4. Greg

Stacy, if that is her real name, has a pair of adorably flush cheeks, a vivid shade of red blooming across her freckled skin. I can barely hold myself together as I navigate us through the crowd by her hand. Whistling for a cab, I marvel at the turn of the night. What had started out as another game of ‘drink till I forget my name' routine to, surprisingly, remembering someone else's name, Stacy. I don't know what came over me, I never ask women to dance. But when I saw her down that shot, there was something in the movement that made me want to get closer. I cast another glance over my shoulder, half expecting her to vanish like she's part of a magician's act and I'm the one left holding a rabbit instead. She looks more uncomfortable outside of the club but gives me a sly grin. It's all the reassurance I need.

When the taxi pulls up, I open the door like a gameshow host revealing the grand prize, ushering her into the backseat with a mix of eagerness and disbelief. How often am I lucky enough to have such gorgeous company? As often as I skydive. Which is never. Especially not while on a work assignment. Tonight is a break. A small time out from my investigation and I am taking full advantage of it to enjoy Stacy's presence.

I climb in behind her and give the driver my address. The silence that envelops us as we drive off is unexpectedly heavy, laden with anticipation and, perhaps, hesitation. Wondering if she's regretting her life choices, including leaving with me, I throw her a lifeline. "You want me to drop you at home?"

Her response, a determined shake of the head as she scoots closer, makes my heart thud faster in my chest. Her lips find my neck, and I'm suddenly an astronaut, space-bound on a one way trip to boner planet, the driver's prying eyes forgotten. I have to keep my breathing calm, or we won't make it back to my place. She's undeniably the most captivating woman I've encountered in Costa Rica, and I silently beg myself not to mess this up. One wrong move and I'll be dealing with a mess that no one wants to clean up. With a slight twist, I meet her mouth. The kiss is far less graceful than in the club and more ‘eager seal'. It's all teeth and tongue and desperation. Almost like two starving frat brothers who've just found the last slice of pizza at a Sigma Ki party. My hands move to her face to slow things down, touching her cheeks with fingers that would much rather be elsewhere.

As if reading my mind, her palm ventures daringly, her touch electric against the growing tension in my pants. I catch her wrist gently, whispering, "Not yet," before diving back into the kiss. The taste of rum and cherry Chapstick on her lips is a perfect combination of sweet and naughty. Apparently, that's my Kryptonite because I'm moaning into her mouth like a teenage girl at a boyband concert.

The cab comes to a halt, but I'm reluctant to break away.

Just as I'm debating why I've never invested in Chapstick stock—serious, this shit is literally an aphrodisiac that the world needs to know about-- the cab driver turns around. "Unless you two are moving in, we're here." He's obviously not impressed with my backseat moves.

The driver's reminder pulls me back to reality, and I hastily pay him before leading her out, practically jogging to my apartment. I try to find the keyhole, but the keys have decided to do a special sort of annoying tap-dance in my shaking hands. It's totally killing the vibe as I can feel her shrinking away from me.

"You live here?" she asks, eyeing the building like it has eight legs and is about to attack.

"Yeah, it's better inside," I assure her, hoping my charm offsets the building's obvious lack of it. The apartment complex isn't anything special, but it's at least standing and well-kempt.

"Oh, it's not… sorry, I just thought you were a tourist."

"Nope. Temporary expat," I say, as if that explains why I live in a place that looks like it doubles as a set for ‘intimate films'. Yeah. I live in the Costa Rican equivalent to a ‘70s porn studio. Low, yellow lights that flicker when there's too much walking around, and carpet stained with things that are best not to think about. Trying not to let her dwell on it, I usher her into the dimly lit space.

She seems contemplative, scanning the room, and I'm struck by a sudden concern for her comfort. "Hey, no pressure, okay?" I say. "Serious I can call a cab faster than you can say ‘escape plan'." My attempt at humor is genuine, though I am half expecting her to take me up on the offer. But I can't honestly get it up if she's not into it.

Her timid smile is an invitation, but I don't want anything if she's not completely comfortable with it. She needs to make the next move.

And this sexy woman, that's exactly what she does. With a single finger, she slips one of the straps of her dress down, revealing the sun-kissed, freckled skin of her shoulder. It ignites a new wave of desire in me. My restraint wavers as my finger traces her newly exposed skin involuntarily, her reaction—a shiver—fueling my boldness.

Her relaxed posture and the soft sound of her moaning approval emboldens me further. I pull her over to the old yellow couch that came with the temporary apartment. Say what you want about the United States government, but they do at least try to make my space livable, even if the couch is as old and uncomfortable as my lumpy grandfather.

After sitting, my lips follow my fingers, tracing a line on her shoulder of tender kisses. The taste of salt and a hint of coconut on her skin is intoxicating, driving me to the edge of restraint. My other hand, in a desperate attempt to quell the ache, grips my cock through my shorts, a silent plea for my own control. Greg Junior isn't usually so eager, but damn, this woman is ten times hotter than any I've been with before.

In this moment, with her leaning into my touch, all reservations dissolve, replaced by a raw, pulsing need. But still, I keep my touches slow. If there's even a hint of any more resistance, I will insist that she goes home. I'm not about to be someone's drunken regret.

Just as I'm about to admit defeat, Stacy turns on the couch. Her chin dips as she smiles. "That feels nice."

"Just nice?" I ask as I kiss down her arm. One hand goes to her inner thigh. "Does feeling nice mean you want me to stop?"

"Please don't." Her voice is breathy as if forming the words is taking all her strength. It's like a catalyst to my body. With a careful touch, my hand slides up her dress, not slowing until I meet the thin fabric of her silky panties. They're soaked through, and a grin broadens on my face.

"You do seem very comfortable," I whisper. She nods, and I decide it's now or never. With a wiggle, I push her underwear aside and let my finger tease her clit. Her gasp is like gasoline on a fire, and I plunge into her warmth. Her hips tilt up as her hands fly to the couch, fingers splayed as she finds something to grip onto.

"You like that?" I ask. She bites her lip, her eyes squeezed shut. Instead of answering with words, her knees fall to the side. I smile and add a second finger. The noises she lets loose, almost like she's trying to form words, but failing and letting out incoherent moans instead, makes my cock leap excitedly in my pants. It's incredibly sexy, but I know my body. If I want our night to last, I need to slow things down. Quickly, I pull my hand away. Her eyes snap open, her face scowling.

"You want more, Lady?" My tone is teasing, but her brows furrow.

"Stacy," she corrects.

Clicking my tongue, I get up from the couch. "That's not your name, is it?"

Slowly, she shakes her head. But really, I don't care what her name is unless it's something really weird like Mrs. Feces Shit Captain. I nearly laugh at my odd and juvenile sense of humor. But honestly, who am I to judge if a woman wants a little privacy? "I'll call you whatever you want. What do you want, Fake-Stacy?"

There's a sudden shift in the room as her eyes lock onto mine. A fire in her gaze, the gold around the edges of her irises brightening. This beautiful woman, reflecting my own desire back at me.

My cock jumps again, like a dog begging for a treat, and I have to keep myself from telling it to calm down out loud. For a moment, we both just look at each other.

I'm about to throw myself at her when she gets to her feet. Wide-eyed, I watch as she stands in front of me and turns around, giving me a view of her slender back and neck. Bringing her hair up with one hand, her other hand reaches behind and slowly unzips her dress.

It falls to the floor in a glorious swish of fabric. "Your move, Greg," she says, casting a look over her shoulder. My eyes feel like they pop out of my head. If I was a cartoon wolf, I would be whistling loudly before letting my tongue flop out of my mouth.

She's perfect. All toned muscle with a hint of lithe curves. Freckles everywhere on her golden skin. An obvious surfer. It's all I can do to not throw her over my shoulder and race into my back bedroom.

Instead, I step closer and start kissing her shoulder again. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. I move to her neck and suck on the pulse point. Her moaning intensifies before she suddenly whips her body around. I find her lips again, and her tongue strokes into my mouth. Grabbing under her ass, I lift her off her feet.

She laughs into my mouth and wraps her legs around my waist. Her center is soaking, and I can feel it through my shirt. The idea that she is so ready for me only makes my grip tighten.

Thoughts muddle around in my head. Bedroom. Get her to the bedroom.

But on her next whimper, I know, we won't make it to my bedroom. Instead, I lie her down on the couch, and the sweet smell of her swollen pussy floods my senses. Something akin to a carnal need pulses through me, and my cock is very unhappy at still being trapped in its pants prison.

I need her. I need to taste that smell, to feel her quiver and writhe against my tongue. Thankfully, she scoots back and lets her legs split apart. I'm done playing coy. My patience left with her dress. With a swift move, I yank her panties down and roughly grab her hips.

My tongue flicks out, teasing at her bare pussy. The touch sends her into a frenzy, her hips bucking up. I know this game well and put my hands on her stomach, holding her in place.

"Greg!" she yells. It's a good yell. A great fucking yell. The kind that spurs me closer to the edge in an instant. I plunge my tongue deep inside her, swirling it as I let my nose wiggle against her clit.

"Fuck. Not yet," she says. The demand isn't for me. She's yelling at her own body, begging herself not to let go, and that simply won't do. I want to see it, want to feel her release against my mouth. Faster, I move, alternating between sucking at her pearl and tongue fucking her slit.

Deep in my soul, I feel this woman coming apart, but she's got more to give. I know it, and I want to make certain she's satisfied. My grip tightens on her stomach, and her entire body starts to spasm. Her core is tight as her legs start shaking. Wetness seeps from inside her, and I growl at the taste, a mixture of honey and spice. Perfect. So damn delicious.

Panting, she looks down, her eyes still full of longing. Before I can say or do anything, she reaches forward and unbuttons my pants, freeing my cock. It flops out of my briefs in all its magnificent glory. I'm not a shy man. I know I look good, maybe somewhat intimidating. But Fake-Stacy eyes my girth with a desire that makes my cock throb.

"Do you want it?" I ask, a grin on my lips still wet from her taste.

She flops back on the couch. "God, yes. Please, Greg."

I move until I'm straddling her, pumping my cock as I do. "What about a condom?"

Her face changes to serious. "Do you need one? Cause I'm clean and have an IUD."

"No, but if you don't trust me, I'll grab one." She reaches up and grabs right onto my cock, the conversation over. As she strokes me, my eyes close, trying not to let nerves get in my way. I don't usually trust a woman like this. But something about Fake-Stacy, the way she's hesitant and unsure, makes me think she's not one to get into bed with strangers easy or often.

Propping myself up with one hand, I lower myself down, and she lets go of my cock. With my other hand, I guide the tip to her clit. Rubbing against it, she starts writhing beneath me.

"Greg, fucking do it already," she says in a husky voice. I can't help it; I laugh. Never in all my years has a woman demanded something so confidently. But far be it for me to ignore a woman's orders. I thrust into her.

She's so tight and wet I almost blow as soon as I'm all the way inside. Though I don't want to, I freeze and take a deep, shuddering breath. Finally, after counting to four and trying to think of old ladies playing naked baseball, I slowly let myself slide back.

But Fake-Stacy is done with slow. Her hands fly to my ass and push me back in. All my restraint is gone. The tingling is in my balls already; all I can do is pray I won't disappoint. My pumps turn furious, pounding into her like I'm trying to drill into concrete with my diamond-steeled cock.

Her moaning transforms, turning into yelps of pleasure. "Don't stop, Greg," she manages to yell out. Her pussy tightens, and I can feel my cock swelling, the pressure building at the base of my spine like I'm about to blow straight through her.

Fake-Stacy is screaming my name, and I can't resist. The way her lips form my name like she's drunk on the word is too much. The white-hot release finally busts from my tip, exploding into her at the exact time she gives a final yell.

Ropes of pure pleasure pour out of me as my vision explodes into a kaleidoscope of color. I collapse onto her, hoping my weight isn't crushing her lungs. My arms shake when I try to get up, and I fall again, rolling off the couch with a loud thud as I try to catch my breath.

Laying on the carpet, I put one hand on my forehead. After a few seconds of scattered panting, Fake-Stacy leans over to look at me. "You okay?" she asks, a chuckle on her lips.

"You're my new idol, you know that?" She slides off the couch, ending up straddling me.

"Feelings are mutual." I can't help but respond as her hand rests on my chest, sending a wave of warmth through me. "I'm gonna be sore for a week."

"Promise?" My hands find their way to her ass, gripping firmly. The thought of her walking around with an ache caused by me alone is enough to send my already satisfied mind into overdrive.

She gives my chest a playful tap before starting to stand. I watch as she grabs her clothes and slips back into her dress. I prop myself up on an elbow, confusion creasing my brow. "You're leaving?"

Her smile is coy. "Yes."

A chuckle escapes me despite the surprise, "Did I just get played?"

She's at the door now, putting her sandals back on. As she opens the front door, she casts a glance back. "I think we both did."

I find my underwear near the edge of the couch and pull them on as I stand. "Fair enough. But, uh, can we play each other again? Soon?" I can't believe I'm already asking for more. I may not be a guy who does this often, but when I do, once is usually enough. But Fake-Stacy was different, and I can't help wanting to know we'll get to experience what just happened again.

She shakes her head, disappearing through the door with a soft click. I collapse back onto the couch, hand running through my hair. I can't remember the last time I was so quick to ask for seconds, if ever. "Did that just happen?" I say to the empty room.

I lift my fingers to my nose, her scent still clinging to them, intoxicating. A stirring reminder of what just transpired sends a jolt through me. She's branded me with her smell. I want a fucking candle to keep it burning night and day. I know vagina candles are real and I'm completely in if it smells like Fake-Stacy. I know in that moment that I want to find her. Bring her back and tangle my sheets with her scent.

But, fuck me, my job comes first. Though I don't want to, I can't waste time on looking for this goddess that stampeded into my life like 10,000 rhinos through the dust covered Sahara that was my previous sex-life. There isn't time to find her again, no matter how much my body is already begging for more.