Marc Hunter’s Last Night Before Prison
Contributed by Sonrisa
(Caution: Explicit content intended for ages 18 and over only!)
I’d been sitting in the nightclub for almost an hour using alcohol to soothe the rough edges off a bad breakup when he walked in. He was the kind of man you couldn’t help but notice — not if you had a working pair of ovaries.
Tall and exuding an unmistakable air of power, he walked through the door and over to the bar, men stepping out of his way as if they knew they should, women looking twice, their gazes fixing on his butt. I couldn’t hear what he ordered, his words drowned out by the sultry sounds of jazz, but a moment later the bartender brought him a double scotch.
He sipped, his expression both dark and unreadable, some kind of tension brewing beneath his skin. He wasn’t looking my way, so I felt comfortable watching him. I probably wouldn’t have been able to keep my eyes off him anyway — he was that kind of man.
He had thick shoulder-length brown hair with a bit of wave in it and wore a faded pair of jeans that seemed to coat his perfect ass. And although his black sports coat hid the details of his physique, he was broad-shouldered with large, clean hands.
I don’t normally sit in bars ogling men, but he was impossible not to ogle, and I hadn’t had sex for so long.
I took another drink of my rum and Coke and began to imagine how he’d look naked. I could tell his ass would be smooth and round and muscular, his legs powerful, his back strong. But the rest of him was a mystery. Would he have strong biceps? Would he have a lot of hair on his chest or just a little low on his belly? Would he have abs? Would his nipples be small and pebbled or larger and flat? And his cock?
There was an unmistakable bulge behind his zipper.
Tucked to the right, I thought.
Then it dawned on me that he had turned around. I looked up — and found him watching me.
His eyes were green, his gaze sliding slowly over me, seeming to strip away my clothes — black silk sheath dress, hose, heels. I thought of the ten pounds I should have lost, of the cleavage I didn’t have, of the lines I’d noticed around my eyes. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw, the look on his face still unreadable. But, oh, what a face! His five-o’clock shadow made the hollows in his cheeks look deeper and his cheekbones higher. And his mouth — full lips that were made for kissing.
I looked away, fully expecting him to turn away. Having spent three years with a man who spent most of our relationship sleeping with someone else, I wasn’t used to male attention.
Instead, he walked over to my table and sat down, drink in his hand. “Mind if I join you?”
“No,” I said, the word coming out less confidently that I would have liked, my mouth having gone dry the moment he’d taken a step toward me.
“My name’s Marc.”
“I’m Sara.” My heart was pounding.
He drained his scotch, watching me over the rim of his glass, his gaze penetrating. Then he set the glass down. “I don’t have a lot of time, so let me get right to it. Why are you here tonight?”
Taken aback by his bluntness, I stared at him for a moment, then the words stumbled out. “My boyfriend left me.”
He nodded, his eyebrows knotting in a frown. “Another woman?”
I took a sip of my drink, wishing I’d had something stronger, needing all the courage I could muster. “Another man.”
His gaze softened, sympathy on his face. “Came out of the closet a little too late, huh?”
I looked away, feeling my face burn. It was one thing to have the man you thought you loved walk off with a younger, richer or more beautiful woman. It was another to have him leave you for a man.
“So why are you here?” He paused. “Let me guess: You’re finally free of that bastard and now, after years of being neglected in bed, you wanted to see if you could put yourself out here and maybe meet a man. You want to know if it was something about you that turned him off to women. You want to feel wanted again. Am I close?”
My face burned hotter to hear my own desperation described so plainly, but I forced myself to look him in the eyes. “Yes. Pretty close.”
“Trouble is, he hurt you bad, and you’re not really sure you want to meet a man — that’s why you’re sitting in this corner.” He leaned in until his face was only inches from mine, the musky smell of his cologne filling my head. “And yet a part of you wants to make up for lost time, for all the nights he didn’t fuck you, for all the passion he wouldn’t show you. That’s why you’re dressed like this, looking sexy enough to eat. Am I right?”
I could barely breathe. I’d never had a stranger talk to me like this before or be so sexually frank, boldly saying things I hadn’t been able to admit to myself. “Y-yes.”
He took my hand, his fingers warm. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping. “Well, Sara, I’m not gay. Spend the night with me tonight, just tonight, and I promise I’ll fuck you like you’ve always wanted to be fucked.”
Something low in my belly clenched, the breath catching in my lungs. I didn’t even know this man, and he’d already done more to turn me on in a minute than my ex-boyfriend had done in three years.
I have no idea how long I sat there staring at him, my mouth open, but he leaned closer until his mouth was almost touching mine, his voice deep and dark. “Tonight is all I have, honey, so make up your mind.”
The way he said it, I had the strange thought that he was leaving on a long trip, but there was an edge to his voice, a note of desperation that made me nervous. “How do I know you’re not some crazy serial killer?”
He looked straight into my eyes. “I guess you don’t. You’re going to have to go on instinct.”
Somehow the way he said it made me feel like I was melting in my chair. But the idea of walking out of a club with a man I’d known for all of thirty seconds was too much, even if he was to die for — or maybe because he was to die for.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
It was a teasing kiss, a whisper of a kiss, his lips brushing over mine, softly, so softly, as if he were letting me test him, giving me just a taste. No man had ever kissed me like that before, slow and soft, as if thinking about how the kiss felt to me, as if trying to show me that he’d be the same way in bed — slow, deliberate, focused on me.
When I whimpered, he moaned, and the kiss when from soft to searing. Every thought in my head vanished, his lips hot, his tongue insistent. It took just a second or two before I realized what I’d been missing all these years.
This was kissing? If it was, then I’d never been kissed before. The heat of it, the intensity, was so arousing that I quit wondering if he was a serial killer and started wondering what it would feel like to have him inside me. If he was that good with his tongue…
All too soon it was over, and I found myself looking into his eyes, out of breath and desperately turned on.
“Okay, Marc Hunter, but please don’t turn out to be a mass murderer or something.”
He grinned. “I promise.”
I stood, my legs more than a little shaky, and would have walked off without my coat if he hadn’t seen it on the back of my chair and grabbed it for me. Like a gentleman, he held it for me as I slipped into it, his lips brushing over my hair, pressing a kiss to my temple, the kind of affectionate, intimate gesture I’d never gotten from my boyfriend.
His arm tucked through mine, he led me outside into the cold winter air and hailed a cab. The cold made me shiver — or maybe I was just nervous. I was nervous. I’d never done anything this impulsive in my life. And as we climbed into the cab, I found myself wondering if I would regret it later.
He sat next to me in the back seat — right next to me — and called out the name of some hotel, his big hand sliding beneath my coat and onto my thigh. As the cab pulled into traffic he began to make tiny soft circles with his fingers, sending shivers up my thigh straight into my belly. Gradually his hand moved higher, until I found it hard not to spread my legs so that he could do what he was obviously thinking of doing.
But then we drew up to the hotel. He paid the fare then helped me out, his fingers laced through mine.
He already had a room key, so we walked straight through the lobby to the elevator. Once inside, we were alone for the first time.
In a heartbeat, he drew me against him, one big hand cupping the back of my head, the other sliding over my hip, his mouth taking mine — hard. A woman would do almost anything for a kiss like that —the kind of kiss that makes you think you’re the only woman in the world, the kind of kiss that leaves no doubt that a man wants you.
Something inside me melted. I found myself clinging to him, kissing him back the way I’d always wanted to kiss a man, my arms behind his neck, my hands in his hair, my body pressed against his, his chest and abdomen rock hard, his cock even harder. I could feel it pressing, hot and insistent, through his jeans, and my heart seemed truly to skip a beat when I realized it would soon be inside me.
By the time the door opened, I was out of breath, aching, wanting to tear off my clothes and his.
His arm around my waist, he led me to the room and slid the key card through the slot, opening the door and ushering me inside. The door shut behind us, and the next thing I knew I was pinned against it, his mouth over mine, his hands making short work of my clothes—my coat, my dress, my bra.
His gaze dropped to my breasts. “God, Sara, that bastard had to have been gay to walk out on this. Mmmm.”
With a little growl, he ducked down, shaping my breasts with his hands, drawing first one nipple and then the other into the heat of his mouth. He didn’t just lick me. He licked, nipped, sucked, running circles with his tongue over my puckered areolas, the sensation so wonderful, his tongue and lips sending sparks to my belly.
I instinctively arched my back, my fingers clenched in his hair, holding him against me, wanting the sweet torment to go on forever.
Then his hand slipped down over my belly. I felt him grab the cloth of my panty hose, heard something tear. And then his fingers were sliding between my thighs, exploring, nudging their way beneath my panties and between my labia. I could feel that I was wet his fingers sliding over me, teasing my clit, taunting the entrance to my vagina with smooth circles.
I was whimpering then, my breath coming in tiny gasps. I’d never had any man get me that excited so quickly. I felt drunk, lost in sensation, burning up with raw lust. And when he slid his middle finger deep inside me, I couldn’t help but cry out.
“God, honey, you’re so wet! And you smell so good. Did he ever fuck you up against the wall? No? Let’s start with that, because I can’t wait.”
Start with that?
In the next instant his hands were gone, but he never took his lips from mine, not when he unzipped his pants, not when he opened the condom packet or slid the condom on, not when he lifted me off the floor, wrapped my legs around his waste, and buried himself inside me.
He groaned, the sound mingling with my cry, the thick, hard feel of him like heaven as he stretched and filled me, driving into me with deep, hard strokes that hit some secret place inside me. It felt so good, so good.
“God, honey, you’re so tight! Oh, Christ!”
The sensation inside me drew into a tight, pulsing knot, then exploded. “Oh, God! Marc!”
I’d never come so fast in my life, and I’d never come just from penetration. I’d always needed extra help to get there. But not this time.
His thrusts grew faster, harder, seeming to make my orgasm stretch on forever, waves of bliss rushing through my belly to the rest of me. Then with a deep groan, he let go, finishing in three deep strokes.
For a moment, neither of us moved, his cock still inside me, my muscles clenching around him, his face pressed against my throat. Then he reached down, drew himself out and lowered me to the floor.
“Sorry about the pantyhose.” He gave me a boyish grin.
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t care about the pantyhose, that just having a man want me so badly that he’d tear them to get inside me was worth much more than the five bucks I’d paid for them. Instead, I found myself staring at him, his lips full from kissing me, his eyes still dark with need.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom.
And that’s when I realized that, apart from his cock, he was still fully clothed.
While he washed himself off, I slipped off my heels, picked up my clothes and his coat and tossed them on the extra bed. Then I stripped off what was left of my pantyhose and threw them in the trash, catching a glimpse of myself in the big mirror over the chest of drawers.
It was me in the mirror, but I looked different. I was topless, my breasts swollen, their nipples pink and puckered, my skin flushed. My lips were swollen, too, my cheeks pink, my hair touseled.
And then he was beside me — and he was naked.
I couldn’t help but stare. His body was perfect — pecs, six pack, and that little muscle near his groin. His cock was huge even though it wasn’t hard, the hair that covered his balls dark and thick. He had an eagle tattooed on one bicep and a Celtic armband on the other, his arms easily twice or even three times the diameter of mine.
He drew me back against him, his abs and chest pressed against my back and shoulders, his cock nudging my hip, his gaze on the mirror. “Adam and Eve.”
I started to say that I wasn’t pretty or womanly enough to be Eve. But looking at our reflections, his male body so much bigger than mine, his hands cupping my breasts, I’d never felt more feminine in my life.
He nuzzled my neck, his hands teasing and caressing my breasts, our gazes mingling in the mirror. “God, you’re sexy. I love your breasts. I could spend all night playing with them.”
He plucked my nipples, the sensation shooting straight to my belly.
“Oh, Marc!” My head fell back against his shoulder.
But he didn’t stop, one hand working my nipples while the other slid slowing over my ribcage, down my belly, his fingers finding my already swollen clit.
My mouth fell open and for a moment I closed my eyes.
“Watch,” he whispered, his voice gruff.
For the next five or ten minutes — I couldn’t say how long it was — all he did was tease me, his gaze hot on mine, his touch so arousing that my knees were weak. Then the hand that had been torturing my nipples moved to stroke his cock as he got himself ready for me again.
It was one of the most arousing things I’ve ever seen, one of his big hands stroking between my thighs, the other gliding up and down the length of his hardening cock. I was wet, so wet, and I shifted, spreading my thighs wider, hoping he would slide a finger inside me, do something to sooth that precious ache.
Then he reached behind him, grabbed another condom packet from the bed, and tore it open with his teeth.
Wanting to touch his cock, I took he condom from him, pinched the end, then rolled it down his length, aware the entire time that he was watching me, those eyes of his burning.
I expected him to push me back on the bed, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned me back toward the mirror, one big arm encircling my waist.
“Spread your feet apart and bend your knees just a little.”
“What?” Almost unable to breathe, I did as he asked.
Then I felt — and saw — his cock nudge inside me.
Just the sight of it — thick cock disappearing between my labia, his fingers spreading me, teasing my clit — made me almost come. But it was the sensation that sent me over the edge. He can’t have thrust even a dozen times before I came again, my whole body shaking. I saw the shock of it on my face, saw the expression on his — his saw clenched, his eyes dark and focused on the place where our bodies joined.
The moment the tremors began to subside, he turned me away from the mirror, bent me over the bed, forcing my thighs wider apart, his hands caressing the bare skin of my ass before they grasped my hips.
“I want to fuck you so hard! I want fuck you all night! Like this!” With a groan, he rammed into me.
Fast and hard he fucked me, his balls slapping against my ass, his cock striking that magic place inside me that felt so good again and again and again until I was moaning with every deep thrust. God, oh, God, could I possibly be about to come for a third time?
I felt strong fingers fist in my hair, pulling my head back, not painfully but forcefully enough for me to feel utterly dominated by the man whose cock was driving inside me. Then he bit me lightly on the nape of my neck — and another climax surged through me, almost making me scream, the pleasure shattering me.
I felt him stiffen, felt his body shake as he drove into me once, twice, three times, then sank against my back, his lips pressing kisses along my spine.
“Am I keeping up my side of the bargain?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
I sank onto the bed.
# # #
He held me after that, held me against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder. I’m not sure if all women feel the way I do, but lying against a man’s chest after he’s made you come, his arm around you, is probably the best thing in life. And when his chest is muscular, when everything about him is virile — well, there’s nothing better.
His eyes were closed, his lashes unusually long, his fingers caressing the curve I couldn’t keep from touching him, running my fingers through the light matt of hair on his pecs, letting my fingers tease his soft, flat nipples, exploring the ridges of muscle on his abdomen.
Just touching him, lying next to him, made my pulse pick up again. It wasn’t just that he was amazingly hot to look at. It was the thought of what he’d done to me that blew me away. All of that man, all of that muscle had been mine...
I fell asleep. He must have slept too. But when I woke up in the middle of the night, I saw him standing near the window, looking out on the street below. He was still naked, the streetlights outside playing over his face, the contours of his muscles. At first all I could think about was how beautiful he was, his torso toned and strong, his cock resting against his testicles, his ass two perfect round mounds.
Then I noticed the look on his face. It was a look of hopelessness, of complete despair, and it made me hurt for him.
I pushed aside the covers and walked over to him, touching my hand to his arm. “Are you okay?”
A muscled tensed in his jaw, and I could sense that he was holding something back, something he didn’t know if he could tell me. And when he looked at me, I knew it wasn’t just despair he was feeling, but fear, too.
What could make a man like him afraid?
“I’m a good listener,” I said. “If something’s upsetting you...”
Then he smiled, a sad half-smile, and drew me closer. “Thanks, but I don’t think talking will help me now.”
He led me back to the bed, drew me onto my back beside him. Then, propped up on his elbow, he ran his knuckles over my cheek, his fingers tracing a line down to my breasts, his mouth following not long after.
This time he went slowly, so slowly, and I felt that perhaps for the first time in my life a man was making love to me. I know that sounds crazy because he didn’t love me; we barely knew each other. But that’s what if felt like, every touch, every kiss so achingly tender that tears slid down my temples, my body delighting at every sensation.
He kissed his way down over my belly, his thighs forcing mine apart, and then he did something my boyfriend had never done, lifting my knees and kissing me there. His tongue licked me, teased me, probed me. Then he drew my clit between his lips and sucked.
I arched off the bed, unable to believe that anything could feel that good. He forced me back down, chuckling, his mouth still busy. Then two fingers slid into me, stroking just as his cock had stroked me.
Again and again I drew close to a climax, but each time he stopped, letting me cool down before starting again.
“Please, Marc!” I dug my fingers into his hair, tried to hold him where I needed him.
He chuckled again. “You like that, don’t you?”
“Oh, God, yes!”
He lowered his mouth to me again, thrusting hard with this fingers, suckling me, moaning as if he were enjoying it too, the deep sound of his voice vibrating against my aching, swollen flesh.
This time I did scream, the sensation almost unbearable, heat slamming through me, sweet pleasure burning like fire as he kept up the rhythm, making it last.
Then he was between my legs, sliding another condom over his cock, nudging himself into me. And slowly, so slowly he began to thrust, his gaze fixed with mine.
“God, Sara, honey, you feel so good!” He closed his eyes, his head falling back as he slid with agonizing slowness in and out of me.
I was so wet — from his kisses, from my own orgasm — that it felt like steel inside silk, the glide stretching me, igniting my arousal yet again. But this time I savored it, sliding my hands over his belly and chest and arms, soaking in the thrill of all that beautifully sculpted muscle, watching as his abs contracted with each deep, languid thrust.
Then he ducked down and suckled first one nipple then the other, nipping them with his teeth, stretching them with his lips, sparks skittering into my belly, making the fire there burn even hotter.
I was shaking by now, my body trembling with sexual need, his thrusts carrying me with agonizing slowness closer to release — but not yet close enough.
But he, too, was on the edge, his muscles shaking with tension as he carried us both to the brink, then backed off, his skin slick with sweat.
It felt so incredibly good, so unbelievably good just having him moving inside me like that, on and on, slow and smooth.
Then I felt it gathering inside me, a slow building tension that peaked higher and higher and higher — then broke. I cried out, heard his breath catch, and felt him shudder in my arms.
Afterward, he held me, looking down at me. “Don’t let any man tell you you’re not worth everything. Don’t let any man make you feel like less than the woman you are.”
“Marc, I... “ I didn’t know what to say.
We fell asleep like that.
He woke early the next morning. He didn’t shower, but dressed, slipping into a suit, packing the clothes he’d worn last night into a small gym bag.
He looked afraid again, that sad look in his eyes.
I got out of bed, walked over to him, and knelt in front of him, unzipping his trousers, sliding a hand inside his boxer briefs and taking his cock into my mouth. He tasted like me, smelled like me — and grew hard in an instant.
I gave him the best head I knew how to give, moving my hand and mouth in tandem, drawing the skin of his cock tight against his balls then stretching it up over the glans, all the while swirling my tongue over the satiny tip.
“Christ!” His fingers bunched in my hair. “Sara! Oh, God!”
And when he came, I took it all, licking him clean.
He stood there for a moment, obviously shaken. Then he drew me to my feet, kissed my mouth. “Thanks, Sara, for everything. You were perfect. You can’t know what last night meant to me.”
Then he stepped away, his gaze sliding over me once more, and picked up his bag. “The room is paid for through tomorrow morning. Stay another night if you like.”
He turned, unlocked the door and was gone.
# # #
I took a long hot shower, ordered room service, feeling both elated and somehow depressed. Who was this man who’d come into my life and then just as abruptly left it? Who was he that he was able to make me feel the way he made me feel — even when he didn’t know me? And how was I ever going to look at another man, when for the rest of my life I would be thinking of him?
I turned on the television, flipped through the news channels — and found myself on my feet staring. There he was on the screen wearing handcuffs.
“Marc Hunter was found guilty of murder in the first degree this morning in the shooting death of John Cross, his partner in the DIA and a father of four,” the newscaster said, the rest of his words drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
It couldn’t be him. But it was him. I recognized his face, the clothes he was wearing, his hair — and when he looked at the camera, the despair in his eyes.
First-degree murder? How could the man who’d made love to me like that have killed anyone?
I listened to the news reports, flipping channels, trying to learn everything I could. Then I remembered what he’d said — and then I understood.
Tonight is all I have, honey, so make up your mind.
He’d known he was going to be convicted. He’d known he was going to prison in the morning. Last night had been it for him — the last sex he would ever have with a woman.
I fell on the bed and sobbed.
# # #
I’ve never forgotten him or the gift we shared that night. He helped me heal from that breakup, made me see myself as a woman again, and I gave him his last taste of intimacy. When he was sentenced to life in prison, I thought about visiting him. But some part of me knew he wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t want the memory of that night tainted by reality. He wouldn’t want me to see him that way.
And so I’ve kept that memory separate and pure and untouched. And even though I’m married now, and I love my husband, I’ll always think of Marc Hunter as the man who saw inside me and set me free.