The Other Man (5 page)

It was beautiful to watch, the way he changed in those brief moments of bliss.
 

Beautiful and dangerous.
 

I’d do a lot to watch him change like that, to get even the briefest glimpse of that other side of him.
 
The need was powerful to the point of self-destructive, especially considering the fact that I barely knew him, and what I did know only seemed to point toward the fact that he was a wild thing that was not even close to being tamed.
     

CHAPTER
 

FIVE

I was still reeling, still completely caught up in what had happened mere seconds ago, but not him.
 
He was up, standing, peeling off the used condom, tossing it into the closest wastebasket, then pacing the floor at the foot of my bed, eyes intense on my limp form.
 

No, wait, not pacing . . .
 

Stalking.

Prowling.
 

Like a lion, his narrowed eyes on me.
 

I was his prey, and he was ready to pounce.
 

Again.
   

“Is everything all right?” I asked him, my voice hoarse like I’d been screaming.
 

Had I been screaming?
 
Had he literally made me scream?

Oh yeah.
 
Shit
, he had.
 

It was an embarrassing thought, and I let my mind shy away from it, even as the sound of those desperate cries still echoed in my mind.
   

“All right?” he mused, his tone low, voice more road-worn gravelly and rough than ever.
 
“Yeah, I’m
all right
.”
 

I blinked at the way he said it, though I couldn’t read him well enough to know what to make of it.
 

His lip curled up like he was annoyed.
 
He reached an arm up, running it impatiently over his short-cropped hair.
 

Why did every move he made turn me on?
 
Every minuscule shift of his body made mine respond, breasts tightening, sex clenching.
 

He elicited reaction without trying, controlled me without even touching.
 

My eyes ran down his ripped to within an inch of its life body, moving over each mark and scar.
 
I found those marks to be fascinating and beautiful.
 
He didn’t wear them like they were flaws, and so they weren’t.
 
If it wasn’t so obvious what they were, I thought I could have been convinced that he’d been born with them all.

I knew better than to ask, I knew the answer, but I’d have loved to photograph him.
 

The artistry of his hard, massive, tortured body needed to be captured, even if its owner never could be.
 

I shook off the thought.
 
I couldn’t think things like that.
 
I barely knew this man, so why on earth would I want to capture him?
 

He’d never be mine.
 
I knew it instinctively, and so I didn’t let myself even wish for it.
 

My eyes widened as they finally made it down to his spent cock.

No, not spent.
 
Hard and getting harder, though I knew he’d gotten off when I had.
 

That was when I really started to appreciate the younger man thing.
 
My husband hadn’t taken good care of himself for a good decade before we’d split, and the softer he got, the softer his dick had gotten with him.
 

It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realize how much you need a thing before it’s right in front of you.
 
And suddenly, I needed that hard, tireless, randy, young cock like you wouldn’t believe.
     

I licked my lips.
 

“How old are you?” my mouth asked him, even while my brain didn’t actually want to know.
 

I mean, it was a little late for regrets.

He scowled, like really scowled, and on him that was a scary thing.
 
He was intimidating enough when he smiled.
 

When he scowled he looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was a man who got what he wanted.
 

“Who cares?” he shot back.
 
This was clearly as sore a subject for him as it was for me.

“I care,” I answered softly, but more because I thought I should care, thought I should ask, thought I should
need
to know.
 

Really, though, I’d have just as soon avoided knowing.
 
My level of cougardom on this felt pretty irrelevant at that moment, all things considered.

“Twenty-five,” he said, tone abrupt.
 

I winced.
 

I’d been hoping for a higher number.
 
The higher the better, really.

“Not much older than my firstborn,” I said tightly.
 

He didn’t like that, as in
really
didn’t like it, going by the sudden and mean twist to his mouth.
   

Well, I didn’t like it either, but it was still the truth.
 

“What the fuck does that matter?” he asked.
 

It mattered, of course it did, but I didn’t have a chance to vocalize an answer, as it was clearly a rhetorical question, because he was on me, kissing me again, fisting a condom on and fucking me again, between one gasp and the next.
 

Good.
 
Even though I’d brought it up, I didn’t want to talk about it or think about it any time soon.
 
We clearly had better things to do.

I took his weight on me, his hardness in me, with a soft, needy moan.
 
It felt so fucking good, like the first time hadn’t even happened, like I was as hungry for him as I had been not an hour before, with over a year’s worth of celibacy under my belt.
 

He was holding my wrists above my head again, needing only one hand to do so, the other palming my breasts, assaulting the soft flesh of my chest with his hand while his cock assaulted the soft flesh of my cunt in desperate earnest.
 

It was faster that time, as though he’d used all of his patience with the first mating.
 
He sucked the tip of one straining tit into his mouth while his free hand snaked down and started working my clit, bringing me over so fast that it caught me off guard, my breath sobbing out in one long, “Heeeaaaath.”

He growled like a wild animal into my skin, planted himself inside me, stayed planted, and I felt his thick cock twitching, bucking out his seed.
 

I said his name again, faster, wanting,
needing
to watch his face, and he lifted from my chest, eyes meeting mine, giving me that look again, the one that replaced the coldness.
 

More than any crave-able thing about him, I craved that brief, unguarded moment when he lost himself inside me.
 

I was lying on my bed, flat on my back, completely naked, covered only by a sheet.
 

My head was still spinning.
 

What the hell had just happened?

I’d never, never, NEVER had my body, my
world
, rocked like that before.
 
Heath fucked like a force of nature—fierce, powerful, unstoppable.

I knew I was good in bed.
 
I was fit, flexible, and adventurous, but with Heath, all I’d managed to do was hold on for the ride.
 
And come.
 
Repeatedly.

The force of nature I was currently worrying over had gone into the shower exactly one second after he’d finished getting us both off.
 
He apparently didn’t like to wear his sex around, not even to sleep.
 

Would he even stay to sleep?
 
It was barely noon.
 
I guessed he’d be leaving as soon as he was done with his shower.
 

I could expect nothing else from this whole crazy thing, but I felt tender (not just my body) about it all.
 
I’d never done casual sex.
 

It was perhaps an acquired taste.
 
One I wasn’t planning to acquire.
 

I was still lying there (nearly exactly how he’d left me after fucking my brains out) when he came back out of my bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, his mind-boggling body still slightly damp.
 

The look on his face had me losing my breath.
 

He dropped the towel.
 

My mind was on a very specific part of him, one that should not be looking quite so eager after our earlier activities, as he approached the bottom of the bed.
 

Without a word, he bent, grabbing my sheet, and pulling it slowly.

It surprised me enough that I made an embarrassing little noise and tried to hold onto my only covering.

“Let go,” he growled.
 

God, he was scary.
 
Why did that do such delicious things to my body?
 

I dropped the sheet.
 

He tugged it off, then snagged first one of my ankles, then the other, his shoulders and arms flexing as he dragged me down the bed.
 
When he’d finished dragging, he started spreading, pulling my legs wide apart.
 

He just stared at my sex for the longest time, his gaze so hot that my hips started squirming restlessly.
 

I glanced down at him.
 
He was fully aroused, his heavy cock pulsing.

Sore or not, sated or not, I wanted it again more desperately than ever.
   

Finally, he let go of my ankles, grabbing my wrists instead and pulling me to sit up, my splayed legs jolting together.
 
He perched a foot snug at my hip, burying both of his hands in my hair.
 

I licked my lips and stared.
 
He’d brought me within a few inches of his eager cock.
 
I didn’t have to guess what he wanted.
 

I leaned forward, looked up to meet his eyes boldly, and tongued his tip.

He cursed and surged against me.
 

Keeping solid eye contact, I sucked his thick, plush head between my lips.

I had to break eye contact soon enough as he pushed deeper, and his jagged breaths became the only thing in the room louder than the sounds of my busy, sucking mouth and my milking, stroking hands.
 

There was no polite conversation about whether or not I swallowed, but as I felt his balls draw up tight, his orgasm close, I pushed back to suck at his tip, hands working him, my eyes on his face.
   

That was one thing that had stood out to me from the last few rounds.
 
I loved to watch his face as his eyes went unfocused and wild, all of the coldness leaving them.
 
I watched it happen again, relishing the sight.

He stroked my hair after he’d finished, my tongue still laving his tip, his eyes directed on me again, cold again, but admiring, at least.

After he finally pulled away, I lay back on the bed, not sure if I wanted to get off or pass out.
     

Without a word, he moved to my dresser across the room, unerringly going for my hidden vibrator, knowing which drawer it was in, exactly as though he knew just where to look, like he’d done it before.
 

My aroused, smitten brain didn’t linger on that, focused more on him and what he was about to do to me than on the things about him that should trouble me.
 

As he pulled the thing out, though, I managed to find my voice for something, at least, “Not that,” I said faintly.
 
It was an intense toy.
 
“I’m a little sore
for that
.”

He raised his brows, looking fascinated by the notion.
 
He dropped the vibrator back in the drawer, hand going for his randy cock.
 
He was already semi-hard again and looked in danger of easily losing the semi part of that.
 
“Too sore for this, too, I take it?”

I bit my lip.
 
I really wanted
that
again, but I
was
sore.
 
I nodded regretfully, watching him handle himself casually and thinking that it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
 

His white teeth flashed at me in a smile that was more sinister than happy.
 
“I’ve got just the thing.”
 

And he did.
 

My hands clawed into the sheets as he introduced me to the skill of his wicked tongue.
 
He lapped at my sex, making himself at home down there, soft and gentle in a way I hadn’t thought he had in him.
 

Something occurred to me as he made me come, yet again.
 

If he was as complicated of a man as he was a lover, I was in trouble.

He moved up my body, kissing my lips, his sex nudging between my legs.
 

All soreness was forgotten, by both of us, apparently, as he pushed himself into me.
 

He did recall it briefly, though, when he was buried nearly to the root.
 
“Too sore?” he murmured.
 

I bit his lower lip in answer, whimpering into his mouth as I didn’t feel coherent enough to talk.
 
He took it for the answer he wanted.

With a rough groan, he shoved himself home.
 

And then he was gone, as sudden as he’d come.

He never said goodbye.
 

I passed out and he left.