Lie Back and Listen Nikita Mirzani 4

“This song,” he said at last, “is shit. This song and the next song, and the one when you flip the record over and crank up the volume on your terrible crackling speakers.”

Nikita Mirzani took a step back, stunned. She reached for her throat. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t like it,” Zack said, tossing the Yellow Pages onto the couch and rising up. The cords of his pajamas swayed either side of his huge, angry erection, but he was beyond caring. “No. I don’t like the crass verse, melody or chorus. I don’t like sitting up all night listening to you croon and cackle and weep into your pillow…”

Nikita Mirzani’s blue eyes pricked. She scrubbed at them roughly with the back of her hand.

“…I don’t like lying in bed running through the ways I could short out the power in your flat or slip sleeping tablets into your water supply or set fire to my own flat and claim the insurance and have enough to move away somewhere I would never…”

Zack took a step forward. He was a good foot taller than Nikita Mirzani, but she’d never really noticed until now. He leaned in so close Nikita Mirzani could see the candle flames reflected in his eyes.

“…ever have to hear your infantile, pox-ridden, crapulous gutter music for the rest of my life.”

Nikita Mirzani, the girl who had spent her life in a shouting match with the universe, suddenly went quiet. She looked up at Zack’s dilated pupils. His fists hung by his sides, clenching and unclenching. Between them, his moderate but obvious erection waved gently back and forth like a conductor’s baton.

She bit her lip. Covered her eyes with her hand. When she started shaking, Zack reached out and nearly touched her, but he couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that. Had he scared her? If he held her now it would make it worse. Invade her space. He couldn’t.

“Oh God,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

Nikita Mirzani made a stifled, uncertain noise.

Zack blew air through his pursed lips, gritted his teeth, and grabbed her shoulders. Immediately, her knees buckled, and she sank into his arms. Zack tried to maneuver his cock out of the way, but it kept insinuating itself between them.

“Jesus, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Zack said, placing a hand lightly on the back of her bowed head. He could smell her hair. Bubblegum and cigarette smoke. She shook in his arms, and the movement made him doubly uncomfortable.

Nikita Mirzani pulled her face out from where it nestled in Zack’s armpit. Smudged mascara had given her black-ringed panda eyes, but they were dry. She grinned.

“Frighten me? Unlikely, mister. Zack.”

Her mouth—satin and juicy and soft and tender—was so close he could feel her breath on his face. She blurred in front of his eyes, and he thought it must be a mirage, that there was no way she would be moving in so close to him, bringing herself close enough to…

His world went suddenly sweet and upside down. Her lips on his. The tip of her tongue darted into his mouth. He thought to himself, Oh!

She was rubbing up against him. That devious cock of his reared up against Nikita Mirzani’s belly with delight, surging forward to meet her with bold joy and god-damn-whoa lust that made his heart ache.

They collapsed together, falling against the couch and scrabbling not to break the embrace. Zack’s pajamas were a flimsy barrier, and Nikita Mirzani had his cock extricated and standing proud within seconds. In turn, Zack plucked at her kimono, pushed it roughly aside to free her breasts. He squeezed tenderly, leaning down to suckle and bite, but not hard enough to bruise.

“Yes,” said Nikita Mirzani, “more, please more.” He looked up and caught sight of the clock behind her head, just to the left of the framed record cover.

Five A.M. Dawn was starting to turn the sky light. His neighbor’s tits were in his face, her nipples still wet from his mouth, and the music. The music was still playing.

“Excuse me,” Zack said, and laid Nikita Mirzani down gently on the couch. He padded over to the stereo, trying to cover his awkward hard-on while Nikita Mirzani sighed behind him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as he lifted the needle from the record and cut the singer off in midchorus.

Silence bloomed between them. Zack met her eyes, saw the restless spark and the tiredness in them. He moved to her and sank onto his knees in front of the couch.

“You love music,” he murmured, whispering now as the quiet boomed in his ears. Nikita Mirzani nodded as he pulled her jeans open and bared her pubic hair, the top of her clit.

“So lie back,” Zack said, lowering his head. “And listen.”