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Robbie Lane was a walking contradiction. The first time I saw him, he was standing outside the Decade bar in Williamsburg. First impressions? I believe they count. Of course they count. When you’re deliberately setting yourself up to see a person for the first time, there is an onus upon you to make sure you’re looking and behaving your best.

I’d been putting off meeting him for weeks. Through the New Year and most of January, I’d been preoccupied with wrangling my way to a promotion whilst trying to forget my fleetingly intense last relationship. It wasn’t easy. I was the one who’d ended things between Scott and myself and while we’d never been a couple as such, I still missed what could have been.

The date with Robbie had been postponed, deferred, rearranged, moved to numerous locations and almost cancelled outright before the night finally came around. Even then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet him. I’d looked him up online and found next to nothing. No social media profiles, which was damn well weird in the year 2017.

My shoes tapped along the sidewalk. I wasn’t looking forward to it. More than once, I considered turning back and going home. There was something awfully pressurising about first dates. I hated them. It was as though I had to try and sell myself. Look pretty, talk pretty, don’t act smart, don’t be judgemental, keep an open mind, laugh at bad jokes, don’t eat too fast, definitely don’t drink too much and astutely assess whether he’ll be offended if you reach for your purse. And then, after all that, learn to dodge fast so at the end of the charade, his mouth finds your cheek and not your lips.

Bizarrely, the one thing that had spurred me into action was Scott. The day before, he’d called me. I hadn’t answered, hadn’t even realised until I saw the missed call listing. It caught me off guard. For weeks I’d been carefully avoiding any thought of him. He was unsuitable, in the way that all addictive, hedonistic things are. And as far as I was aware, he’d moved on. In fact, I knew he had. So why was he calling me? I almost called him back. It took every last atom of my self-control to resist.

And now, Robbie. A shot in the dark. Something to fill up another empty evening. I guess I was curious more than anything. I’d put in an effort. Skinny jeans. Heels. Knit sweater and my favourite jacket. I didn’t want to look like I’d made a huge effort. I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window as I hurried along the sidewalk. Winter casual? Was that a thing? I looked like I was meeting a friend for coffee. A friend who I didn’t know very well. Jesus.

My phone buzzed and I checked it, still walking fast.

It was Robbie.

Have I been stood up?

I almost typed back ‘yes’. But that was mean. And I was only a block away.

No, I’m late. Two minutes. Sorry!

I walked faster. It wasn’t raining but the sidewalks were wet from an earlier storm. Light beamed out from car headlights and restaurants. By the time I closed in on the last ten metres, I was breathless.

“Hey,” He was standing outside the bar, under the canopy. “Ally, right?”

My heart sank a little, even though he crushed his cigarette rather surreptitiously. A smoker? Great.

“Right.”

He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, both items new enough to pass for ‘casual’ rather than ‘scruffy’. The ink caught me by surprise. At first, I thought it was a trick of the glaring New York light. But once I got close enough, all I wanted to do was examine his tattoos. Both arms. Full sleeves. No spillage onto his hands. They ended in a neat line at each wrist. It looked like pure artistry. Words, pictures, symbols, letters. How much meaning could he have crammed onto his body? It was all I could look at.

“Hey, my face is up here you know,” he said, acting hurt. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who only wants me for my body.”

I tore my gaze away from his arms and smiled belatedly. He was chewing gum, to hide the smoke no doubt. I hadn’t even seen him put the stick into his mouth. He was quick. Smart. Also, he must’ve thought I was blind. His cigarette packet was sticking out of his jeans pocket.

I didn’t call him out on it. After all, we’d just met. Besides, his smile was warm and his face too distracting. A hard kind of handsome. Dark hair, dark stubble, dark eyelashes. Tall, dark and handsome as fuck. Maybe it wouldn’t be disastrous, after all.

“Sorry,” I said, “Hey, nice to meet you. Robbie, right?”

“Right. Or else you just checked out the wrong guy.”

He was laughing at me but not in a mean way. Our eyes met.

“Hey, let’s go inside,” he said. “It’s cold out here,”

We went into the crowded bar. It was late on a Friday night and as such, it seemed like every single person was out for a good time.

“I didn’t think you were gonna show up,” Robbie said over the music.

“Yeah, sorry. I got – late.”

“That’s okay. So how’d you know Amber?”

Amber was our mutual friend – the woman who’d given Robbie my number. She was also dating Scott. Surprisingly, I had no hard feelings towards her, but then, she was the kind of person who everybody immediately fell in love with.

“It’s a pretty complicated story,” I said. “I really wouldn’t want to scare you away on the first date.”

Robbie smiled, like he might already know the story. I looked away, a little embarrassed, pretending to be interested in a game of pool further down the bar. I felt his eyes dragging over my body, slowly, lazily, like he didn’t want to rush it. I tried not to move. When I turned back, his eyes flicked away.

“So, I heard you’re a chef,” I said and now that I’d seen him, I imagined him in the kitchens of a fancy hotel, the ex-skater genius behind a menu the Upper West Side raved about.

“Yeah. I work at the Sky Hotel near Central Park,” he shrugged. “It pays the bills, you know?”

I frowned. “You don’t enjoy it?”

“Oh, sure I enjoy it,” he said, ruefully. “But you can’t pick your boss. And mine is an asshole.”

“So did you go to like, culinary school, or something?”

He laughed. “No! I got a job washing dishes at a bakery. Then I literally worked my way up.”

“What do you cook?”

“Well, I’m a pastry chef so it’s not all that much cooking.” He shrugged again. “More baking. And presentation.”

I stared at him.

“A pastry chef?”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“What? I don’t look the part?”

“No.” I said blatantly. “No! I mean, like a patisserie guy? You should be French. Or gay. Or both.”

He laughed. “That’s a bit of a stereotype.”

I looked at him, his t-shirt, his tattoos, the packet of Newports sticking out of his jeans pocket.

“So you make like little eclairs and things?”

“Yes.” He dug in his back pocket and brought out his phone. “Look.” He swiped through pictures of various exquisite desserts. “This was me. This. That was someone else. This was me. That was all me.” He frowned as a picture of a kid on a rollercoaster appeared. “And that’s my nephew.”

I shook my head. “I just can’t imagine it.”

“You should come by the hotel sometime.”

We drank. He asked me about work, family. We talked about books, movies, music, cities, places we wanted to go. He was smart. Interesting. And yet, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. It was the first official date I’d been on in years and I could not think past the physical. His teeth. The silver chain around his neck. The way he held his glass. His hands. The way his t-shirt looked when he stretched. I wanted to put my hand under it, feel his warm skin, see what his body felt like.

As a first date, it went remarkably well. There were no awkward moments of total disagreement, and the conversation was easy. He didn’t have any apparent bad habits (minus the smoking), he didn’t try too hard and I didn’t have to fake-laugh at his jokes. He was funny. It felt as though we knew each other already, knew how to make the other person laugh and feel at ease.

He walked me home afterwards, hands dug into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched up against the cold.

“You didn’t bring a jacket?” I asked.

“I did. Someone took it when I went outside to meet you.”

I frowned. “You never said.”

“It didn’t seem important. Still doesn’t.” He smiled at me. “You want me to walk you up to your apartment?”

There was nothing suggestive in the way he said it. It was almost brotherly. His hands were still jammed into his pockets.

“No. Thank you. I’m good.”

“Well.” He smiled again. “I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t even hug.

*

I thought about him a lot. The area Scott had occupied in my head was now totally replaced by Robbie and he spilled out of the allotted space, constantly lurking in the back of my mind. I liked him. I really liked him. We saw each other with increasing frequency; once a week at first and by the time a month had passed, almost every day.

Our relationship seemed to be more of a friendship. He laughed a lot. I loved to make him laugh, only because it sounded so good. The end of each date was always awkward, like we were forcibly re-establishing the fact that it was more than just friendship. We kissed outside my door. Politely. Gently. Closed mouths. And then I’d shut the door and fight the urge to scream.

It had been a month. A month of watching him finish up at work, a month of meeting up for early morning runs in Central Park, of drinking and laughing and fear. Fear. Fear of disappointment.

I wanted more. I’d wanted more since the day I’d seen him. And I knew I only had to let him step into my apartment to make it happen. I knew the way he looked at me. I knew the darkness in his eyes, the way the conversation faded into a wide, gaping abyss that seemed to get bigger every night. He wanted me. He wanted to fill that void with sex. But I couldn’t. I was too scared that he wouldn’t be what I wanted him to be.

It wasn’t that I wanted another version of Scott. No. But I didn’t want vanilla sex. I didn’t want Robbie to be patient and gentle and sweet. But then, I kind of did. I wanted more than Scott had given me. I wanted him to love me, hard and soft, nasty and nice. And to do it when I wanted it, for us to be that crazily attuned. How self-centred could I be?

I was going to lose him. I knew he was going to get tired of waiting. Soon enough the anticipation would morph into impatience and he’d find someone else, someone prettier and easier. Jesus. I couldn’t let him go. He was too good. He was like no other man I’d ever met. No ego to hide behind. Enough self-deprecation to make me want to love him harder. And that face. That goddamn body.

I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. Would the risk pay off? How could I tell him the kind of sex I was into? I couldn’t speak about things like that. We talked about running for god’s sake! Running and pretty French desserts and art. Not sex. Easy conversations covering up clenched fists. Something hard underneath. Steel. Like powdered sugar on a gun. The pretence of sweetness. Beneath the surface, there was too much going on and sooner or later, something had to give.

*

It was warm for March; calm and pretty. People walked a little slower than usual, enjoying the weather before disappearing into buildings. The calm before a storm. Is that really a thing? It was a Friday. We’d known each other for more than a month. Thirty five days, though who was counting? Five weeks. It wasn’t a huge amount of time. I wondered if there were protocols for how long you should date someone before you’re obliged to have sex with them.

Protocols. Rules. Man-made conventions. I walked out of my office building after work and checked my phone. Robbie had texted me.

Come by my place. Something I want to show you.

It wasn’t out of the ordinary. He lived on the edge of Brooklyn and I’d been by his apartment before. It was already six so I didn’t bother stopping off at home. Instead, I took the subway to the station two blocks away from his place. He lived on the fourth floor of a converted mill, in a one-bed apartment. There was an elevator but it looked like it might break if you even pushed a button so I took the stairs.

He’d told me the door was open when I’d hit the buzzer downstairs and I slipped inside, closing it behind me. His apartment was small, and made to feel smaller by the presence of an imposing home gym in the living room. He didn’t even have a couch. I found him in the tiny kitchen. There was a door opening out onto a balcony and it was wide open, the cool evening air breezing in.

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming. I had tickets to this indie band but then I got a call about a job and - well, money, right?”

He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. The shirt hung off his broad shoulders. There was a bottle of scotch on the counter and an accompanying glass. Out on the balcony, there were chairs and a small table on which I could see an ashtray. He still tried to hide his smoking habit from me. It seemed petty to call him out on it, especially when he put in such an effort.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked.

The kitchen was clean and tidy, but then, it always was. Due to the nature of his work, he was a stickler for hygiene which I found hugely satisfying.

“Cake,” he said, “A friend has a friend who has a birthday who’s paying me five hundred bucks for some German cake.”

“Five hundred?” I was impressed.

He laughed. “I know, right? He hasn’t seen me which I guess is a good thing. But then I’ve never made anything like this before. And he’s got a whole load of modifications from the traditional recipe. And it’s short notice.”

I watched as he took what seemed to be a baked cake out of the open oven. It was about twelve by twelve inches and as I watched, he smoothed a thin layer of cake mix on top from a large bowl. Then he put it back in the oven, leaving the door ajar.

“You kinda grill it,” he explained. “When it’s cooked, put on another layer, alternating between lightly golden and darker golden. Then when it’s all done, you cut it open and you can see all the layers.”

It seemed like an awful lot of effort.

“How many layers have you done?” I asked.

“About forty so far.” He blew out a breath. “The guy’s turning fifty five. He wants fifty five fucking layers. Don’t even ask. People are crazy. I mean, is he actually gonna count? Besides, all these layers won’t affect the taste, right? The original is twenty layers. So this is like three times the work.”

He had pictures scattered across the counter of what the finished product should look like.

“So you’re gonna glaze it?”

“Uh-huh. And then write happy birthday. In German. You know what that is?” He was peering into the oven sceptically.

“Uh, no. I don’t even know French.”

“Guess.” He glanced at me playfully.

“Uh… guten birthday-en?”

He laughed, a warm, beautiful laugh. He took the cake and smoothed on another layer. He put it back in the oven. I loved to watch him at work. He looked so at ease and comfortable. He leaned against the fridge opposite me and eyed me deliberatively.

“You want a drink?” he asked suddenly. “Sorry. I’m so preoccupied. You must’ve come from work. How’ve you been?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really.”

He went into over-helpful mode, raiding the fridge and cupboards and bombarding me with questions while simultaneously checking on the cake. I ate two tangerines, toast and honey, a small freckled banana and was then guilt-tripped into testing his homemade lemonade.

“Be honest,” he said, as I sipped it carefully.

“It’s a little flat,” I admitted. “But it’s good. Not too sweet.”

He was back at the oven.

“Flat? Yeah, I think I knocked out the bubbles. I was trying to get the sugar to dissolve.”

The cake tin was almost full. He spread on the mix like a pro.

“What layer are you on?”

“Fifty four.”

He was keeping a tally which I thought was a very smart idea.

Once he’d finished the cake, he left it on the side to cool. He started peeling a bowl of soaked almonds, dipping them into glace icing and then into what must have been granulated sugar, though it was silver in colour.

“So you invited me over here to watch you make a cake?” I teased.

“Well. I was thinking you might be helpful,” he hinted.

“Oh. Well. Excuse me.” I took over the sugar. It was quite a fun, wacky way to spend the evening, making cake decorations and listening to stories about the weirdest cakes he’d been asked to make. He finished with the almonds and went to tip the cake out of the tin.

“Fuck.” He couldn’t get it out. “Pass me a knife, Ally.”

“I have to wash my hands, there’s sugar all over them.”

“There is?” He glanced at me. “Oh – wait. No, it’s good.” The cake thumped onto the wire rack. “Forget it. Aren’t you done yet?”

“Nearly. What next?”

“Well, the cake’s still hot. I guess I’ll decorate it in the morning.” He splashed whisky into a glass and drank it fast, then poured out some more and sipped it, watching me the whole time. It made me feel a little edgy. I wished he would speak; say something to cut the silence. As it was, nobody spoke and the silence intensified into tension. He was standing in front of the sink.

“I should wash my hands,” I said eventually. He didn’t move. He set down his glass.

“No need.”

He caught my hand and pulled it up to his mouth, his lips closing around my index and middle fingers. I was too shocked to react. Our eyes met. He sucked hard. I saw the faint flicker of challenge in his eyes. Stop me. I dare you. And then it was gone, turning into something darker and harder. I felt his teeth scrape my fingers. I pulled my hand back sharply, leaving him open-mouthed. He looked down at my fingers. Then he looked at me.

“How long are we gonna do this, Ally?” he murmured. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

“Do what?” I asked, very quietly.

His eyes were on mine. Forced patience.

“This. This, tiptoeing around one another. I want you and unless I’m deluded, you want me. So what are you waiting for?”

I blew out a long breath. I knew I should leave. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t explain.

“It’s – I don’t know,” I couldn’t look at him. I stepped back. “I should go.”

Robbie watched me. I felt his eyes, felt the shift between us. Awkwardness. Fuck. My stomach fluttered. This couldn’t be the end, could it? Not so soon. Not so unexpectedly.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said, finally. His voice came out flat and controlled. He closed the balcony doors, checked that the oven was off.

“No. It’s okay. Really.”

I couldn’t see my jacket. Fuck. I could leave it. I didn’t need it. All of a sudden, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. We were on the brink of something, an argument, a fight, a clash of feelings and needs and I didn’t want to face it. I walked out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into the narrow hallway. Robbie followed.

“Look, Ally, this is – you don’t have to leave. I don’t want you to.”

I didn’t turn around. He was so close that if I’d stepped backwards, I’d have bumped into him. I turned the key and pulled the door handle. It didn’t open.

“It’s the other way,” Robbie said patiently. “Here, I’ll do it.”

His hand moved around, and seamlessly unlocked the door. He didn’t let go of the handle though. I waited. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or upset or maybe even amused.

“Robbie?” My voice was weak.

He didn’t speak. I shut my eyes and counted to ten. Opening them, I slowly turned to look at him.

“Don’t go,” he said. He shut the door. I heard the key turn in the lock. So mechanical, so final.

“Robbie, I -”

“I can’t spend another goddamn night dreaming about you,” he interrupted. “And I’ve pushed too hard. If you leave now, I get the feeling I’m never gonna see you again.”

The height difference between us seemed suddenly greater. I didn’t feel exactly intimidated by him but I was consciously aware of how much bigger and stronger he was. It didn’t scare me. It made me want to stay. His hands moved, palms pressing flat against the door either side of me. I was effectively trapped. There were inches separating us and though we’d been physically closer before, I’d never felt anything like the expectant tension between us.

How bad could it be? Even vanilla sex with him must be extraordinary. What was I waiting for? I could feel the warmth of his body. If I’d been any closer, I’d have heard his heart beating. I wondered if it was going as fast as mine. I looked up at him, the angle of his jaw, his nose, his dark eyes.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I asked.

His eyes were on mine. I’d never held a gaze as intense as his.

“Do you want me to?”

I shifted and his arms tightened, pressing harder against the door.

I looked at his mouth, the shadow slanting across his face. The silver chain against his skin.

“Uh-huh.”

His head dipped, his mouth finding mine and claiming it. It was nothing like the way he’d kissed me before. This was an adult kiss, dragging and drugging, his tongue in my mouth and his teeth in my lip. It felt almost indecent, X-rated, something that only the two of us should ever be allowed to see. He tasted like sugar but with a kind of burn to it. It took me a few seconds to realise it was the whisky.

His hands moved from the door but he didn’t touch me. The more I kissed him back, the more he moved away, making me follow his mouth until I had to put my arms around him to hold on. It was as though he was forcing me to admit how much I wanted him. It was only when I was on my tiptoes, my arms around his neck, that he finally held me, his hands grabbing my ass and pulling me hard against him. It was so unexpected that I let out a cry.

It didn’t deter him. He half-carried me along the hall, shouldering open his bedroom door. He set me down to flick the light on and then we were kissing again, hungrily, desperately, as though something might come between us.

The bed was unmade and messy, sheets creased and tangled. Robbie dragged them off and threw them on the floor. He pushed me down onto the mattress and before I knew what was happening, he was on top of me, legs either side of mine as his mouth crushed mine. I tried to put my arms around him but he caught my hands, wrestling them above my head and holding them there against the pillow.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard.

“You wanna stop, just tell me,” he growled. “Okay? You need a word?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“I’ll give you one,” He narrowed his eyes, thinking it over. “Let’s say lemonade. Okay?”

I stared at him breathlessly.

“Uh-huh.”

He kissed me again, his mouth forcing mine open as his tongue moved fast. He was still holding my hands tight above my head and his body pressed down against mine, even though I knew he was holding his weight back. I arched up against him, wanting to feel more, and he sat up, letting go of my hands so he was positioned over me. We were both still dressed.

I was hopelessly, helplessly attracted to him. He crossed his arms and dragged the hem of his t-shirt up and over his head. It was like he was doing it in slow-motion. I stared. I felt like I was melting. It was so teenage, so pathetic. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat and ridged with muscle. Half of me had expected there to be more tattoos but the ink on his arms faded before it reached his shoulders. There was nothing else. Clean skin. He caught my hands and tugged me forward.

“Sit up.”

He edged back along my legs so I could free my dress from beneath them and then he took over, pulling it seamlessly off over my head. I was wearing a thin, white tank underneath and he hesitated a second, his eyes moving over my neck and shoulders to the swell of my chest.

“Take it off,” he said.

Our eyes met. His gaze was patient, steady. I wanted to refuse. I couldn’t. I tugged the top off, my mouth dry, and he took it from me, dropping it on the floor. He didn’t try to hide the way he looked at me. It made me want to cross my arms over my chest. It felt like more than being naked, like he could see some part of me that no-one had seen before, no-one had tried to see before.

He didn’t touch me. He just stayed there a while in his jeans, sitting astride my legs, me wearing only my panties and he didn’t speak. I didn’t speak. It felt like it lasted an eternity but in reality it was probably only half a minute.

Then he said, “Lie down.”

He moved off the bed and stalked around the room, like he was looking for something. I watched him slide his zipper down and tug his jeans off, leaving them on the floor. His room was messy but not in a dirty way. Clothes. Newspapers. An old Pinball machine stood to one side, like the kind you get in a vintage arcade.

There was a teetering stack of books on the floor in the corner. One of his wardrobe doors was open, as were two drawers. A basket of laundry sat near the door. It looked clean, but wasn’t ironed or even folded. A closed laptop sat charging on the windowsill. I wondered what he used it for. News? Music? Porn?

He flicked the light off and I blinked.

“What’re you doing?”

“Shh.”

Light from outside came through the window. My eyes took a while to adjust and I could make out his silhouette as he divested of his boxer shorts. Then he was coming back. His fingers hooked into my underwear and tugged it off. Then he was above me again, only now it was skin on skin; warm, unfamiliar and terrifying. His hands moved fast to secure mine to one of the vertical bars at the top of the bed. I half-struggled but only out of surprise. I couldn’t tell what he was using – it was softer than rope but still wide and when he was done, there wasn’t any give in the knots.

“There,” he said. “Perfect.”

His strong hands rested on my shoulders. I squirmed as his fingers trailed downwards slowly and purposefully. It was as though he was forcing me to acknowledge just how helpless I was.

“I’ve wanted this for a helluva long time,” he breathed.

He found my tits, groping and squeezing them roughly. His head bent, teeth tugging at one nipple until I tried to move away. He laughed against my body.

“You’re not going anywhere, Ally. Not this time.”

His tongue flicked and swirled around my hard nipple and then he moved to the other one, teasing and torturing it until I gasped. I felt his hand insinuate its way between my legs; his knee pushing between my thighs and then his fingers were touching me, stroking and rubbing until I was shifting my legs wider apart and pushing against him desperately.

He knew how to touch me. I was wet, swollen, desperate for any part of him, and he pushed one finger inside me, making me clench hard around it.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

His thumb was pressing on my clit, and he moved it around, pushing me towards a release. His finger pushed deeper inside me and then he was adding another one, stretching me and making me whine.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathed. “You want all my fingers?”

“No, no, don’t,” I gasped but I was pushing against him regardless, desperate for him to increase the pressure on my clit. He obliged, rubbing it a little harder as his fingers slicked in and out of me. I was hazily aware of how much bigger than mine they were. His touch felt rough and insistent, bordering on forceful. I felt the tip of his third finger ease inside me and I swallowed hard. He was watching me intently, reading every involuntary squirm and shudder.

“Please, Robbie.”

His thumb moved faster, wonderfully fast, and every so often he’d stop to press it hard against me. I felt the rush coming. He had three fingers inside me now and he was moving them in and out, testing how far he could go. His free hand grasped one of my legs, pulling it further away from the other so I was stretched wide and open for him. I couldn’t have moved if I’d tried.

“You’re all mine,” he murmured. “Every goddamn inch of you.”

I shuddered as his thumb circled mercilessly around my clit. I felt desperately needy. I felt the orgasm start beneath his hand and instinctively wanted to move my legs together. It didn’t matter though, because as soon as I thought the release was inevitable, his hand moved away, leaving me gasping.

“Did you really think I’d let you come?” His voice was deceptively soft. “After you’ve made me wait so long?”

My arms hurt. My body felt tight and stretched with tension. I looked at him desperately.

“Robbie, I didn’t-”

He cut me off.

“Yes, you did. You knew what you were doing. And now you wanna come? So easily?”

“Robbie, please,” My voice was a pathetic whine. “Don’t-”

“Don’t what, angel?”

The word caught me off guard, made my heart skip a beat. There was something so exquisite about it, about the way he said it, the way it made me feel.

“Don’t make me wait,” I gasped.

“But you’ve made me wait.” His voice dipped into a growl. “Five goddamn weeks. When we could’ve been here the first night.”

“I didn’t know, I didn’t-”

“You fucking did. Thirty five fucking days. I counted.”

His hand slapped lightly against my snatch and the breath whooshed out of me. He did it again, harder and then three more times. I couldn’t close my legs to protect myself. I couldn’t use my hands. Every time I opened my mouth, his hand slapped down again, wet and stinging. I couldn’t explain why it made me wetter than ever.

“You like that, angel?”

I lost count of how many times his fingers slapped down. All I was aware of was the way I clenched each time, my body struggling to process the edge of pleasure that accompanied each flash of pain. Once he was done, he edged me relentlessly, taking me that one step closer each time like he was learning exactly where my limits were. I couldn’t hide from him. I was like an open book.

Then he moved abruptly, his hands grasping my legs, and holding them firmly apart. I felt the head of his cock between my legs. The more I squirmed, the tighter he held me. He pushed hard, burying himself deep inside me. I heard him exhale.

“Jesus, Ally.”

He felt big, invasive, almost painfully so. I clenched my teeth as he pulled back before pushing in deep again. It took a while for a rhythm to form but once it did, I didn’t want it to stop. He knew how to fuck. He moved into me with strong, searching strokes, ensuring he went as deep as possible before withdrawing. His hands let go of my legs, moving up my torso to feel my damp skin.

“You are so fucking perfect, angel.”

It made me want to put my arms around him. I tried to free my hands. He leaned down, kissing me hard on the mouth until I was breathless. His hands caught my legs, pulling them up so he was even deeper inside me.

“Robbie – please…”

I felt so lost in him. I could smell his sweat, the faint curl of cigarette smoke and the clean, natural smell of him, something like rain and trees. He was moving urgently, using my body, owning it, hands grasping at my arms, my tits, my legs, like he couldn’t get enough of me. He fucked so beautifully, like it came naturally to him; his body moving strongly and urgently, pushing that huge cock into me over and over until I could hardly take any more.

His hand moved down to my clit again and I squirmed as he stroked me, his fingers strong and methodical.

“Please, Robbie, please,” I was afraid he’d deny me again. I didn’t think I’d be able to take it.

His fingers moved faster. His cock pumped in and out of me. I was so focused on wanting the orgasm to come that I could hardly believe it when it did. My body arched against his, effectively trapping his hand. He half-laughed, his fingers still moving against me but then he was coming himself, his cock pushed deep inside me. I couldn’t close my legs but I was pressed so tight against him that it didn’t seem to matter.

“Fuck… fuck…” He let out a breath, teeth clenched as more of his spunk jerked into me. His mouth was on my neck and he dragged it up to kiss me, slower this time but no less intense. I was too exhausted to respond. I felt his weight leaning into me. There was something warm, possessive about it. He reached up, untied my hands. I didn’t move them for a while.

“You okay?” His voice was soft. He moved off me like he was afraid he was hurting me. It made me feel cold. I turned, curling closer to him.

“Okay?” I mumbled. “Barely.”

I felt him smile. His arm went around me. I felt lazily content.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do it again,” he said teasingly. “If you’re barely okay.”

“Maybe. Maybe you ought to take me home now.”

He laughed that perfect, addictive laugh and pulled me closer.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

To be continued