Author's Note: The story's definitely shaking out to be four chapters, so there's one more after this one.
For anybody playing catchup: After a chance street meeting, a kind-of-meek white guy and a part-time-college black woman go back to her place and fuck like weasels. Then they agree to begin a just-for-sex, no-names relationship. Their first weekend disappears in a blur of sex. When it ends Sunday afternoon, they try to figure out their schedules, settling on a series of lunch-hour trysts as the only way they can get together most of the week. They decide they have to skip Monday entirely.
*****
Him
Tuesday, I'm waiting in the lobby of the building I texted her about, trying not to tap my foot, trying to nod casually when patients come in the front door and pass me on their way to the primary care practice or the lab office here at ground level, or to the elevators. There's an open flight of stairs on one side of the lobby, and a big potted plant I think about hiding behind so no one will wonder who the pervert is hanging around these medical suites with a hard-on. It's 11:02 when she shows up, backpack across one shoulder.
"Sign out front says there's gynecologists in here?" she asks, thumb toward the door behind her. "I hope you're not planning to get me in some stirrups. Big-time turnoff."
My nerves disappear the second I see her, washed away by heat. She's in a black top with long tight sleeves and a swooping neckline, over a black-and-copper chevron skirt that hugs her curves. Moving in close, I pull her to me and say into her ear, "No, I picked it for the parking garage. My car's on the fourth floor in a dark corner. You up for semi-public car sex?"
It ought to sound cheap and tawdry, saying that. I ought to expect her to go cold, wrinkle her nose. Instead, she does what I somehow knew she was going to do, which is to press herself even tighter to me and give a sexy growl.
"Only problem with that," she hisses, "is getting outside and to the car before I rip your clothes off and go down on you. I bet the men's room on the OB/gyn floor is closer and emptier."
"
Fuck
, you are
nasty.
" I pull back and look to see if she means it. The expression on her face is completely serious. Completely ravenous, too.
Then she's tugging me by the hand over to a directory near the elevators, the kind with individual slots for changing out the occupant of each office if somebody moves. All the gynecologists' suite numbers start with "2."
"Whatcha think, stairs or elevator?" Her hand is still in mine while she asks. I like how it feels.
"Well, the stairs - too exposed. Somebody will definitely see us. And the elevator's probably got a camera in it, plus that's an awfully short ride to -"
She clenches her hand around mine, just shy of hurting, and then for good measure she knocks the side of her sandaled foot against my loafer. "Asshole. Come on, then. I don't want to wait on the elevator just to go up one floor."
The stairs make a carpet-muffled drumroll as she tows me up them, fast, some of the steps two at a time. There's a pregnant lady with a stroller waiting in the elevator lobby as we get to the second floor. I try to smile casually when she glances over at the two of us rumbling off the stairs, but her expression looks disapproving.
Is it that obvious what we're up to? Or maybe she's against interracial dating?
We steer our way around her to the floor's beige central hallway, where a double-arrowed sign tells us the restrooms are in the same direction as suites 211 to 220. The hand in mine and the ass and thighs in that zig-zag black-and-copper skirt quickly make me forget the priss-faced pregnant elevator-waiting chick. There's no one in the hall we're rushing down, and even better, it takes a bend at the end, with the restrooms around the corner. We're completely out of sight. She pulls me to her and grinds that body up against mine and locks her lips across my mouth. The way her tongue feels, urgent and probing, shoots adrenaline through my entire body.
It takes her breaking away and pointing her chin at the men's room door for me to remember we're on a schedule. I duck my head in, listen, see that the stall doors are all open.
"Ready?" I ask with a grin.
"You have no idea," she says.
Then we're in, arms around each other, lips merging and gliding, bodies half-dancing and half-stumbling our way across the tiles to the backmost stall. The place has
nice
bathrooms, granite-tile walls or fake stuff good enough to fool my sex-glazed eyes, with stalls enclosed floor-to-ceiling, no more than a two-inch gap at the top and bottom of the doors. Once we're in the big handicap-friendly one with the lock in place, the visual isolation is perfect, and all we'll have to do is shut up and keep still if we hear the restroom door open in the middle of things.
Yeah, shut up and keep still in the middle of things. Wanna bet
that's
going to be a lot harder than it sounds?
"Okay, fuck," she says quietly, after she's hung her backpack from the stall door's coat-hook, "how we gonna do this? Right off the bat, I am
not
getting on my knees in here to blow you."
"Not a problem," I say, pointing at my seam-straining erection. "My coffee stirrer is way past needing foreplay. But I'm good kneeling if you want some."
Her head shakes and she hikes her skirt to get at the panties underneath, wriggling loose from them in a flash, one hand keeping the chevron fabric up where it lets me see the black curls of her bush and the hint of labia peeking out below.
"That kiss would have done the trick even if I hadn't been getting myself all hot and bothered on the ... way over here." She drapes her underwear over the top of the backpack - I guess not trusting the coat-hook to be clean enough. "Why don't you drop 'em and have a seat, and then I'll turn around and have a better seat."
"Kiss me again first," I say, stepping close and grabbing the hem of her skirt to keep it up.
Her hands are on her hips. "Okay. But bitch wants some cock in her, so make it quick."
When I put my mouth to hers, though, the bossy swagger disappears and she melts a little, though her hands stay at her waist. I move my palms around to her bare ass and she melts a little more, groaning around my tongue. Then apparently she can't take it anymore, and I feel her grab hold of my belt buckle and get it open. Pretty soon my pants are down and my cock is in her hands, teased and toyed by her stroking.
"You ready to sit down?" she croons.
"Uh-huh."
I use the aluminum side-rails to ease back and down, slow enough that I don't pull away from either her lips or her hands. She keeps kissing me and jacking me until I'm on the throne, and instead of feeling sullied and sordid at the prospect of a toilet fuck, I really do feel like some kind of king.
Breaking the kiss, she keeps her hands in motion around my shaft, sliding one from root to tip and replacing it with the other, like she's pulling in a rope. Her eyes are carnivorous, and the angle she's leaning at gives me a perfect view of her mahogany cleavage in that tight black top. But I swear there's something on top of the hunger in that stare, too. Something deeper, more vibrant, more encompassing.
Fuck,
I tell myself,
do not fall for this woman. You
so
do not know how to handle a woman like this. Don't tell yourself she wants to be with you, just be glad she wants to screw your brains out.
With my knees wide and my ankles trapped in my pants, it's incredibly awkward getting at my pocket to fish out the condom without interrupting the magic she's working with her hands. But I manage it, and she licks her lips and grins once I have it.
"You're, uh, going to have to stop that for me to get this on," I tell her. But her hands keep gripping and sliding, right, left, right, left.
"I'm having trouble stopping."
Right, left, right, left.
