I rap twice on the door and a moment later it cracks slowly open on its own. Like a horror movie . . . only with stupendous sex waiting on the other side instead of an ax murderer. I step in and close the door behind me and an endless black engulfs me before my eyes can adjust.
“Abby?” I whisper.
I can’t see her but, Christ, I can smell her. I inhale deep, devouring the scent that makes my mouth water—not for apples, but for her.
There’s a rustle of fabric behind me, and I feel soft lips pressing slow kisses to the back of my neck. When I find her in the dark and pull her against me, my palms are met with heated, smooth, perfect skin.
And nothing else.
Because Abby is naked for me. She slipped her clothes off when I stepped inside the closet.
Fuck me, this girl.
She’s like a sex-toy shop—full of the best surprises.
I groan out a laugh as my dick aches to get out of my trousers and inside Abby.
“You’re going to be the death of me, lass.”
And I’d go out smiling, that’s damn certain.
After we hump fast and fantastically against the wall and our joints are languid from the kind of orgasm that just sucks all the tension clean out of you, I help Abby dress in the darkness. We kiss and nibble and accidentally bump heads one time in between slipping on articles of clothing. Then we step out of the closet and walk casually down the hall.
I even whistle.
Abby’s friends are at the other end, outside the lift. Henrietta leans her elbow on the nurse’s station, resting her head on her hand, bleary-eyed from an overnight shift, I’d guess. An extra-extra-large breakfast tea is beside her.
Over the past few weeks, screwing Abby has begun to feel like an addiction. Insatiable and unrelenting. The more I do her, the more I crave her.
And if her pussy is my heroin, my cock must be her crystal meth. After she takes it she’s always more energetic than she was before.
“Who’s ready for a great surgery?” she asks her friends cheerfully. “It’s going to be a good one, I can feel it!” She raises her palm. “Come on, Etta, give it up high.”
Kevin laughs and Henrietta stares at Abby through grumpy, heavy-lidded eyes. “I think I’ve changed my mind about this. I hate you right now. I honestly hate you.”
* * *
In my line of work, ice can be an extremely helpful entity. A balm for bruised knuckles and overtaxed muscles. But it’s a delicate dance between pleasure and pain. Ice awakens the nerve endings, shocks the surface of the skin, making everything it first touches oversensitive and ultra-responsive.
I love ice. When it’s melting on my tongue, floating in my scotch—and especially when a smooth, glossy cube is between my fingers, like it is right now, slowly circling the delicious peaked pebble of Abby’s bare nipple.
A reedy gasp leaks from her throat and melts into a whimpering moan when I replace the cold ice with my hot mouth. I worship her with my mouth—twirling my tongue and sucking gently, soothing her chilly flesh.
She’s never done this before—experimented with the sensations of hot and cold—and I love that too. That I get to show her, teach her all the dark, dirty delights my deviant mind can conjure.
We’re in my office at the S&S shop long after everyone else has gone home. I was working late and Abby got off late from the hospital, so she took a cab here so we could get off together. And now my clothes lay in a ragged heap on the floor beside the dark blue scrubs she arrived in.
Those scrubs—they’re sexier than any lace or leather lingerie to me now. Because to the outside observer they’re shapeless and bland, but I know . . . fuck, how well I know . . . the paradise of curves and sweet flesh that hides beneath.
Abby’s on my desk, leaning back on her hands, arching her back so her breasts push out towards me. Her knees spread wider, making room for my hips, pleading for my touch.
And what kind of bastard would I be to deny her?
I lift my head from her breast so I can watch the glistening trail of the ice cube as I slide it between the valley of her breasts, down her contracting stomach. I follow it with my tongue, lapping at the liquid, swallowing the taste of her.
And despite the demanding spike of my cock straining for relief, Abby’s too delicious for me not to kneel down and pull her to the edge of my desk, and drag the ice cube between her legs. Along her slick folds and around and around her plump pink clit, not touching directly—that would be too much—but near enough to make her hips lift and incoherent needy whimpers sing from her throat.