Meara and Oakley Ch. 01

The following is an original work of fiction. All characters belong to the author and any likenesses to real people or places is purely coincidental. Please do not copy or repose any part or portion of this work to any other website.

Copyrighted by Eris Jade

__________________________________

I'm in for it. I know it, but I can't stop, and am actually enjoying the frisson of excitement that winds its way through me at the distinct sound of a motorcycle engine revving outside before it shuts off abruptly. Soon comes the familiar crunch of gravel, and the even more familiar heavy, measured thumping of footfalls as Oakley makes his way up the front walk.

I told myself I wouldn't run to the door, wouldn't peek out the curtain to catch a glimpse of him, however, my body is not my own and I'm yanking open the front door before I've had a chance to remind myself of my earlier promises.

I try to play it cool, standing with one hand on a cocked hip, but the sight of him bathed in moonlight, looking dark and deliciously dangerous, has my heart thumping erratically behind my ribcage. Each heavy clunk of his boots on the front steps echoes through my blood, sending flutters of want and anticipation swirling through me.

All too soon he's standing before me, looking down the long line of his nose at me, his impossibly dark green eyes sparking faintly in the halo of light falling around him. He regards me silently and I take a moment to look him over.

He's not my type. Well, not the type to which I'd ever been attracted, and I'm hesitant to admit that I don't want anything else these days. Anything else would be too tame, too vanilla, compared to the hulking being before me.

He's tall, which is only part of the appeal, the top of my head barely reaches his chin. It always feels as if he's towering over me. Yet, the fear I once felt while gazing up at him has morphed into something else, something more powerful and potent. There is still fear in me, yes, but it's tangled up with sex and fire now.

His skin is a smooth golden tan - several shades lighter than my own chestnut hue - beneath the black of his t-shirt, beneath the menacing black and red tattoos flowing fluidly up his thickly muscled arms. Those muscles flex and release as I gaze at them, and I swallow, imagining myself wrapped up in them, pinned down by them.

I allow my eyes to move further up his frame and to his face. He is starkly handsome, all hard lines and thinly veiled menace. His auburn hair is long, coming to curl softly just below the tops of his broad shoulders, the soft silkiness of it a complete contrast to him as a whole. A couple days worth of a scruffy beard shadows his hard jawline; my fingertips itch with the need to touch it.

"Have you changed your number?" he says by way of greeting, the first to break the silence stretching between us. His voice is rough and low, coming from somewhere deep within his body and edged with such danger that I know I should slam the door in his face, throw the bolt quickly.

But I merely arch a brown and reply, simply, "I haven't."

I watch the faint tick of his jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.

He's angry, and I'm glad for it. It means I've finally gotten under his skin.

This isn't the normal game, the usual flirtation, but that changed a couple weeks ago during one of the few nights out in which I rarely indulge. I'd seen him at a local bar, which had been a surprise in and of itself because we don't run in the same circles. Even more surprising to me was the busty blonde draped across the broad expanse of his back. She had giggled and tittered, obviously whispering naughty things in his ear while her fingers sifted through his hair with a familiarity that caused my stomach to tighten with anger and, if I'm completely honest, jealousy.

Our eyes had met through the smoky haze of the room, and I was certain he caught the anger in mine before I marched to the bar and downed one of the shots that had been waiting for me. For the rest of the night, I'd pretended he didn't exist.

And, now, here we stand, after two weeks worth of dozens of ignored phone calls and texts, and my body still longs to wrap itself around his.

"Are you going to invite me inside," he asks, taking a small step toward me, and I quell the urge to step backward and out of his path.

Instead, I lean my shoulder into the door frame, feigning an indifference I don't feel.

"Like you've ever needed an invitation to do anything." My words are soft, though no less accusing.

Again, his eyes narrow at me.

"You don't want to play this game with me," he practically growls, the warning, the menace, evident.

A spark of anger lights through me and I clench my fists at my sides, fixing my mouth to tell him to 'fuck off', but he charges at me before I've even had the chance. His thick arms loop around my waist, forcing the air out of me in a loud whoosh, and I'm suddenly off my feet and moving backwards. I hear the door slam as he kicks it shut behind him.

His footsteps echo hollowly against the hardwood floor, underscoring the faint strains of Bonnie Raitt drifting through the house, as he makes his way down the hall and into the dimly lit living room.

"Fuckin' Oakley," I huff in irritation, my palms pushing uselessly into the solid line of his shoulders. My body is reacting to him already, everything inside me tensing in hot excitement.

"Hmph, and here I thought you'd forgotten my name."

His fingers dig roughly into the bottoms of my thighs, urging them around his waist, and I can feel the hard edge of his arousal through the layers of our clothing. His mouth nuzzles the line of my neck, the soft slope of my shoulder, leaving wet, searing kisses in its wake, and pleasure and need unfurl in my stomach, set my cunt to dripping and throbbing.

"Take off your pants so I can make you scream it."

It's as much a threat as it is a promise.

I should be fighting against him, at least making him work for forgiveness. That's what my pride is screaming at me to do, but the heat of his mouth, the hard expanse of muscle beneath my fingertips, says otherwise, and a low, needy moan escapes my lips before I can stop it.

He sets me on my feet, keeping his hands at my waist only long enough to steady me, then shoves lightly so I fall back into the couch.

"Dick," I bark at him, and he merely chuckles. With surprising grace, he lowers himself to the floor between my knees. Uses his hands on the undersides of my legs to pull me roughly to the edge of the cushions. In the space of one short, stuttering breath he has found and disengaged the button of my jeans. He yanks them, along with my already soaked panties, down my legs, leaving me bare and exposed under his gleaming green gaze.

His tongue blazes a hot path along my inner thigh and I buck in his hands.

"Arms up," he orders, his breath scorching against my already overheated flesh, and grants me only a brief moment to comply, to curl my fingers over the back of the couch, before he dives in.

He knows my body, knows the places which make me cry out and moan and, as he laps a single long line from the bottom to the top of my pussy, I do just that, my back bowing in response. He hums appreciatively, tongue burrowing between my slick folds, collecting and spreading the moisture he gathers.

"Holy fuck," I sigh, melting for him already, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders. They lift in an attempt to wrap around him, but he grasps them in his large, rough hands and shoves them upward, spreading me open further. My body hums and shakes, shudders and writhes in time with his wicked mouth, fire lighting in my bloodstream and fanning out until I can feel it burning at the very tips of my fingers and toes.

There is nothing light and sweet about the way he devours me. It's messy and filthy and unbelievably sexy.

He flattens his tongue and moves his head from side to side, rolling my clit roughly. Warmth builds in my stomach and behind my hooded button. It rolls and tumbles through me. His hands dig into my thighs, hold me in place, force me to take what he's giving.

When his tongue slips inside my clenching core, I howl, grinding against him, begging him to break me, to shatter me and put me back together again.

And Oakley obliges, sealing his full lips around my clit and lashing it mercilessly. A high keening wail bursts from my throat as the pleasure spikes and floods over me, singing along my spine, causing me to rock against him. And he rides me through it, through wave after wave of delicious heat and satisfying release.

Soon, it's too much, the pleasure skirting pain now, and I try to pull away, to catch my breath, but he doesn't stop. He throws one heavy arm across my hips and slips two fingers from the other hand inside me.

"I like you jealous, Meara," he teases, a smile edging his words. "Makes you so fucking wet and hungry."

He plunges his fingers in deep, scissoring as he pulls out, stretching me, battling against my tightness.

"Oakley, fuuuuck... "

His tongue swirls around my clit, taps out a steady rhythm as his fingers continue their advance and retreat. My body spasms, highly sensitized and overly stimulated, and he moves me beyond it, building me up just as quickly as he'd torn me down.

"Gimme more," he urges, demands, and lets out a satisfied growl when my fingers tunnel through his hair and pull roughly.

I want to beg him to stop, to tell him it's too much, that I have no more to give, yet even as I think it, I'm coming again, panting and cussing as I gush over his hand. My skin is electric and tingling.

In one quick move, Oakley rises to his knees and presses his lips to mine. His tongue invades my mouth, lapping and licking the way it had lapped and licked at my cunt. I can taste myself on him, the richness of my essence and his even headier flavor mingling deliciously. This kiss is a claiming, hungry and hot, and somewhere far off I can hear the clank of his belt buckle as it hits the floor.

There's no time to think or prepare. There's a beat, a stuttering inhalation as the slick head of his cock presses between my folds. Then he's slipping inside me in one smooth lunge of his lean lips. He swallows the moan I release into his mouth. This pleasure is sharp and intense; he fills me completely, deliciously deep and wonderfully thick.

He pulls back suddenly, his face tilted toward the ceiling and I miss the weight of him over me, the warmth, the tantalizing aroma of wind and leather that perpetually clings to his skin.

I watch the ripple of muscle across his stomach and, when I reach out to drag my nails over it, his head snaps forward. The look in his eyes tells me I've gotten to him, that being inside me has him teetering on the edge as well. There is a measure of feminine satisfaction in this bit of knowledge, in knowing that the sweet spot between my thighs can bring him so close so fast.

However, the moment is fleeting. Oakley covers my mound with his large hand. His thumb easily finds my clit and he regards me with cool interest as he begins to strum it. I squirm under his touch, squeezing him where his body connects with mine, and he lets out a low breath through loosely parted lips.

His other hand trails heavily over my stomach, sliding almost smoothly over my t-shirt. Thick fingers close around my throat, heavy, not enough to seal off my airway, but enough to remind me that he can, that he can mold and reform my body any way he sees fit.

"You were avoiding me," he grumbles. His thumb caresses the jumping pulse in the side of my neck, the other, my clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.

"Ignoring you," I counter, and gasp when he slips out of me then thrusts roughly back inside. Again comes the spike of pleasure and pain, and my own hands come up to grasp at his arms. My nails dig into his flesh, but he doesn't pull away.

I huff softly as he continues to thumb my clit.

"You think I'd go for some toothless bike bunny?"

His cock does another slow retreat, the head of him barely kissing my entrance, followed by a sharp plunge.

"Shit," I pant, wanting him to find a rhythm, both hating and loving this tease.

"Little witch," he accuses.

He uses the hand at my throat to lift me up and I'm astounded and even more turned on by this show of strength. My breasts brush against him, nipples grazing the light patch of hair covering his chest, and I suck in a deep, shuddering breath. He loops an arm around my hips. His tongue snakes out to taste me, taking long, languid swipes of my full bottom lip, and I moan, my hands shifting from his arm and down to his hips.

"If you want me gone, Meara," he says, his breath wafting sweetly over my face, "all you gotta do is say so."

His cock twitches inside me and I try to pull him in deeper, closer, though there isn't much further for him to go. He tips my head back, locks his gaze with mine and something shifts there, slipping faintly beneath all the heat and want, something more than lust and the connection of flesh. Whatever it is is as close to vulnerability as I'm going to get with this man, and I am certain that 'gone' is not where I want him.

I trail my hands up his sides, lightly scraping my nails over the ridges of his rib cage, delighting in the slight tremor that overtakes him. I slip them under his arms and dig into his shoulder blades with my sharp nails. I takes his bottom lip between my teeth and when my tongue laves the plump bit of flesh, his arm tightens around my waist.

He grunts and uses his big body to push me back into the couch, a hand still at my throat, the other holding my knee at his side.

He finds his rhythm, achingly slow though no less rough, his entire body moving over me, his cock pushing deep. I can't move, can only take, can only let out high-pitched, wanton moans as he fucks me. And I love it, love the weight of him, the sting of his teeth in my shoulder, my breast through the fabric of my t-shirt . I take it all hungrily, greedily, digging a heel into the back of his thigh.

"Always so tight," he growls into my ear, and the sound vibrates through me, sinks lower where it pulses in my clit. "You like the way I open you up? Stretch you?"

He punctuates his words with a slow roll of his hips and my entire body shudders beneath him. The hand at my knee slides down to cup my ass. Squeezes roughly.

My body is beginning to seize up, trying uselessly to curl into the pleasure. I want to hold it a while longer, to wallow in the warmth of it, but Oakley is determined. He whispers foul things in my ear, urging me to fall, to shatter for him.

"Fuckin' come for me, Meara." His breath is hot against my neck. "Cream all over my dick. I wanna drown in it. Give it to me."

No one has ever spoken to me in such a way. It heightens my pleasure, bathes me in fire, and I arch upward. His hand slips from my throat and into my hair, pulling me down roughly as he thrusts upward.

"Give it to me," he says again, demands, his once smooth rhythm faster now, pounding, punishing. "Gimme all of it."

I'm unable to hold out any longer. Don't think I could even if I tried. I gasp once, sharply, sucking in a deep breath an instant before my orgasm crashes over me, floods me from head to toe, turning my spine to steel and my insides to liquid. I wail loudly, the sound muffled by the blood pounding past my ears.

Oakley lets out a pleased groan, the tightening of my cunt causing him to thrust harder, deeper, faster. He presses his mouth against my neck and moans his own pleasure into my skin. He pounds into me furiously, ferociously, as if he wants to fuck me through the couch.

Though I'm still coming, I'm on the downside of it now, wet and clenching around him. I suck in enough air to pant in his ear, "Fill me up, Oakley." I can hear the desperation, the neediness, in my own voice, and it causes him to falter only briefly.

"Fuck, Meara!"

I've surprised him. I smile fleetingly against his skin and spread my legs wider, inviting him to take what he wants. The sound his cock makes as it plunges into me sends me over the edge again, but I take him with me this time, and he drives in deep, grinding into me over and over as he fills me.

Long moments pass as we wallow in the aftershocks, as we attempt to catch our breath. His leather and wind scent is tainted by the sweet spice of my own. I lick the sweat from his shoulder and chuckle when his hips piston into me again.

"Bet your bike bunny couldn't do that."

His only response is a sharp smack on my ass.