Push(49)

“Holy f*ck,” I say.
I look down at him, kneeling beneath me, with his hands on my hips. He looks empowered and excited and hot-as-shit. David takes off his shirt and tosses it on to the floor behind me. Without a word, he pulls me down until I am on my knees in front of him. He turns me around and pushes my shoulders forward, pressing my face into his discarded shirt. He holds me that way—facedown, propped up on my knees, ass in the air—gripping both my wrists behind me. I hear him unzip and feel his fingers slide into me again, this time with more force. He is pushing into me hard, and my body ripples with a now-familiar need. He pulls them out only long enough to rub me in a few slow circles, then they are inside me again, pushing me back upwards.
Before I drop over the edge again, he pulls his hand away and stops. I can hear that he is touching himself now, stroking himself feverishly. The sound is primal. Greedy. Masculine. It makes me want to pull my arms out from his grip, and take him into my mouth. It makes me want to f*ck him like a madwoman. His breath drags and stutters. A moment later, I hear him come with a deep sigh, and I feel drops of liquid hit my back. He enters me again, quelling my greed, letting go of my wrists so that he can grab my hips. I bring my arms up under my chest and push my body on to all fours so I can look back at him. So that I can see his face. I am watching him do this to me, and it is sexy as hell.
“Don’t stop,” I say.
I cannot take my eyes off him, even as I come. My body twists around him, drenched with satisfaction. Waves of pleasure roll off me, sinking my body to the floor.
The carpet is rough against my skin. David pulls out of me, but he remains on his knees between my straightened legs. His breath steadies, and he swats a hand sharply against my backside. The sting is a sharp counterpoint to the contentment flushing over the rest of my body.
“Ouch,” I say. “What the f*ck was that for?”
“Making us late,” he says.
“Fuck you,” I say, still lying on the floor. “You started it.”
“No. You did.” I turn back to look at him, and his hands are on top of his head, in surrender. “Christ, Emma, you in those panties...”
“Ahhh,” I say with a coy smile, “so that’s it. It’s just your underwear fetish again. I see now that it has nothing to do with me—or those countless perks I was promised.” I writhe against the floor in hopes of inciting another touch.
“It has everything to do with you,” he says, standing up and zipping his pants closed. “Everything.”
I smile at him, gather my clothes, and head back to the bathroom to clean up. The place is filthy. I don’t think anyone has taken a brush to the toilet for centuries. Gross. I try not to look around too much as I wipe myself clean with the last few stubby squares of toilet paper left on the roll. When I am finished, I dress and walk out to the car. David is putting the last of four cases of beer into the trunk, and as he closes it, he looks up at me. Then he walks to my side of the car and opens the door.
We drive for fifteen minutes, and after quickly choking down a drive-thru burger, we pull into a parking lot situated beside a tall apartment building. I know we’re on Carson Street—wherever that is—because I saw the sign when we turned the corner. David shuts off the ignition, and we get out of the car. He opens the trunk, stacks the cases of beer on to a folding dolly that was stashed in the backseat, and begins to wheel it toward the door. When we are about halfway there, he stops and turns to me.
“Emma,” he says with pause. I can tell he has more to say, but I already know what it is about.
“No worries, David. I’m cool. I’m not gonna leave without you. Really.” I can tell from the look on his face that my words are exactly what he wants to hear. “We just confirmed my girlfriend status on the floor of your friends’ house. I’m not going to rile the troops. No surprises from me, I swear. Stop acting like I’m a f*cking daisy or something.”
He lets go of the dolly and kisses me quickly on the lips.
“Okay,” he says, “and I am well aware that you are not a f*cking daisy.” He is smirking at me now, and I feel better.
Before I know it, David is pulling open the door to the apartment building and wheeling the dolly of beer down a ramp into the basement. At the end of the hall is a double metal door. I can hear voices and music inside. He raps on the door, and Brad opens it. When Brad sees me, he smiles from ear-to-ear.
“It’s about f*cking time you got here,” he says to David. Then he turns to me and holds out his hand for a shake. His eye is no longer black and blue. I look at David as I shake Brad’s hand and say a brief hello. I still want to knock him across the chin for his little stunt with my shoe, but I know David would prefer I keep quiet, and so that’s what I do. Brad lets go of my hand, and David and I walk into the room.
He was right. This is far from a couple of guys sitting around a table playing poker. It is clear that this is a finely tuned game. I’m certain that it is both professional and illegal. I’m also certain that I’m not supposed to be here. There are about two dozen felted tables around the room, each with its own group of players—all of which are male—and its own dealer—all of which are female. Scantily clad females. Beautiful, scantily clad females. There are also a handful of half-naked waitresses walking around the room toting drinks. I am the only other woman here, and I suddenly feel out of place. Very out of place. At least I am not in my work clothes, I joke to myself.
As I stand here gaping openly at all the goings-on, David walks past me, pulling the dolly toward the bar in the center of the room. A few steps into his trip, he turns back to look at me. His eyebrows go up and he shrugs. I see his lips forming the words “told you.” It makes me smile.