Chapter 2: He Put His Mouth On Me And I Forgot My Name

The dress hits the floor and he steps back and looks at me.

Just looks.

Standing in his hotel room in my bra and underwear under his eyes and the city glittering cold and indifferent behind him and he looks at me the way men look at things they intend to take their time with. Slowly. Completely. Like I'm something he's going to learn by heart before the night is over.

"Damn," he says quietly. Not performed, just honest.

Something loosens in my chest and tightens between my legs simultaneously.

He reaches out and traces one finger along my collarbone, down the center of my chest, along the top of my bra, and I shiver hard and his mouth curves.

"Cold?" he asks.

"Opposite," I manage.

He unhooks my bra from the front and it falls away and his eyes drop and his jaw tightens and he cups both my breasts in his warm hands and his thumbs brush my nipples and they harden instantly and I exhale a shaky breath that sounds like it belongs to someone far less composed than I normally am.

"Sensitive," he observes.

"Very," I say.

He lowers his head and takes one into his mouth and sucks slow and I grab the back of his head and hold him there and my knees do something unreliable. He works it with his tongue and his teeth, just slightly, just enough, while his fingers roll the other one and I am already making sounds that would embarrass me in daylight.

His mouth travels down.

My stomach. My hip. He hooks his fingers into my underwear and drags it down my legs and I step out of it and he's on his knees in front of me and he looks up from the floor with those dark grey eyes and I feel that look between my legs like a pulse.

"Bed," he says. "Lie down."

I move to the bed and I lie down and I feel like I ran instead of walked. Heart pounding. Skin flushed. Every nerve I have standing at full attention for a man whose last name I don't know.

He parts my thighs with both hands and looks at me spread open and wet and wanting on his hotel sheets and makes a low sound in his throat that goes directly into my bloodstream.

"Garry," I breathe.

He doesn't answer. He lowers his head and licks through me in one slow devastating stroke and my hips snap up off the mattress and my hands fly to his hair.

He eats me like it's the only thing on his agenda for the rest of his life. Deep strokes of his tongue, slow circles on my clit, his lips sucking and releasing while I writhe and grab his hair and say his name and God and please in no particular order. Two fingers push inside me and curl up hard and find the spot that makes my vision white out at the edges.

"Oh fuck, right there, Garry, right there..."

He keeps his fingers exactly on that spot and works my clit with his tongue in fast tight circles and I am climbing so fast it's almost frightening, the orgasm building like a wave I can see coming but can't outrun.

"I'm gonna cum," I gasp. "I'm gonna cum already, I can't hold..."

"Cum," he says against me. Low and certain. "Let me taste it. Cum in my mouth right now, sweetheart."

I shatter.

I cum so hard I clench around his fingers and he groans against me and I flood his mouth and grind against his tongue while he works every rolling wave out of me, his fingers pumping through my orgasm, slick gushing over his hand and down onto the sheets while I make sounds that carry through every wall in this hotel and I do not care even slightly.

He works me through every tremor.

Every aftershock.

Until I'm pulling his hair to get him to stop because my clit is so sensitive it's almost pain and even then he gives one last slow lick that makes my whole body jolt before he kisses his way up my stomach.

My ribs. My breasts, stopping there, sucking each nipple until I'm arching off the bed again.

My throat. My jaw.

My mouth.

I taste myself on his lips and my hips roll up against him immediately, feeling him hard and thick against my hip, and I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock and he tears his mouth from mine with a sharp rough sound.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"That's the idea," I say.

I stroke him slow, base to tip, and his jaw goes tight and his hips push forward into my grip and his eyes close briefly and I feel powerful enough to level the entire building.

"Dara." A warning wrapped in gravel and want.

"Mm?" I twist my wrist at the top and rub his head and he curses under his breath.

"You keep doing that," he grits out, "I'm gonna cum on your stomach before I get inside you."

"Then get inside me," I say.

He reaches for his wallet on the nightstand. Condom on. He comes back to me and I spread my thighs and he lines up and looks at me, really looks, one final moment of eye contact that feels like a question and an answer at the same time.

He pushes inside me.

Slow. Thick. Filling me inch by devastating inch while my mouth falls open and my nails find his back and dig in and he watches my face process every single inch of him with his jaw clenched and his arms shaking slightly with the effort of going slow.

"Good?" he grits out.

"So full," I breathe. "God, you're so thick, don't stop, give me all of it..."

He gives me all of it.

Bottoms out completely and holds there, buried to the hilt, both of us breathing hard and adjusting and not speaking because there are no words for this specific feeling. This fullness. This man I don't know filling me completely while the city watches from forty floors below and doesn't care.

"Move," I say finally. Desperate. "Garry, please, fuck me."

He moves.

Deep rolling strokes that drag every ridge of him across my walls and make the headboard knock and my toes curl and these raw broken sounds pour out of me one after another. He hooks my leg higher and the angle shifts and his cock hits something inside me that makes me cry out sharp and sudden and he hits it again, deliberately, and again.

"Yes! Right there, yes, don't you dare stop!"

"You gonna cum again?" His voice is rough, barely controlled.

"Yes," I gasp. "Yes, I'm gonna cum again, please don't stop..."

He reaches between us and presses two fingers to my clit and rubs hard fast circles while he fucks me and I lose every coherent thought I have ever had. My second orgasm crashes through me before I'm even finished processing the first one, clenching around him so hard he loses his rhythm and curses and drives in deep and follows me over, groaning my name against my throat in a low rough voice that I feel in my spine, spilling inside the condom while I milk him through every pulse.

We stay tangled together.

His weight warm and solid on me.

My fingers in his hair.

His face against my neck. His breathing slowly evening out. His hand finding my hip and resting there like it belongs there. Like his hand has been looking for that specific curve for a long time and just found it.

Neither of us speaks for a long time.

I am thinking that I have never in my life done anything like this. This is not something any version of me does.

Except this version. Apparently.

And I cannot locate the part of me that regrets it. I keep looking for it, reaching for the guilt or the shame or the what have I done, and it's not there. Just warmth. Just the weight of him. 

"Garry," I say eventually.

"Mm." Half asleep already, his thumb traces a lazy circle on my hip.

"I don't do this."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

He lifts his head and looks at me. Those grey eyes, warm and clear and slightly amused and entirely sincere. "Because you told me your name before you told me to stop. Because your hands were shaking when I kissed you. Because you're lying here telling me you don't do this instead of just getting dressed and leaving."

I stare at him.

"People who do this regularly don't need to announce that they don't do this," he adds. "You're telling me because it matters to you that I know who you actually are. That tells me exactly who you actually are."

Something cracks open in my chest. Quietly. Like a window that's been painted shut for years finally letting in air.

"Who do you think I actually am?" I ask. My voice is smaller than I want it to be.

He looks at me for a long moment. Pushes a strand of hair off my forehead. His fingers are gentle and his eyes are steady and he says the thing I am not expecting.

"Someone who needed this. Not the sex. Although..." The corner of his mouth lifts. "The sex was spectacular."

"Garry."

"Someone who needed to walk through the wrong door and find out she's allowed to want things she hasn't scheduled."

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. It's the opposite. It's the kind of silence that only exists between two people who just said something true and are sitting inside the shape of it.

"Do you do this?" I ask. "Regularly?"

"Sleep with beautiful strangers who break into my hotel room? Shockingly, no. The opportunity doesn't come up as often as you'd think."

I laugh. It comes out soft and surprised and real, the kind of laugh I don't manufacture for anyone, and he watches me do it with an expression that I am going to remember for a very long time.

"Stay," he says. Not a command nor an appeal. An offering, rather.

"I have a room."

"You have a room," he agrees. "But you're here."

"I'm here," I confirm, like that settles something.

"So stay." His arm tightens around me. "We'll figure out the rest of it in the morning."

The rest of it.

Like there's a rest of it. Like this is the beginning of something that has more parts. Like two strangers in a hotel room is the opening chapter and not the whole book.

I should go. I should find my actual room and my actual life and my actual alarm set for seven and process this experience from the safe distance of my own bed.

"Okay," I reply instead.

He pulls me closer. I let him.

I fall asleep in a stranger's bed with his arm around my waist and his breathing warm and steady against the back of my neck and I am not thinking about my train or my suitcase or my alarm or any of the sensible practical things that have defined my entire adult life.

I am thinking that wrong doors might be the best thing that ever happened to me.