"The kind you'll never want to stop looking at, baby."

She chuckles. "I was thinking more along the lines of dancing?"

"Then we're thinking alike. Horizontal is my favorite dance."

She runs her hand up the sleeve of my black b.u.t.ton-down shirt. "The vertical kind is a nice prelude-gets me in the mood. There's a club around the corner from my apartment. Their Wednesday night DJ is the s.h.i.t. You want to come with me, c.l.i.t-boy?"

I put my hand over hers and rub my thumb slowly against it. "I don't think I like that nickname."

She shrugs unapologetically. "Too bad. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. You're c.l.i.t-boy until you give me a reason to think of you as something else."

I lean in closer. Goose b.u.mps rise on the flesh of her chest as my breath tickles her ear. "By the end of this night, I'll have you calling me 'G.o.d.'"

Her breathing picks up slightly, and the pulse point at her neck thumps faster. I want to put my mouth on it, suck on the skin and experience her taste.

But I don't get the chance.

Delores steps back, her amber eyes practically glowing with antic.i.p.ation. And she commands, "You pay the tab, I'll get the taxi."

Independence in a woman is d.a.m.n s.e.xy. Only insecure losers get turned on by a chick who clings like you're the oxygen she needs to survive. Although it's obvious Delores is the stand-on-her-own-two-feet kind of girl, I like that she lets me pay the tab. I would've insisted on it anyway. Opening a door, paying a bill: These are not digs against a lady's capabilities. Sometimes a guy just wants to do the old-fashioned thing.

Let us.

Think of it as considerate prepayment against our future screwups, which are pretty much guaranteed to occur.

I take care of the bartender and join Dee on the sidewalk, where she stands next to an awaiting cab. And-get this-Delores reaches out and opens the door to the taxi for me. There's a playful gleam in her eye that makes me suspect she can read my mind. I just smile, say thanks, and get in.

The club Delores suggested is called Greenhouse, in SoHo. Although I've heard of it, this is the first time I've walked through its doors. It's surprisingly crowded. The bar area walls and ceiling are coated with moss and lit up with blue, red, and green spotlights. The dance floor has a cave motif, with long jagged crystals hanging from the ceiling in hues of blue, purple, and pink. It's dimly lit-shadowy-perfect for some up against the wall action. That'll come in handy later on.

The music is loud, too noisy for any kind of conversation, but that's fine with me. Talking is nice-action is better. We get our drinks and grab a table near the dance floor. Dee takes a sip from her gla.s.s, puts it down on the table, and gives me a s.e.xy, "watch this" kind of smile before making a beeline for the dance floor.

I sit down at the table, lean comfortably back in the chair, knees spread, content to caress her with my eyes for now. She closes her eyes and rocks her head in time with the beat of the music. Her hips sway, and her arms rise over her head. The blue and pink lights dance over her hair-lighting her up-making her seem magical. The music gets faster, louder, and Dee keeps up. Shaking her shoulders and her a.s.s, bending her knees and sinking toward the floor, before swirling back upward.

She knows how to move, and it makes me want her more. I glance around and notice Delores has gained the attention of several guys-make that every guy-in the club. They watch her dance with appreciative, slimy smiles on their faces and hoping-to-tap-that gleams in their eyes.

I'm not usually a possessive person. I've gone to clubs with girls before and ended the evening with both of us leaving with someone else. It's par for the course.

But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shove the first f.u.c.ker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It p.i.s.ses me off that they're even looking at her-that she's fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.

Maybe I feel like this because I haven't screwed her yet. Maybe I don't want to share a dessert I haven't gotten to taste.

Or maybe, it's because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can't yet explain. What I know about her, I like-a lot-and there's a part of me I haven't consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.

The music changes as I stand. "Wake Me Up" by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.

The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee's body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket-pulling her gently back against me.

She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it's me. And she smiles.

She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her a.s.s nestles perfectly against my d.i.c.k, which hardened the moment she started dancing.

I think she feels it-she must.

She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.

If feels fan-f.u.c.king-tastic.

I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.

I don't mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I'll brag. I'm a good dancer. It's a lot like s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner's moves and responding accordingly.

I'll rip the tongue out of anyone who'd let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind-thank Christ-but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra's cotillion. Yes-in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger pa.s.sed, but it didn't work out.

Still, as miserable as I was, I'm grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a f.u.c.king pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth-sophisticated.

For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a b.i.t.c.h Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.

The synthesized portion of the song takes over-faster, more primal, with a strong ba.s.s. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.

I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.

When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we're almost nose-to-nose. I'm caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.

The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies move against each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee's a.s.s, pushing her harder against me.

To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee's palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.

Meaningful.

I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she's right there with me, opening for me-warm and wet-taking everything I have to give and kissing me back with equal ardor. Both my arms wrap around her, the dancing forgotten. One hand stays on her lower back, while the other buries in the softness of her hair as our mouths move together. Her hands cling to my shoulders, kneading the muscles, pulling me to her.

Have you ever had a moment when you think to yourself, this is going to change everything? From this point on, there will be a before, an after, and this event will forever divide the two?

Most people don't. They're too caught up at the time to recognize the significance of what's happening.

That's how I was.

But looking back now-this was it. That first, scorching, perfect kiss. This was the moment that would determine the rest of my life. And nothing after it would ever be the same.

Chapter 4.

We walk back to Dee's apartment. Stumble might be a more appropriate word.

Dry-hump would fit too.

I have the overwhelming need to kiss her every few steps-to pull her to me, or press her against the wall of a building to gain the necessary friction. And she's in no way pa.s.sive-dragging her fingernails along the bare skin of my abs, dipping her hands into my pants to squeeze my a.s.s. We're like two hormone-driven teenagers, making out in the school hallway, who don't give a s.h.i.t if they get caught.

We eventually arrive outside her apartment door. I stand behind her as she fiddles with the double locks-grinding my pelvis against her a.s.s, cupping both t.i.ts in my hands, ma.s.saging and teasing those beautiful attributes. Once we're inside, Dee crashes against me, standing on her toes to give me an intense, wet, tongue-tangling kiss. Her hands are all over my hair, pausing in their exploration just long enough for me to rip the jacket off her body. Then I bend low and make quick work of those minuscule shorts, leaving Dee wearing the white tube top and a string thong, with a scarce lace triangle.

I thought Delores was beautiful clothed, but naked-she's breathtaking. Long, lean legs, narrow hips, a tight stomach with skin so soft it feels like a caress. She's not overly sculpted; she has a yoga body-slim with the suggestion of firm muscles just below the surface. On my knees, I unb.u.t.ton my shirt. Dee bends at the waist and pushes it off me, her hands grazing my back's physique appreciatively.

"G.o.d, you're so f.u.c.king hot." She sighs.

Already using the new nickname, and I haven't even made her come yet. I'm good.

Without pause, I spread her knees wide enough to fit between them. Her upper body uses the wall behind her for support. And I place a long, openmouthed kiss against her cloth-covered c.u.n.t. Delores's chin rises and she keens. Her scent is sweet, fruity, with a hint of spice-like a ripe apple with a touch of cinnamon. I drag her thong from her body, craving full contact. With my moist, heated tongue, I trace her cropped, flaxen landing strip, then I move lower to lick and nibble the rim of her p.u.s.s.y. Done with the warm-up, I sink into her, laving and sucking, making her whimper and buck.

I wasn't talking s.h.i.t when I said I know my way around a c.l.i.t. Most guys think heading straight for the hot-b.u.t.ton is the way to go-but they're wrong. Too much pressure, applied too fast, isn't enjoyable, might even be uncomfortable for a woman. You have to tease it, gradually stimulate it, until it's stiff and reaching and pleading to be fondled. Once Dee is at that breaking point, I open her lips with my fingers and dance over her knotted bud with my tongue.

She screams-in relief and decadent bliss. I lick her with more force, up and down, without ever losing contact, then I slide two fingers into her sodden, clenching p.u.s.s.y. Her hips thrust against my face and her hands hold me in place as she comes with an openmouthed moan.

With the sound of Dee's heavy breaths still in my ears, I stand up and wrap an arm around her waist. She sags against me, pleasure spent and wobbly. I lift her feet from the floor, but she doesn't seem to have the strength to wrap her legs around me. Her lips seek mine, and her arms cling to my shoulders.

"Bedroom?" I ask between kisses.

"Last door on the left."

My tense legs carry both of us to the room. When I step in, I don't take in my surroundings or notice the decor-my senses are solely attuned to Dee and my own raging desire. Slightly recovered from her come-coma, Delores sits on the edge of the bed and beckons me forward with entreating amber eyes. Holding my gaze, she unbuckles my pants-the hiss of the zipper and our labored breathing making the only sounds. She pushes the clothing down, and I step out of them. She eyes me eagerly, like a treasure hunter seeking a fervently sought bounty.

My c.o.c.k is at his best-long, thick, painfully willing. Delores licks her palm.

And it's the s.e.xiest f.u.c.king thing I have ever seen. Bold and brazen.

Then she encases my d.i.c.k in her slippery, searing hand, gripping it firmly, jerking tenderly. I move closer, without really thinking, and Dee takes it as a sign to bring her mouth into play. I watch as she licks me from base to tip, swirling around the foreskin, before taking me fully into her mouth-so deep I feel the back of her throat.

My eyes roll closed. I grunt and I curse and I beg for more. Dee doesn't disappoint-plunging me in and out of her heavenly f.u.c.king mouth over and over. But when she takes my b.a.l.l.s in her hand-rolling, rubbing them, tugging in the most delectable way-I have to put the brakes on. I'm afraid I may blow my load-and I've got way too many ideas for that to happen now.

I grasp a handful of her hair and ease her off. Then I lean down and kiss her as blood pounds in my eardrums. She lays back and takes me with her until we're stomach-to-stomach, thigh-to-thigh. I rip at the remaining fabric of her tube top and yank it down, revealing two plump, gorgeously full t.i.ts.

And on one, is a winking diamond piercing.

Holy mother of f.u.c.k.

My c.o.c.k grows harder, weeping at the sight. I attack her b.r.e.a.s.t.s like a gluttonous animal-sucking and biting, grasping and tugging with my hands. My mouth covers her pierced nipple, tasting cold metal and warm flesh. I pull at it with my teeth and lap it with my tongue. Dee writhes and whimpers below me, scratching my back with her nails, leaving scalding, sensuous gouges in their wake.

"f.u.c.k me, Matthew," Dee wails. "I need you to f.u.c.k me, now."

In a flash, I retrieve a condom from my wallet and roll it on in record time. Holding her ankles, I pull her to me, so her a.s.s is at the edge of the bed. I drag the head of my d.i.c.k over her needy p.u.s.s.y, teasing at the opening.

Then I look her in the eyes and ask, "How . . . how do you want it?"

"Hard," she moans. "Hard and deep. I want to feel every f.u.c.king inch of you inside me."

I thrust inside harshly, as deep as I can. Dee's back bows off the bed and she screams, "Yes! Please . . . yes."

I pull out slowly, until just the head remains in her, then I push back in, circling my hips, rubbing against her c.l.i.t when I'm buried b.a.l.l.s-deep.

This is l.u.s.t at its finest-primal pa.s.sion, visceral hunger.

I keep the pace Dee craves, f.u.c.king the breath out of her with every thrust. Until she's reaching for me, begging for faster. I cover her with my body, and she wraps her arms around my neck, tasting my mouth as I drive into her furiously.

Her cheek is pressed against mine when she comes-eyes closed, crying my name over and over, a phenomenal sound that I'll never forget. And as her o.r.g.a.s.m clenches my c.o.c.k, I come too-so exquisitely long and hard, I'm pretty sure I blacked the h.e.l.l out.

It's amazing. Groundbreaking. Easily the greatest s.e.x of my life. And while I'm still inside her, before my heartbeat is able to relax, I know that Dee Warren is like no other woman who has ever come before.

After we get our breaths back, Delores gets up and disappears into the bathroom then exits a few minutes later wearing a multicolored, paisley, silk robe. I grab my pants off the floor, fish out the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, and ask her, "Do you mind?"

She opens a window, then retrieves a half-smoked joint from the wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She holds it up. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em."

I lay my head back on one bent arm and light up. Dee slides into the bed beside me, putting an ashtray on my chest as she tokes up. Her robe falls open, exposing her magnificently pierced breast. I blow out a line of smoke and run my finger around the ring.

"What's the story behind this?"

She inhales deeply, smoke escaping her lips as she tells me, "Remember how I told you Billy, Kate, and I grew up together?"

I nod.

"Billy's the youngest, only by a few months. When he turned twenty-one, we all got trashed celebrating. Kate and Billy had tattoos done. I got pierced."

I tug gently on the ring, touching and testing it out like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. "It's s.e.xy as h.e.l.l. But I'm curious, why didn't you get a tattoo?"

She snuffs out the dead bud in the ashtray. "Tattoos are too much of a commitment. I don't like having anything on-or in-my body that I can't get rid of."

I put out my smoke and move the ashtray to the bedside table. Then I turn on my side to face Dee.

Her hand trails down my stomach and wraps around my c.o.c.k, brushing her thumb across the foreskin. "What's the story behind this? I thought all Catholics had to be cut?"

"I think that's Judaism." Then I explain, "I was a sickly newborn-nothing major, but enough for my mother to be wary of anything that might've caused an unnecessary complication."

For some insane reason, my parents a.s.sumed I'd have a circ.u.mcision performed when I was a strong, healthy adult. Like I would ever-ever-let a scalpel anywhere near my d.i.c.k unless my life depended on it.

And maybe not even then.

Yes, in case you're wondering, there were a few girls in high school who were slightly . . . unsure about how to proceed with a noncookie cutter c.o.c.k. But once they took it for a test ride and realized it works the same as all the other models, it was in high demand.

She continues to stroke me until I'm hard and hot in her hand. Then she looks down and says, "I like it. It's pretty."

I grip Delores's hips, roll onto my back, and lift her over me so she's straddling my waist. "Okay, you officially suck with adjectives. p.u.s.s.ies are pretty, not d.i.c.ks."

Her robe falls fully open and I lick my thumb then press it to her c.l.i.t to show her just how pretty I think her p.u.s.s.y is. f.u.c.king gorgeous.