Page 32 of Deep in You

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, bringing me back to the half-naked woman in front of me. She fumbles with the buttons of my shirt. Her hands are too clumsy to get the job done. Then she tries to rip it off, but that doesn’t work either.

I’m amused, trying not to laugh. I know for sure I’ve never met her. Every one of the women I’ve slept with is unique in her own way, and I have a damn good memory. Each has her own special something, whether it’s the color of her hair, her lips, tits or ass. With this one, it will definitely be those graceful long legs. But who is she? What’s her name? How does she know who I am? And the biggest question: How did she get my number?

“I’d love to, but it’s not going to happen,” I say, holding her hands down at her sides.

She looks down at my grip on her wrists as if she can’t understand why she can’t move her arms. She makes an irritated sound, followed by a whine. “Why not?”

“Having sex with inebriated women isn’t my style.” I test out the waters and let go of her—I don’t want her to think I’m trying to physically control her in her own home, which, at the moment, I am. Bad idea. She immediately reaches for my hard-on. Despite her tattered state, my damn cock remains hard. That body of hers is every man’s fantasy, sleek and muscular, yet still soft and inviting. And those gazelle legs … I imagine being tangled up with her, legs wrapped around my waist as I hold her against the wall and fuck her until she screams my name. That thought then shifts to an image of those legs spread wide as I eat her pussy. These thoughts do nothing to settle the hammer in my pants, and the knowledge that I might be stuck with this boner all night with no way to relieve it, brings me a twinge of disappointment.


I close my eyes, trying to get the thoughts of fucking her out of my head. It’s just making me get hard to the point of it being painful, and right now, there’s nothing I can do for release.

“That looks yummy,” she says, grabbing my dick and licking her lips.

Jesus Christ. This is going to be a difficult one to say no to. I grumble my disappointment.

She continues to get handsy. She’s like a goddamned octopus with those things, her fingers like tentacles latching onto me. I have to be more forceful with her, and I squeeze her wrists tighter to stop her advances. She lets out an annoyed grunt when she doesn’t get her way. Drunk people are like children. They’re impossible to reason with. I let out an exasperated sigh.

“Let’s just do it. I’m not inebr…” She stumbles on the word and tries again. “Iberi …” Eventually she just gives up and makes a series of mumbled sounds to replace the word.

This time I do laugh, but I keep it under my breath so I don’t hurt her feelings. Whatever made her decide to get this drunk must’ve bad.

Her dog comes up to me, leaning against my side in a dog’s version of a hug.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I say.

Her face lights up. “Now you’re talking!”

I roll my eyes and shake my head, hiding my smile.

The dog follows me as I lead the woman down the hallway toward the bedroom. There are two rooms; one is a cluttered office. The other isn’t as frilly as I would’ve expected for a woman’s bedroom. It has gray walls, and a black and white striped comforter on a king-sized bed. A shock of color here and there keeps the room from looking plain. Makes me think a man might’ve lived with her at one point, but there are no signs of one being here recently. The closet door is open. One half is full of dresses and shoes. The other half is empty and hangers are slung across the floor like the aftermath of a hurricane in department store. Whoever left this place, left in a hurry.

I lay the woman down on the bed and take off the sexy black heels she wears and tuck her in under the covers. She pats the empty space beside her.

I smile at the offer. “What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Cadie,” she mumbles.

“That’s a pretty name. I’m going to get you some coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee,” she says through a yawn. “I want you.”

God, she’s making this difficult. “I’ll be right back.”

The dog trots behind me as I walk into the kitchen. Going through the cupboards, all I find is an expensive dark roast. I can’t even find a coffee maker, only a French Press, and I have no idea how to use it. I’m a simple Folgers kind of guy.

Water it is. I grab a bottle from the fridge and take it to her. When I get back to the room, she’s passed out. Her hair is splayed in a web across her face, lips slightly parted. I can tell by the way she snores like a truck driver that she won’t be waking up any time soon.

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