Wrong Pt. 01

This is a repost of an older story of mine with some minor editing. Thank you, R, for your preservation skills.

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Chapter 1: What Big Eyes You Have

"Do you like that?" he asked after his warm, wet tongue ran along my painfully sensitive nipple.

He knew perfectly well that I did.

Pleasure bloomed throughout my body. His mouth caressed and consumed my breast. No other guy I'd ever been with knew my body the way he did, which should have been ridiculous because this was the first time he was acquainting himself with the most intimate parts of me.

"Please," I finally whispered.

I needed him inside me, momentarily not caring about how wrong and dangerous it was. I hated myself for wanting it, but the desire was too powerful to ignore. And I had gone too far already, I told myself. I'd hate myself later; now I would do my best to enjoy it. Looking down at his head on my breast, it definitely wouldn't be hard to enjoy it.

I shifted uneasily beneath him. "Just do it already."

He laughed against my wet flesh, his hot breath fanning across me and making me shiver. Green, desire-drenched eyes met mine. "So impatient. What do you want?"

My eyes clenched shut. Why did he have to make me say it? Couldn't we just fuck and get it out of our systems? I'd be guilty enough when it was over—did I have to have memories of begging for his cock to haunt me, as well? Maybe he wanted me to have those memories, just to be a dick. I wouldn't be surprised.

"What do you want?" he repeated, his talented mouth moving down to kiss and lick my belly.

I sighed, knowing nothing would happen until I answered him. He'd always been stubborn. "I want you."

He muffled a laugh against my belly.

Slowly, so slowly I wanted to scream, he pulled my panties down. The fabric and his rough fingers tickled my skin. My wet pussy clenched as the cool air rushed against it.

"And what do you need?" his sinfully low voice asked.

I was ready to kick him in the face, but that would mean he couldn't fuck me and I couldn't have that.

"You're an asshole," I muttered, closing my eyes.

"Tsk, tsk. Open your eyes and tell me what you need." A finger toyed with my soaking lips. My body arched on its own.

"You," I whispered, tears nearly coming to my eyes. I had never needed to have sex like this before, and I had never been more turned on.

He shook his head playfully. "You know what I want you to say."

I couldn't fight him anymore. I was too desperate. "Your cock."

Savagely he tossed me across the bed. I loved the roughness, which surprised me. I'd always been made love to tenderly, slowly. With emotion.

But this was totally different. This was going to be straight fucking. There would be no caresses here, no sweet kisses, no deep looks.

Plain old fucking.

And somehow that eased my conscience a little bit, as fucked up as it sounds.

Suddenly he was on top of me, nudging himself between my thighs. "I just couldn't stop thinking about—"

"It's okay, Nina," he said, almost gently.

"This is so wrong," I nearly cried. He didn't say anything.

His rock hard cock bumped against my wetness and we both moaned.

"Just this one time, Patrick, and we never bring it up again. Promise—oh," I had to pause. He had his hot, wet mouth over my nipple, sucking it desperately like a newborn. Two fingers were pushing in and out of my far too ready pussy. "Patrick!"

"Yeah, yeah, one time," he muttered distractedly, kissing his way down my body.

"I'm fucking serious! Promise! Promise me. One time and that's it, and we never mention or..."

But he stopped me again when his mouth found my pussy and I could only moan. I'd had a few guys go down on me before and I loved it, of course, but the image of Patrick's cinnamon-colored hair between my thighs as his electric tongue laved my lips and tender clit had me sobbing. He added a finger, fucking me with a ferocity that had me writhing and grasping at his hair. His lips sucked in my clit and his tongue flicked against it frantically.

"Oh my God, Patrick," I said over and over. I didn't think I'd speak coherently ever again. 'I can't... I don't..."

Before I finished my statement, his large frame was back on top of me and his hardness was pushing its way through my slick pussy. There was a delicious resistance, but after a few ruts he was blissfully inside me. We both cried out.

He whispered the filthiest words in my ear:

Your pussy was made me for me.

I can't wait to come in you.

I'm going to fill you up so much, cum's going to dribble out of you for days.

I bet you've never been fucked like this. Get used to it. I'm going to fuck you every way imaginable... I'll have you scream my name like you don't know any other word.

He pounded away, the wet sound of him moving through me turning me on. Not to mention the way he looked into my eyes, like I was the only woman he'd ever fucked—which I knew was far from the truth.

"I want to fuck you all day," he told me, sucking my lobe. "I think I'm going to be hard for the rest of the night, even after I come."

Then he couldn't speak anymore. Our hips slapped together, our sweat dripped down our bodies and our tongues toyed playfully with one another. Our moans and hisses filled the dark room, creating a beautifully erotic soundtrack to our union. I knew I'd go home later and finger myself to the memory, and that thought made me feel dirtier and hornier than I already felt.

My hips lifted up to meet him. I couldn't get enough of his cock inside me. He breathed harshly through his nose at the sensation of me fucking him back, and then continued pounding me deeply. His hand snaked between to grab my breast, pressing against the nipple with his thumb. I jumped and my pussy automatically tightened.

Cursing, he picked up his pace. He bent his head over to latch onto my nipple. He sucked it for a few minutes and then ran his hand down to my slippery clit. He didn't bother teasing; he went straight to circling it with his finger, over and over again. His aim was to make me come, which plucked the chord of desire inside me. I gasped and clutched his forearm. My vision blurred at the indescribable pleasure. I briefly wondered if he was fucking me blind, but all thoughts vanished after a particularly rough thrust.

His movements started growing sluggish and less focused. I knew the end was coming. Finally I felt his teeth bite down on my shoulder and I lost control of my body, coming in a way I never had before. It was so good it was almost painful. I didn't think it would ever stop. He let out a litany of curses and stopped thrusting, grinding deeply instead. With one final curse he came, shooting a healthy-sized load inside me. I wondered when he'd last fucked.

He'd been insatiable with me. Wild. Brutish. God, it was divine.

After we caught our breath and cooled down a little, he placed a heavy hand on my hip that was almost possessive. "We're not finished," was all he said.

And that's how I started screwing my sister's ex-husband.

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I never liked my sister's husband.

First, he was a smug asshole. He thought he was gorgeous and charming; he also thought he could win over just about anybody. Fine, he was gorgeous and, okay, quite charming. But I wasn't just anybody. I told anyone who'd listen about how ridiculous his eyebrows were, or how he only cared about how he looked, or he was as charming as a cold sore. We had a bizarre tension between us that made me want to leave the room as soon as he entered it.

He had thick rusty colored hair that always looked unbrushed and wet green eyes that gleamed with constant amusement. He thought everything was funny. Especially me.

The real reason I disliked Patrick was the way he looked at me. It was like he could see straight through me. It sounds clichéd, I know, but it's how I felt. When I caught him looking at me, it was like he could see how small and insecure and vulnerable I secretly thought I was and I didn't like it. I needed to be strong, and I so desperately needed people to think of me that way.

And then he loved to tease me.

"New boyfriend, Nina?" he asked one Sunday night he and my sister, Chloe, decided to visit.

Since he knew damn well it was a new boyfriend, I glared at him and gave him some murmured answer.

"So what's your name?" he'd asked the poor guy, who fiddled with his silverware nervously under Patrick's unnerving gaze.

I knew the feeling.

"Uh, Thomas."

"Thomas," Patrick said, nodding as if he were programming it into his head. "I'll try to remember but I'm terrible with names." There was a pause in which Thomas gave a polite nod and went back to his mashed potatoes. But Patrick, of course, was never polite, and I was already expecting some comment. He didn't disappoint. "Especially with Nina's track record. Last month it was John, tomorrow it'll probably be Rob. I need to develop some kind of system to remember." He gave Thomas a friendly smile and started cutting his steak.

Needless to say I never saw Thomas again.

My sister was married to Patrick for two years before she decided she couldn't handle it anymore. They had dated five years before they got hitched, and it seemed like they were officially sick of each other. He said she nagged him all the time; she resented the hours he put in at work. He didn't seem to care much about working out their problems, and his nonchalance over the situation made her throw things at him. Literally. That was kind of a funny sight, I have to be honest.

So he moved out—into my neighborhood, of course. I saw him out constantly, and while he was never really with girls, I gave him the stink eye all the time because, hey, I was a loyal sister.

Or at least I used to be.

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It happened as these things usually happen: I had too much tequila.

It was my friend's birthday and, as these things go, she demanded I meet her shot for shot. So I did. I was getting out of a brutal break-up and welcoming any and all things to end my pain, anyway.

The only faulty part of the plan, which I really should have seen coming, was that her boyfriend appeared at some point in the evening and the two vanished. Our other friends had disappeared, too, and I was shit drunk. My cell was dead, my feet were killing me and a glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed I looked like the living dead.

I stumbled to the door, not quite sure what the hell I was going to do, when I ran right smack into my worst enemy. I'd seen him at this bar a few times; I should have known he'd make an appearance. I'd really been an idiot that night.

'Whoa, there," Patrick laughed, raking his eyes over my body. "You're a sight for sore eyes, kid."

"Fuck you," I muttered flatly, too tired to keep up with the usual snark. I spotted his friend Jeremy and Jeremy's girlfriend in the background, eyeing us with amusement. I gave them a little wave because they'd always been pretty cool.

"So what happened? Decided to come and get trashed by yourself? That's a little pathetic, even by your standards."

I put a hand up to my temple which was beginning to throb and stared at the spinning floor.

"Patrick, so help me God. If you don't leave me alone I'm going to kick you in the balls so hard you'll be coughing sperm."

He laughed and leant against the wall, albeit a bit wobbly. I realized then he was a bit drunk himself.

"How's Chloe?" he asked, his eyes scanning the room.

"She's not here," I muttered, trying to get my phone to turn on even though I knew it was dead, dead, dead.

"I know," Patrick laughed again, this time with a bitter edge. "She never goes out."

I sighed and glanced around, desperate for a familiar face. "Look, I've got to go. I'd say it was nice running into you but it wasn't."

I started walking away but he placed a hand on my elbow. "Hey, hey, wait a second. You're not fit to drive home, young lady."

"I'm not driving home," I snapped, trying to rip his hand from my arm. I hated when he touched me. It set my hair on end.

"So how are you getting home?"

"It's none of your business!" I hissed, finally succeeding in getting him to release me. I pulled way too much, ending up on my ass on the very sticky floor.

Patrick had the decency not to laugh, though he couldn't quite conceal his smirk.

"You young girls can never hold your liquor." I opened my mouth to point out we were only about five years apart when he cut me off. "Come on, I'll take you home."

"You're drunk," I snapped, letting him help me off the floor because the other option was becoming permanently stuck to it.

"Not drunk, no. Tipsy, yes."

"You shouldn't be driving."

He looked over at me with those jolly rancher eyes and grinned. "You can trust me."

In that moment, with his eyes glittering in the scant bar lights and that fucking smile, I really wished I didn't hate him.

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In spite of my protests, he brought me back to his apartment.

"Yours is too far and I don't want to further risk getting pulled over," was his lawyer-like explanation.

He brewed us tea and sat patiently with me as I slowly sipped it. I felt a little bit better, but way too drunk for my liking. Fucking tequila. Fucking friends.

"You can sleep in my bed," he said suddenly. "I'll take the sofa."

"No," I sighed, eyeing his threadbare sofa that had probably seen some pretty disgusting stuff. "I'll take the sofa. It's your place."

"Nina, just take the fucking bed."

My head was playing tricks on me because suddenly I was very fixated on his wet pink lips and the way they moved to say "Nina" and "fuck".

He must have said a few more things because he snapped his fingers in front of my face and brought me back to the conversation.

"What?" I asked dazedly, trying not to notice how good his shirt looked on him.

Oh my God I'm losing my mind! I thought

I'm just horny, I told myself. And I'd been drinking. And I was a touch lonely lately, especially since things with Sam hadn't panned out.

"I asked how things were going with... what's his name? Sam?"

I looked down at my chipped nails and hated having to admit to another failed relationship, especially to someone who always seemed to find amusement when they happened. "We broke up."

I peeked up and was surprised by his expression. It wasn't amused or teasing or anything, really. It was kind of blank.

"Ugh, tough break," was all Patrick said, and he didn't appear like was going to say more. Tipsy Patrick was much more likable.

I followed him into the kitchen with my empty tea-cup and deposited it in the sink, rubbing against his arm in the process. He was so warm, and his forearms looked so strong. I had a thing about forearms.

I turned to apologize and was caught in his stare. Never in my life had I seen such a sexually charged gaze in my life. He looked like the proverbial wolf that wanted to gobble me up, and—damn it—my nipples were hardening.

I parted my lips to say something, some last bit of sanity, but then his tongue was in my mouth and I was against his wall, feeling his long body molded to mine, and it was so good. His erection burned and stabbed my stomach, grinding against the soft swell there. I gasped and held onto his shoulder. I wanted to touch him, to feel the heat on my bare hand. I wanted so much in that moment.

He pulled his lips away from mine to suck hungrily at my neck, surely leaving marks. At that moment I didn't care. This wasn't my sister's ex-husband, or my archenemy. This was just Patrick... and he was devouring me.

He reached a hand beneath my skirt and palmed my pussy, groaning at the wetness through my panties as if he were in pain. He sucked my neck, then trailed his kisses down my chest. Frantically he ripped open my shirt, latching his mouth back to my body before I could make a sound of protest. His mouth hungrily opened around my nipple through my flimsy bra, soaking the material and moaning into the wet circle. I thought I was going to die.

His hips frantically pushed against mine, the clothed-covered cock hitting me in the most perfect place. In my alcohol-addled mind, all I wanted was him to rip down my panties and fuck me until I didn't know my name.

And then I spotted it.

My sister had proudly bought a cookie jar at some point during their marriage, thinking it was cute and homey and that when they had kids she could put cookies in it. I don't think Patrick had given it much thought, and I don't think it was there for any sentimental value or anything. I think he just took it because she probably left it behind, like so many of her disappointments. But that cookie jar brought me back to reality and sobered me up a bit.

"Stop," I protested weakly, sounding more like I was moaning for his cock. Which in a way I probably was. He ignored me, slipping a finger past my lacy panties and eagerly circling my soaking clit. I think I literally said "Guh!" and slammed my body back against the wall; it felt so good. No one had ever made me feel like that.

Saying stop was harder this time, but I knew if I didn't do it then that we would end up in bed and I couldn't let that happen. It was wrong, and Chloe would never forgive me, and I would never forgive myself. Plus this was Patrick. He was probably doing this to fulfill some strange, perverted sexual fantasy.

"Patrick, stop," I said more forcefully, nudging his aroused body from mine.

He looked up, confused, and gave me a quick kiss on my jaw. If I didn't know him better I'd think it was a gesture of tenderness.

"I have to go."

"What?" He looked genuinely perplexed and stared at his sopping finger that had been inside me like he couldn't understand.

"I can't fuck you."

His mossy eyes darkened at my language and he took a step closer to me. I held a hand out and pressed against his hard chest.

"It wouldn't be right. And I hate you."

I might have slurred those words but I think he got the gist of them because he smiled.

"Nina, come on. You want this."

I swallowed. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," he mocked back, plunging two fingers into my weeping cunt before I could stop him.

"Patrick," I keened in the most embarrassing tone. He laughed triumphantly.

I kicked at him a little and he thankfully removed his fingers from me. He moved a few steps back.

"What's the problem?" he asked, sounding incredibly frustrated. A peek at his impressive erection gave me an idea why.

"You're my sister's ex-husband."

He smirked a little. "The key word is ex."

I stared at him pointedly. "This is wrong and you know it is."

"I know I want to fuck you," he said shrugging, like he wasn't making me even wetter. Like he wasn't propositioning his ex-sister-in-law. Like I hadn't been the Maid-of-Honor at his wedding.

I squeezed my eyes shut and ignored his calloused hand on the soft flesh on my thigh. "Please," I begged, though I didn't know what I was begging floor.

My eyes popped open and spotted the cookie jar again.

"I just can't do this. I love my sister. I'm sorry." I pulled my top up and my skirt down. "Can you call me a cab, please?

There were a few agonizingly awkward moments as I stared at his floor while he watched me. Finally he walked over to his phone and ordered a cab to come over. I thought he'd be angry with me and kick me out into the cold or something like that, but he told me to sit down.

He watched me thoughtfully while we waited for the cab—which was taking forever—and strummed his fingers impatiently.