I kissed her temple, smoothed the hair away.
“I think… oh fuck, that’s good… I think you’re going to do great,” she said, laughing softly. I grinned, bit her ear, gave her my deepest thrust yet. She released a mouthful of curse words that only got me hotter.
Then I stood back up, sped up my pace, and slapped her right on the ass, watching closely for her reaction.
Which was extraordinary.
Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, but then she did scream. “Do that again,” she moaned.
I spanked her again. My red palm blossomed on her pale skin. I wanted to bite her, bruise her, mark her everywhere and declare her mine.
“More, please, again,” she begged. My own orgasm was gathering at the base of my spine with a vicious precision. I spanked her a third time, then a fourth. Then I fucked her fast and dirty as my palm turned her ass red and I watched her reach some kind of paradise right in fucking front of me. She was slick, fire-hot, internal muscles clenching me so hard I had to send up a handful of prayers to stave off my own climax. Reaching around her, I slid my fingers against her clit and rubbed her in fast circles while I spanked her—the hardest one yet.
Fiona came, lovely and wild and laughing. And I let go, fucking into her one last time before pressing my mouth to her hair and groaning out her name. It was a once-in-a-lifetime orgasm. It was every single moment of tension between us this week, finally given room to breathe. It stole my breath, blanked my thoughts, had my heart trying to climb right out of my chest.
Panting heavily, I kissed her face, her hair. “Are you still with me?” I asked softly.
“In the best way possible,” she sighed. I laughed, sliding out from her carefully before disposing of the condom. I desperately wanted to collapse onto the floor, but the space was too small and the last time this floor had seen a mop was probably in the nineties.
So I pulled on my pants, sat on that table, and gathered a thoroughly fucked Fiona against my bare chest.
“We should have done that the first night on the fire escape,” she said.
I smoothed her hair down, nuzzled the strands. “Wouldn’t have been the same,” I said and meant it. “This was sweeter because of the wait.”
She tilted up her head. “Are you sure you’re not an expert in dating?”
“I don’t know a damn thing,” I said. “Like whether what just happened between us was…” I trailed off.
“Normal?”
“Where would this go into your spreadsheet, for example?”
She laughed, leaning back on her palms after tugging her dress up and covering her absolutely magnificent breasts. “What happened in this supply closet exposes my spreadsheet to be a fucking fraud.”
“That good, huh?” I teased.
She bit her lip. Brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. “That different.”
I caught her hand. Pressed it to my lips. “Are you… still scared?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“God, yes.” I wasn’t ready to confront all the questions I was going to need to find answers to. Like whether the way I’d been living had been a lie or not. Or whether my mom’s endless advice to keep moving, keep it light was as much a fraud as Fiona’s spreadsheets. Because what did that mean for the way I’d been living?
And could I truly change?
The woman in front of me—looking coy and shy and blissfully happy—begged me to reconsider. And I owed it to her to try, like I’d promised.
“I think as long as we’re both scared together… it’s okay,” Fiona said. “And thank you. For the worshiping. And the three orgasms. And the spanking.”
I leaned in, caught her mouth for a filthy kiss. “Did I watch you have an out-of-body experience?”
“I think so,” she laughed, kissing me back. “You made me feel safe. And listened to.”
I tucked a strand behind her ear. “You make me feel a lot of things.”
Beneath our feet, we could hear the driving chords of David Bowie’s “Moonage Daydream.”
“Goddammit, I love this song.” Fiona hopped off the table, smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and tugged her hair up into a messy bun. She looked properly fucked and hot as hell. “Are you coming or what?”
“Fuck. Yes.” I tugged on my shirt, winked at her, and yanked the door open. “Let’s go hit that dance floor.” She moved past me, but I grabbed her wrist before she could get too far. “And afterward, can we discuss details of our second date?”
Her green eyes shimmered with hope. “Fuck. Yes.”
29
Fiona
I stood outside my childhood home—a ramshackle, slightly run-down Victorian in Queens from where my parents had proudly hung both an anarchy flag and a gay pride rainbow flag. Both fluttered in the warm spring breeze as I climbed the steps and opened the old, warped door.
The total absence of sound—specifically, music—was the only indicator that my parents were setting up for Sunday night band practice. Their tour schedule was all over the map, and they were often gone for weeks at a time during the year, touring up and down the East Coast. But when they were home, band practice was always open for anyone who wanted to come and watch. Sometimes that was our neighbors or family members. Sometimes that was visiting bands that used to stay at our house, debate music over our dinner table, and roll up the living room rug to teach us their favorite dance moves.
Tonight, it was only me.
Or so I thought.
“Mom? Dad?” I called, setting my keys down on the stack of records we kept by the door for that very purpose. “I brought Thai food.”
There was a clashing sound from the garage, so I headed that way, passing through our living room and kitchen, which were as chaotic as ever. Every room in our house was full of worn, cozy furniture, shelves of records and books, and pictures of me and Roxy shoved into frames and hung on every flat surface. There were no less than three record players in the entire house plus two large stereos and a guitar and bongo set in most rooms.
“In case the muse strikes!” my dad would always say.
I set the Thai food down on the table, frowning when I saw that all of my many reminders on the fridge were now hiding under a bunch of takeout menus. I uncovered them, made a giant space, and re-centered the colorful pieces of paper. They listed doctors’ appointments, the upcoming quarterly tax deadlines, and an appointment I made with a contractor to check out a leak that had sprung in the roof last winter. My parents always relented and tackled these tasks eventually. But it required a constant, steady hand and all the reminders.
“Mom?” I called again, hearing voices. I reached into the fridge, grabbed a beer. There was a twinge in my lower back that had me smiling. I spent the morning soaking in a long, luxurious bath. I was sore everywhere—from dancing with Max for three straight hours, of course.
And then from the three incredible, life-changing orgasms he’d given me afterward. Every time I sat down, I winced. And then I was treated to a slew of fun, filthy, dirty memories of Max’s hands and their magical spanking powers.
We’d danced until closing time and kissed a lot more. And before the cab even had me home, Max had texted me to confirm our second date. Tomorrow.