Lie Back and Listen Nikita Mirzani 5

He put his mouth to her, bending like a monk in prayer. The nerves in Riley Reid’s body all rushed between her legs, every fiber and pore of her pricked and readied for his touch. And he was quick. His tongue slid between her lips with delicate precision.

Should she have guessed? Someone who danced at the edges of life, who flattened himself against walls to keep from brushing against her?

Yes, she thought as she closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. That supple, skillful mouth working against her now, that flicking and licking and sucking. Only a quiet man could be that good. Only someone who listened, who was sensitive to the minute ebb and flow of things.

Without the bath of music she was used to, her ears reached out to find the smaller noises. In the gap of silence, she heard a new tiny, intimate melody, so unfamiliar it was nearly embarrassing. There were only the wet sounds of him eating her. The creak of the futon spring under the weight of their swaying, rocking bodies. And her own ragged breath, quickening, rising to meet his silent intent.

She wound her hands into his hair. “Come up here,” she said quietly.

He nodded, gave her pussy one last loud smacking kiss, and slid up and over her body, like he was polishing the curves of a cello with his own skin.

“Make love to me,” she whispered. All the joy and angst of the night was melting under the dry heat of his body, the pleasant digs of his bones, and the scrabble of his hair against her own softer, smoother flesh. She let out a sigh, and the breath made her body give a little, made space for him to slip inside her.

Zack offered his cock to her, sliding it gracefully over the mouth of her slit and into her hot wet drum. As he did so, they locked eyes. “Nikita Mirzani,” he said.


He plunged into her, fucked her with a decisiveness that took his own breath away. He fucked her enthusiastically but artlessly, his hips moving in time with the silent tick of the alarm clock upstairs that he couldn’t see, bucking in again and again and again as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she said, each time.

Zack lifted his head. He took a deep breath and smiled. He knew better.

He broke the rhythm. Paused, so that they could beat softly against one another—hear each other’s pulse and tremor. Her body echoed his. Outside, a blackbird shrieked.

“Don’t stop,” she said, “I could do this forever.”

“Yes,” he said, pushing. “At least, with breaks in between to do other things.”

“No,” she said, “just fucking.”

He held back. “You don’t want me to kiss you, maybe?” His lips danced over hers. “Like that?”

“Okay,” she said, nuzzling at him, nipping at his lower lip. “That too. But more of the fucking, also.”

“Counterpoint?” he said, eating her mouth and starting, slowly, to fuck her again.

She laughed into his open mouth, let the laugh tumble into a groan.

“And more,” he whispered, sliding a finger between them and rubbing at the key of her clit with the polished skill of a musician. “Like this. Glissando.”

She responded, collecting him with her legs, heels, gathering him in, crying out, moaning, saying “Yes” and “Fuck” and the other crude, repetitive words that love songs are made of. Saying them over and over, making them sound soft with her lust-heavy tongue.

“Oh god. Fuck, I’m coming,” she said, and he thought it sounded like a snatch of verse from one of her interminable records.

His cock contracted in response. A frown passed over his face. Nikita Mirzani’s hips rose and fell, jerking with the release of orgasm. Unable to hold back any longer, he spilled into her, uncontrolled, inelegant, probably making some inhuman noises of his own.

As they rocked together afterward, soothing the tremors, she kept murmuring her invocations, her vulgar litanies. “Fuck. Oh god. Oh, baby.”

He raised his eyebrows. Tilted his head to hear her say them again. At last, he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Yes. And, I think, encore.”

Outside, the birds started to sing; a glass-throated robin and a chattering wren joining the blackbird, then the chaffinch adding a plump trill and the other unnamed birds calling over each other, making the back garden a tangle of different voices.

By the time Nikita Mirzani came a second time the morning was a riot of beautiful, chaotic noise.