Page 13 of Due South

Then he’s pressing at my entrance and I angle my hips to welcome him. He takes it slow, and I’m glad. I don’t think I’ve ever been with anyone who’s this big. It feels good, though—the possession, the stretch. I reach for him, the bristle of his hair soft under my fingertips. He’s got his eyes closed, and a fine sweat has broken out at his temples. When he’s fully seated, he sighs, opening his eyes when I rock my hips up to meet his.

“Fuck me, please. I want to be fucked.”

The darkness flashes in his eyes again, and he starts to move. Slow at first, making sure I’m ready for him, and the slick movement makes me crave friction, pressure.

“Harder, please.”

He obliges, thrusting hard into me and the motion drives my lower back into the floor. The impact feels good in a filthy way, and I want more, always more. So I tell him so and he gives it to me. It’s not long before I find my climax. It sneaks up on me, the burst of pleasure startling me into a cry. Nowthatwas an orgasm. Quick but so intense, like a lightning bolt, and then dispersing, like a carrying roll of thunder.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he grinds out. It’s only a couple of brutal thrusts before he goes rigid above me and I feel the pulse of his orgasm inside me. It prolongs my own contractions in a really delicious way. When they stop, though, they leave too much space. Space that had been taken up by lust and desire before. Now that it’s gone, there’s only those old, familiar feelings. Shame. Embarrassment. Awareness that this is not what good girls want, what good girls do. It’s almost comforting because I know it. But I wish… I wish…

“Lucy?” It’s practically a whisper, but it’s loud in the empty office. The background buzz of the fluorescents doesn’t mask it, but amplifies the way his mouth shapes my name.

I blink my eyes to his, and that’s when I realize he’s still inside me. It should make me feel dirty, but it doesn’t. He’s still here.

“Yeah?”

His eyebrows are pinched together, holding worry. I reach up and use my thumbs to ease them apart. As long as we both think this is okay, it’s okay. The fine hairs are smooth under my touch, and the heel of my hand brushes his cheek where about twelve hours of growth have made him scruffy. Not like the clean-shaven Evans who passes by my desk half a dozen times a day when he and India are both in the office. Evans who always has a kind smile for me or a roll of his eyes when India’s being a particular horror show.

“Are you okay?”

Well, I’m spread out in the middle of the office kitchen, half-dressed, with a man still inside me. Which should make me want to reach for the holy water, but surprisingly, “Better than okay?”

I wish for his sake it didn’t come out as a question, but he seems to be happy it came out at all.

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Me too. What about you? You look…concerned.”

Maybe he gets that creeping anxiety too. Gets the incredible fire of what we’d had doused by a bucket of mixed-up feelings he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

But he shakes his head. “Only about you. And if you’re good, then I’m…I’m, uh, great. That was the best sex I’ve ever had. I mean, not that I’ve had a lot of sex—”

He seems to realize I could take that as an insult.

“—but even if I had, I’m sure this would be the best. By, like, a lot. Because it was great. Really great. Like, super great.”

A laugh has been forming inside me and now it busts out of my mouth. His eyes pop wide and then he turns bright red. “I—”

I want to cut him off, call him by his name, tell him he’s rambling. Because he does. It happens when he’s nervous. It’s kind of sweet, actually. But the only name I have is Evans. Which is weird, come to think of it. That can’t be his only name. He’s not a pop star, like Prince or Madonna or one of those dangerously attractive South American soccer players. He’s down here with the rest of us, so he’s got to have a name.

“What’s your name, Evans?”

“My name?”

Oh, that thoughtful, vaguely surprised expression. He’s like an absent-minded professor. His head tips, as though the weight of his thoughts are too heavy to hold it upright anymore.

“You have one, right?” And that seems like the kind of thing I should know about someone I fucked.

“Yeah.”

That’s when the giggles start. Because the man was just extraordinarily bossy in a very hot way and now I have to prod him into saying his name. He doesn’t seem insulted by my outburst, and I don’t want him to be. I couldn’t even help myself anymore.

“Are you going to tell me what it is? Or is it a state secret?”

He shakes his head and, if it’s humanly possible, gets even redder.

“Chanoch. It’s Chanoch.”

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