Consenting Adults (5 page)

“No.” I take his hand and get out of the car. That one
little word ignites the fire between us again, and we walk as fast as we can
without running to the hotel entrance.

In the elevator on the way up to the sixth floor, Josh leans
in and whispers in my ear.

“Yes and no are the only words you need, because I already
know what you want.”

His breath past my ear makes me dizzy with need. The hair on
my arms stands up straight and my skin prickles with goose bumps.

When I insert the electronic key card in the door to my
room, he places his hand over mine before I can open it.

“Yes?” His eyes search mine.

He's giving you one last chance to back out.

I’m tired of that little voice nagging me. I shove it way
down deep and listen instead to my body, which has been saying only one thing
all night. For months.

“Yes.”

The darkness of the room swallows us as the door shuts. I
fumble along the wall for a light switch. Why don't hotel rooms ever seem to
have a light switch where you think one should be? Josh finally clicks on the
entry light. It's like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again. My stomach
leaps into my throat, impeding my ability to breathe. But it's a wonderful kind
of breathlessness. He pulls me close, his hands pressed into the small of my
back. I can't believe I've managed to go all night without kissing him.

Those dark eyes pierce my soul as he leans in. So slow. He
doesn't kiss me, but lets his lips barely brush mine, and his hands explore the
contours of my hips. Such a gentle touch. But in his eyes I can see the
restraint. I flick my tongue over his lower lip. He blinks in response. If I
said the word, he'd devour me in an instant, I know it. I want it.

“You aren't going to make me beg, are you?” I whisper it
against his mouth. My own restraint is eroding under the influence of lust.

“Would you if I asked?” He gathers my skirt up around my
hips and doesn't wait for my answer. “You know this is really impractical,
don't you? Looks good, but it's too much work.” He snaps one of the garter
straps against my ass. It doesn't hurt, but the promise of things to come makes
me draw a sharp breath.

“No work at all. I thought of you when I put it on. Panties
on the outside.” Also makes peeing a lot easier, but I don't say that. “Aren't
you going to kiss me?”

He takes a few steps back. I catch his hand and he pulls me
with him.

“That depends. Perhaps we should discuss that begging thing
a little more.”

My cheeks burn. I would if he asked me to. I would do a lot
of things if he asked.

We communicate through telepathy or some other
impossibility, needing no more words to understand the next move. Shoes
abandoned. Sheets mussed. Still fully clothed. Only after he's laid beside
me—body and weight imposing gratifyingly on my personal space—only then does
his mouth descend upon mine. Such soft lips. The better to drink me with.

When I’m certain I'll die if I don't breathe soon, he moves
his kisses, his tongue, over my jaw, pausing to tickle my ear, then continuing
down the curve of my neck and over my chest. Shirt and bra disappear over the
edge of the bed in record time, with little help from me. I know I’m supposed
to reciprocate, to touch, to move, to participate. But he's doing such a
fabulous job on his own.

My nipples are small, but he coaxes them into a
not-insubstantial existence with his tongue. And then – ah, the teeth. Just a
little nibble, but more than enough to send a shiver down my spine. Back
arches. Chest lifts. Like my body knows to deliver itself to the source of
pleasure.

My insides quiver, a mix of pleasure and unsteady nerves,
when he reaches to unzip my skirt. That irrational female fear that a man might
get a look at you fully naked, stop what he's doing, and walk out. Or worse.
Probably hasn't ever happened in the history of sex, but it doesn't stop the
thought from crossing my mind. And the skirt is gone. Only lace panties, garter,
and stockings left. Josh smooths away my fears with an appreciative sweep of
his gaze over my body.

He kisses me again, tongue probing urgently, tasting my
mouth as though it held some life-sustaining essence. His restraint is
slipping. Part of me wishes he'd let it go already, and take me every which way
he wants me. But another part of me would mourn the loss of this slow tease and
build. I want to rush to the sweet climax, but at the same time I don't want it
to end. I want to culminate forever, and never have to come down.

It isn't right that he should still be so fully clothed. He
seems more interested in touching and tasting me, but I manage to strip him
naked between kisses and caresses. The sight of his hard cock instills in me
modicum of pride, knowing he's been in a semi-aroused state all night, and all
on my account. I take him in my hand. The softness of a man's cock never ceases
to amaze me. Soft and yet hard. Vulnerable and yet meant to make me vulnerable.
Josh's eyelids flutter momentarily, but he doesn't lose himself in my touch.
Instead, he sits up. Tugs my panties off less carefully than he removed the
rest of my clothing. Pushes me over onto my stomach. Unfastens the back garters
from the top of my stockings and shoves them out of the way.

“Yes.” The answer escapes my lips without there ever having
been a question.

The first blow lands firmly on my left buttock. Not too
hard. He gently rubs the spot. Then another smack. And another. Each time a
little harder. Then the other side, building up to the same moderate level.
Then breath in my ear.

“More?”

“Yes.” I lick my lips, anticipating.

The
smack!
fills the room this time, and it's hard
enough to make me start. But oh god, I love how it feels. The surprised sting.
The adrenaline. The way he soothes my flesh after each blow with firm,
massaging strokes. My scalp prickles and every cell in my body seems to come
alive with sensation.

He is confident in his spanking, increasing the intensity
every few strokes. If he's afraid of hurting me, it doesn't show. He never
hesitates. I never thought pain and pleasure could mix, or that pain could turn
into pleasure, until an old boyfriend swatted my rear in a playful way, except
it was harder than he intended. He didn't like the idea of intentionally doing
it that hard again. And other men who said they liked the idea always ended up
chickening out after a certain point. So I had no idea the mix of pain and
pleasure could possibly blaze a way toward ecstasy, but Josh has me delirious
with it now. I trust him not to hurt me. I trust him enough to say no without
fear. But
no
is the farthest word from my mind.

The next blow draws a choked
Ah!
from my lips. My ass
must be bright red by now. We're learning my tolerance threshold together. He
spends a little extra time massaging that one away. He slips his fingers down
between my thighs, where it's very obvious how much I've been enjoying this. A
girl could get used to this treatment. I’m surprised with the comfort to be
found in letting someone else take complete control. Of course it's easy to
give control over to someone who uses it to bring about your own pleasure
before his own.

Josh kisses the back of my neck and strokes my clit at the
same time. It's impossible that I should be trembling like this so soon, but I
am. On the cusp of orgasm, I lift onto my hands and knees,  begging with my
body language to be fucked. He smacks my ass one, nice and hard, then kneels
behind me, pressing against my slick opening. Even still, he teases, stroking
himself against me, nudging my clit with the head of his cock.

“Oh please...” I almost don't recognize my own voice, so
husky with desire.

“What's that?” He's poised to enter me. There's a lightness
to his voice that tells me he's smiling.

“Please. Christ, please. Yes.” He's managed to get me
begging after all.

His fingers dig into the flesh of my hips as he thrusts into
me from behind. I cry out with the thrill of being filled so completely. He's
no longer gentle, pushing hard and deep, seeking the most vulnerable place within
me to leave a piece of himself.

I wonder if he realizes he found that place a long time ago,
and planted a seed of desire that continues to grow. I want to be fucked like
this, like he owns me, and spanked until his handprint is an indelible mark upon
my ass and my heart. I want to submit to him. I want to be dominated, and a
whole host of other unladylike and unfeminist fantasies that I’m sure he'd
willingly oblige.

My fingers work my clit until my body is practically numb
with bliss. I come in a frenzy of whole-body shudders and gasps, uttering
yes
yes yes
over and over again as he continues to fuck me through the orgasm,
finally seeking his own pleasure with my body. I push my hips back against each
of his thrusts.

I would let him take me to the extreme and back. I would do
deliciously depraved things to and for him, if he ever asked, and I know he'd
do the same for me. Without question. Without judgment. Probably without me
having to ask explicitly. He'd somehow know, like he always does. I would trust
him to keep me safe.

“Oh god, yes.” It's Josh moaning the words this time. His
fingers dig into my hips with one last push and a deep, visceral groan. A
moment later my knees give out and we collapse onto the bed, spent. He brushes
a hand over my ass. “How are you doing? You're pretty red.”

“I'm good.” I don't know what will happen in the morning, or
a week from now. I just know he's left his mark on me, in more than a physical
way.

“Sure?” He pulls me back against his body and tucks his
knees behind mine.

This is enough for now. I have no idea if I'll see him
again, or if we'll simply go back to long-distance flirting, reading between
the lines. I do know that whatever happens, he will forever be a weakness for
me. No matter the question, for him there will always be one answer:

“Yes.”

THE
END

Keep reading for an excerpt from J. Lea López's upcoming
novel,
Sorry's Not Enough
.

About J. Lea López

I'm
an introvert with a touch of shyness, but I have a secret world full of snark
and other naughtiness in my head, and I love to let it out through fiction. And
sometimes on social media, too, so let's connect!

Twitter:
@JLeaLopez

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/jlealopez

Coming in May 2013,
Sorry's Not
Enough
is the story of Charlotte's struggle with life, love, and
forgiveness when "sorry" isn't enough to cover the scars. Here's a
sample:

Chapter One

Sanguinolent sunset
. There's a word you don't see
every day. Charlotte circled it with her red pen and drew a smiley at the end
of the line, below where she'd called out a different phrase for being trite.
She continued making notes in the margin as the others took turns giving
feedback. By the time she was done marking up the poem, the paper was also
sanguinolent.

She looked up when the group grew quiet. Her turn. She
looked down at the poem again and hoped its author wouldn't be offended. What
was his name?
Steven
.

“It's a little confused,” she said. There was a pause and a
shuffle of papers.

“What don't you understand?”

She snapped her chin up and was taken aback by the force of
his gaze. No adjective could adequately describe the shade of green staring
back at her.

“I'm not confused. Your poem is.”

His gaze dropped to his copy of the poem. She could almost
see his brain struggling to acknowledge that there could be any imperfections.
He probably thought it was
soooo amazing!
like Aubrey, the bubbly
redhead to his left, has proclaimed moments earlier. She had gushed to an
embarrassing extent, obviously more interested in getting his number than
saying anything meaningful. It had been sad and funny at the same time. With a
pang of something she refused to believe was jealousy, Charlotte realized that,
of the two of them, Aubrey would be the only one taking any numbers.

Whatever. She certainly didn't want Steven's number. Not
when he looked at her again with an aloof, almost cocky grin, apparently
waiting to hear more of her thoughts about his poem. Well, if he insisted.

“The style isn't consistent. The first stanza is really
concise, like you chose each word for a reason.” The red smiley face she'd
drawn next to
sanguinolent sunset
caught her eye, but she ignored it.
Aubrey could pad his ego. “But the last couple of stanzas have some ornate
description that's just a waste of space. And some clichés that need to go.”

“Lots of authors use clichés,” Aubrey said and shot a
hopeful glance at Steven. “It can be an effective tool.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Except it's not. Not here. They don't
help create a tone or anything, and this isn't satire. A cliché without purpose
is still just a cliché.”

Aubrey frowned, but Steven nodded slowly, like he was seeing
her point.

“Easy on the poor lad, Charlotte,”Alexander McAnulty said.
He was a portly gentleman, and one of the oldest workshop participants.
Charlotte liked to think of him as her long-lost, really awesome Irish uncle.
The kind who might've let you take a puff of his pipe when you were barely
twelve, with a warning of
don't tell yer mum.
She'd gotten to know him
during a previous workshop. “Wasn't there anything you liked about it?”

She softened a bit. It wasn't her intention to be mean. “I
never said I didn't like it.”

“No, it's okay. I appreciate the honesty,” Steven said.

She would've gone on to mention what she did like, but Deb,
the instructor, called for the small groups to break up and reform one large
group.