I don’t waste a beat.

I move her around so that her back is pressed up against the front door. It rattles, but I ignore the sound, and drag her dress up, over her waist, further, until her breasts are exposed. Her nipples are small, pink, and erect. I pin her arms above her head while my mouth closes around one, teasing it with my tongue, tasting the faint tang of shower gel and fabric softener.

She’s clean, so clean… I bite her nipple and she lets out a yelp of surprise rather than pain.

It’s all the prompting I need.

I release her and drag her dress over her shoulders. She doesn’t resist. She keeps her arms raised, spurring me on, doesn’t even attempt to remove my tie or unzip my pants. She’s enjoying the vulnerability of being naked in the hallway of her apartment building as much as I am.

Her dress lands in a crumpled heap on the floor behind me. “You want to take this inside?” I murmur.

She doesn’t move. There are pink marks in the soft flesh around her mouth from my teeth, and her swollen lips tilt upwards at the corners. “No,” she says. “Do you?”

My mouth finds hers. I hold her wrists above her head and push a finger inside her, feel how wet she is, and add a second finger. She kisses me back. Greedy kisses, hot, fast, brutal almost. I slide my fingers back out and raise them to my mouth—our tongues meet as we both taste her, licking the wetness, combining it when we kiss.

I lower my hands to her hips, my tongue trailing down between her breasts, circling her belly button, and down further still. Kneeling, I spread her legs, and she grips the door frame either side of her as I slide my tongue in. I’m rough with her. Nibbling, sucking, probing.

I don’t stop until she squeezes her eyes shut and her breathing becomes shallow, and then I pull away. I stand up, lick the taste of her from my lips, and take her hand. “I’m not finished yet,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

---