After Midnight
“Can I ask you a favor?”
I raise my head and look at him. “Is it about my shoes?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he tries not to laugh, but I swear to God, I can feel his cock pulsing at my words.
“Kind of.” He tilts his head a little. “Would you get up and walk around for me? Put on a little show?”
I raise myself up on his chest using my elbows and laugh openly at him. “Raf. What kind of fetish do you have? These heels are only two and a half inches high. They’re not supposed to be sexy at all. They’re, like, vintage librarian shoes.”
He looks away from me, a little shy for once, then meets my eyes.
“Whatever,” he says gruffly, and I feel something in my belly loosen and drop even lower at how hard he’s trying to act like he’s not embarrassed. “I just like them, okay?”
I keep staring at him, overcome by…something. The only thing that comes close is the feeling I get when I see baby otters, that sense of being so overwhelmed by the fucking adorableness of it all that I want to just pick up said adorable object and squeeze it until its eyes pop out of its head. How can someone be so incredibly hot and cute? It seems like a violation of the space-time continuum, but somehow Raf manages it.
He turns his face away, and I realize I’ve been staring at him a little too fixedly.
“I’m not not into it,” I say. “Just give me a minute—my knees are still a bit wobbly.”
He turns back to me, and we swap silly, loose grins, as if we’ve accomplished a mutual goal, like building a treehouse or completing a triathlon, as opposed to making me climax loud enough to wake the dead.
I push myself upward and sit gingerly on the edge of the sofa, doing a mental scan of my body as I pull air in through my nose. Somehow, “putting on a little show” for Raf seems a lot riskier than all the times Carlos and I indulged in public sex put together. Those incidents happened in front of strangers. Right now, I’ll be parading my body for Raf, strutting around the room with all my bits and bobs on full display. There’s no buffer of kisses and skin-to-skin contact and soft candlelight. I’ll be letting him see all of me, and I’ll have to act sexy (whatever that means), too. Should I imitate what I’ve seen in movies and porn? I don’t think I could pull that off.
Being an exhibitionist goes against the grain for me: I’ve only sent three nude pics in my life, and none showed my face. I won’t do karaoke, even among friends, even after a few drinks—so parading around in the nude except for a pair of demure heels is truly outside of my comfort zone.
But this man just ate my pussy so good that I kinda-sorta blacked out from the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of it. And his curtains were open the entire time and I stopped caring about the neighbors at the precise moment when he put his tongue inside me. And while I know I don’t owe him anything, I want to do something for him. Something that pleases him. Makes him happy.
Because I might really like him.
Shit.
I get to my feet and walk away from the sofa before my thoughts can tie themselves into a giant impenetrable knot. The sun has just disappeared; I can see the sky streaked with the last bits of orange and purple through the plate glass window. The room is getting chillier—is he some kind of energy conservation nut?—but I’m still not cold. It’s warm enough for what I’m about to do.
Rafael reaches for the much bigger brass-and-copper trimmed lamp on the other end table and turns it on. The click of the switch makes the hair on my arms stand up. A warm, golden glow illuminates the center of the room.
There's a good amount of lighting in the room now: bright enough to make for easy visibility, dim enough to be flattering.
Suddenly, everything just seems funny to me. What am I so worried about? I’m so lucky. I’m here with this sexy man who appreciates me, who’s kind and respectful and kinky in the best possible way. And if he wants to look at me naked except for a pair of vintage shoes, well, hooray for me. Why am I making it into a problem?
I inhale deeply and try to recall anything I learned from the six pole dancing classes I took two years ago, but my mind goes blank. All I can really remember is how hard it was to find parking on Doheny after 7 p.m. I shake myself out of these thoughts and take a deep breath.
You don’t have to act sexy, I tell myself. Just have fun.
I raise my arms and run my hands through my hair, shaking and tilting my head so that the strands cascade down my back. My tits jiggle with the movement. I can feel the heat of his gaze intensifying as I continue to run my hands through my hair, down my neck, and brush the tips of my breasts.
I see him swallow, hard.
I pop out one hip, rest a hand on it, then gesture with my other hand toward the ceiling—an old-fashioned pose, like a magician’s assistant signaling ta-dah! when a rabbit gets pulled out of a hat.
I look across the room. Raf’s eyes are predatory, tracking my every move. His hand is gripping and massaging his cock. I forget what I’m doing for a moment and just watch him, mesmerized by how intent and stern he looks, how tightly he’s squeezing himself.
I must be doing something right, I think. He seems pretty interested.
I walk toward him slowly, putting one foot carefully in front of the other. I deliberately exaggerate the motions, so my arms, hips, and breasts all gently sway from side to side. When I’m almost in front of him, I place my hands under my breasts and push them together, an offering just for him. I slide my fingers upward and pinch and roll my nipples.
His breath catches in his throat. He squirms in his seat and tightens his grip around his shaft. A feeling of power surges through me as I look at the expression on his face, dazed, almost drunk with lust.
I pull my hands away, letting my tits bounce. I suck one finger into my mouth, then brush my other hand between my cleavage, down my stomach, trail down my lower belly until I reach my pussy. I’m surprised at how soft my skin is, how nice I feel. Maybe I should feel myself up more when I masturbate, I realize, instead of automatically choosing to look at porn. I tunnel my fingers inward until I reach my clit, strumming it until I begin to feel sparks travel from my groin to my nipples, my throat, my face, running down the backs of my thighs all the way to my toes.
“Papi,” I whisper, almost too quiet to hear, and he looks at me, his face harsh, austere, but I can see that his eyes are smiling. His lips part as he keeps staring at me. I can hear how he’s fighting to pull more air into his lungs as my fingers move faster and faster. His gaze flickers from my face to my tits to where my hand moves between my legs and finally, to my feet.
I bite back my own smile, then turn around. I walk a few steps away, repeating all my motions in reverse, letting him get a good eyeful of my backside and the suede bows and cutouts over my heels. I guess these shoes are kind of suggestive.
When I’m almost beyond the pool of lamplight, I stop, angle myself so he can see me in three-quarters profile, arch my back, and bend over as slowly as I can, extending my spine and arms in an elongated swan dive, until my hands rest on the floor.
I can hear his breathing, harsh and full, in the stillness of the room.
I spread my legs twelve inches apart and sway my torso to one side, looking him straight in the eye as I do. I lift my head and flip my hair, so it streams behind me, brushing the floor. I spread my legs a little farther apart. I hear him swallow, and his gaze moves from my face to everything that I’ve just exposed to him and then back again.
“Maggie,” he says. His voice is strained, almost grating. He’s gripping his prick so tightly that his knuckles are turning white and a muscle is popping in his jaw, he’s clenching his teeth so harshly.
“Yes, Raf?”
“Come here.” He reaches a hand out toward me. He hesitates before he utters the next word. “Please.”
Something about the command of come here juxtaposed with the quiet supplication of his please undoes me. For a moment, my knees wobble, and I worry that my legs will slide out from under me, like a newborn calf. I have to brace my hands against the floor to push myself upright. It takes all my concentration to turn around semi-gracefully and walk toward him, even though my instincts say run and throw yourself into his arms.
This silly little game that started over a pair of suggestive shoes has turned into something else. The need between us feels stronger, rawer and…as if it’s exposed something in each of us, something that we each thought we were cleverly concealing from the other.
Rafael is trying to shed his clothes as quickly as he can. For a second, his nose gets caught in the neck of his sweatshirt, and I press a hand to my mouth so he doesn’t hear me laugh. But then he pulls it off completely, revealing the sleek muscles of his arms and chest, the flat plane of his stomach, and all my nervous laughter dies away.
“Let me,” I say, and I reach for the waistband of his jeans. He lifts his hips, and we lock eyes as I pull the denim down his legs, over his feet, and toss them over the back of the sofa. I trail my fingers down his belly, along his cock, trace the length of his legs, well-defined with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
He grasps my hands and interlaces my fingers with his. He tugs me closer as he reclines along the couch.
“Ride me,” he says, and it’s simultaneously an order and a plea. His eyes gleam up at me and his teeth flash white in his face as he grins. “Keep the shoes on.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing back. Instead, I nod and bring one leg up and then the other, so I’m straddling his body. I squeeze my legs tight against him, so tight he can feel the leather uppers and wooden heels digging into his thighs.
He sighs, the sound soft and almost delicate for such a big man. He looks at me, his expression vulnerable and I’m suddenly sorry for teasing him about how he might be, like, into feet. I think it surprised him almost as much as it did me, how affected he was by these shoes. My heart squeezes and I worry that I’ve hurt his feelings, made him feel as if he has to be guarded and wary around me.
“I’m into it,” I confess, a little shyly. I push a lock of hair off my face. I squeeze my legs against him again. “The shoe stuff. I like what it does to you. I have…” I take a deep breath. “I have some other ones I think you might like.”
Raf is rubbing my belly, alternating between stroking me with the backs of his fingers and running the palm of his hand along the tender skin. I wiggle atop him, more stimulated with each pass of his fingers. “Yeah?” he says, and while his tone is casual, his eyes are anything but. “You’d want to do this again? Maybe wear something fancy and sexy for me and just…walk up and down the room.”
“Yes,” I say. “I like it. Actually…” I take a deep breath, then screw my courage to the sticking point. “I like how much you like it.”
He bites his lower lip, considers that statement without looking at me. He nods, meets my eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “I know it didn’t come easy for you, parading yourself like that.” He smiles, a shy smile this time, and my heart feels like it might crack open. “But I really like that you did it.”
Then he takes my ass in his big, warm hands and squeezes, tries to pull me down onto his cock. I shake my head and remain still. Instead, I lick the palm of my hand until it’s wet and juicy, then take hold of his stiff cock and hold it against his belly. I slide my hand up and down until his eyes close. He exhales, loud and deep. Precum leaks out the head, and I gather it in my hand and slick it all over him.
He grunts, pressing upward against my palm. I watch the motion of his pelvis, mesmerized, enjoying the feel and the sight of him fucking my hand until the low, grinding ache in my belly is too insistent. I replace my hand with the seam of my cunt. I press down and slide, press down and slide, careful not to let him penetrate me, not yet. I lean forward at a sharper angle and hold his shoulders down with my hands so that I control our friction.
“Oh god. Maggie,” he breathes, and I revel at the sound of my name on his lips. His hips are surging upward; I’m bearing down as hard as I can. The underside of his cock is sliding along the length of my pussy, stroking against my clit. I bite the inside of my bottom lip, so I don’t cry out.
I lift my hips off him, and his eyes open.
“Maggie?” he says questioningly, but I shake my head, telling him wordlessly not to worry. I bend forward, so our torsos are parallel. Then, I wrap my hand around him and position him at my entrance.
He takes a deep inhale. I shift my hips back and notch the fat, wide crown of him in my hole.
Without warning, he plunges deep inside, grabs my hips and pulls down, hard, so he’s sunk all the way in me, right to his balls. I release a guttural wail.
“Ride me,” he says. Our lips are almost touching. “Use my cock. Make us come.”
I clench around him involuntarily at his words and he grunts and I moan at the feeling. I nod to show that I’ve heard his command, but for a moment I sit there and revel in the feeling of him inside me. He just feels so much more in this position that I worry, briefly, that my internal organs are being permanently rearranged by his giant cock. I worry, too, that I’ll be inadequate for the task at hand. He’s so good at making both of us come, I just don’t know if I can do the same. But then something throbbing and urgent says move and something else says take care of this ache and the next thing I know, I’m fucking him with all the strength I have, using my hands against his chest for leverage. I squeeze him with my inner muscles on the upstroke, push back as hard as I can on the down. He picks up my rhythm, makes it his, holding my pelvis against him as he thrusts inside me, letting me go as I swing upward. The couch is groaning and wheezing as our movements get deeper, wilder, the squeak of its springs and cushions mimicking our agitated breathing.
Raf reaches up, grabs a thick fistful of my hair. “Look at me,” he says. He speaks quietly, but the order is unmistakable.
I open my eyes. I didn’t even realize I’d shut them. His gaze is soulful, earnest, wide open. My pussy flutters around him at the unwitting vulnerability in his eyes, and he shivers, groans a little.
“Look at me while we’re fucking,” he says hoarsely.
“Yes,” I say, which surprises me. Normally, I’m not into excessive eye contact, but holding his eyes while he’s so deep inside me makes me feel…
Well, it makes me feel, and not just physical impressions. As we hold each other’s gaze, I run through a gamut of emotions: exposed and connected and terrified, exhilarated and embarrassed, tender and affectionate and wild.
But I also feel him more, as if every brush of skin and touch has been somehow magnified. I’m fuck drunk, and the longer I look at him, the more I feel myself on the precipice, about to tumble head over heels in—
I sit up, tall and straight. His hands slide from my hair, down my neck, and cup my tits. He molds them with his hands, keeping his gaze on mine. My hair falls into my face as I move on him, faster and faster.
He closes his mouth, and I can feel him watching me, even through the veil of my hair.
“Jesus, I love this view,” he says and rubs his thumbs against my nipples.
I laugh and begin to grind my hips against him in a rocking, wave-like motion. I wanted this to be about him, but I can feel my orgasm starting to build, feel that knot of heat and tightness beginning to gather right behind my clit, in the front of my womb. It’s about to come crashing over me, pull me out to sea and I’m helpless, it’s stronger than I am—I can’t hold it back any longer.
“Raf,” I’m panting, my hips are pistoning back and forth, and I no longer feel like I’m in charge. “Raf, I’m sorry, I wanted you to get there first, but I think I’m gonna come—”
He laughs out loud and shakes his head. I throw my head back, and I can feel my release start to unwind deep within me. He pulls me down with a loud grunt and punches his hips upward, pumping inside me, rubbing my clit against his groin. I shout his name and wrap my hands around his wrists, digging my fingernails heedlessly into the soft skin as my pussy spasms around him. I feel him thrust, thrust, and thrust again, and then, a final, hot liquid release.
From him? From me? I think it might be from the both of us. I feel him shudder and pulse inside me one last time, and then both of us exhale and collapse—me onto Raf’s chest, Raf against the sofa.
This is an excerpt from a book called After Midnight, the follow up to After Dark. To read it in its entirety, purchase through one of the links below.