Page 68 of The Match Faker

Nick’s face is flushed, his lips shiny and red, his hair wild as he stands. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers into my neck, his mouth wet against my skin. That’s from me. He loops his arms around me and fiddles with the buttons at the back of the dress.

Turning in his arms to give him better access, I press my cheek against the wood of the door. In my ear, the sounds of a party slowly dying are muffled. At my back, Nick breathes with a deliberate steadiness as he slowly works each delicate button free. His hands are gentle and careful, even though there’s no way he could know that I found this dress in a bin at a garage sale and that over the span of three months I repaired and altered it. But he treats it like he knows as he finally undoes the last button and slides it gently from my shoulders.

I let it fall to the floor. Leaving it puddled like that for a few moments won’t kill it. I turn to him, my hands crossed over my chest, which is silly. He already knows what my pussy tastes like.

“Can I see you?” he asks.

It’s the vulnerability in his words, like he’s worried I’ll say no, that makes me drop my arms. His attention shifts to my breasts, then my tummy, my pussy, my breasts again. He reaches out, glides his fingers between my legs, holds them up for me to see. Absently, he rubs at his cock with the heel of his other hand, the thick bulge at the front of his slacks from when he tucked himself back in. He doesn’t try to hide any of it, unashamed to be indecent and crude, maybe even proud.

“You wanted the bed?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I changed my mind.”

He scans the room. “Here,” he says, tapping the desk.

My breathing stutters. Desk sex? Okay.

When I perch on the edge of the wood he stops me, turns my body, sets my hands on the surface, spreads my legs apart again.

“Do you trust me?” he asks against the top of my spine, making me shiver.

I don’t have the first clue what he wants to do with me. I’ve never let someone have this kind of control. Though that’s likely because my partners have never seemed to want it. They wanted nice girls in nice clothes. They wanted a woman who looked good next to them. My orgasm was a check box on their to-do list of sex. They wanted missionary on the third date, blow jobs on my period. Mitchell wanted anal on his birthday. It hurt a bit, but it had the potential to be better, he just never took it and I had to get myself off in the shower without him.

No one has ever wanted this; looking just to look, bruised knees, the risk of suffocation in the pursuit of my orgasm.

Do I trust him? After what he did, the answer should be no. But I trust that if I laid my head on my hands on this desk and presented myself to him, for his use, nothing would hurt,andI’d still come hard enough to crack my molars. I trust him with my body, if not with my heart.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He cups my ass, squeezes both globes, spreads me apart.

Flushing, I close my eyes. Even though we’re alone, and he can’t see me.

Nick goes to his knees again, his hands trailing down my legs.

My breath catches, and I lift up an inch. “What?—?”

He licks me from clit to perineum. My head hits the desk with a soft thud. He sticks his thumb inside me, thick and hard, a decent substitute for what I really want. I moan, louder than I should, spread my legs wider, push back against him, seeking the pressure of his thumb inside me and his fingers on my clit. He laughs, smiles into the back of my thighs. Then he gives me what I want. Nick plays me again, like a stringed instrument tuned to him. His thumb slipping deeper in my cunt, his fingers rubbing gentle circles around my clit.

I come like that, fully open to him, on display, my toes curling in my kitten heels, clenching my teeth to hold back the scream that threatens to tear through me. My body convulses around him as he draws out my orgasm until I can feel come dripping down my legs, hear the wet sound of it as he fucks me with his hand. My clit pulses, flutters against his constant, steady rhythm. Tears leak from my eyes as I gasp, “Stop. Please, stop.”

He obeys, moving his hands, but he keeps his skin on my skin. I don’t know how much more I can take.

Palms on my back, he smooths them up and down in a gentle caress. “Not much longer,” he says. “I promise.”

I think I said that out loud. “Okay.”

Standing, Nick presses his hips against me, his erection thick and hard between us. “Can I come on your back?” he asks, the question punctuated by the sound of his zipper.

“Oh god, yes.”

“I’m going to touch you again, just a little.” He gives me the warning, but doesn’t move, waiting for my permission.

I nod, panting, chest heaving against the wooden surface beneath me. “Okay.”

His fingers slip inside me again and I gasp, an aftershock of my orgasm like a conditioned response to his touch. He presses a hand on my back, holding me there. The sound of rustling is barely audible over the air sawing in and out of my lungs. The wet skin on wet skin is louder. Lewd and erotic, the rhythmic jingle of his belt buckle. Part of me wants to turn around and watch. Or offer my breasts and neck for him. Part of me wants to get on my knees and take him in my mouth and let him empty himself down the back of my throat so I can know what he tastes like, too.

But when he makes a sound, soft and high, aching, and the first stream of his come hits, warm against my sweat-slick back, my choice is made for me, and I’m exactly where he needs me.

---