Dirty Little Heart.

"So, where are you from?"

Ah. Here we go again with this bullshit. Where are you from?

That is the fourth time tonight. I keep count because it stops me from screaming or smashing the glass of whiskey I’m holding on their head.

"California," I say, and I smile like I mean it.

It's not a lie. It's just not the whole answer. A short answer ends a conversation faster than a long one, and I'm not planning to give anyone a long one.

The man sitting next to mine nods like I said something deep and meaningful he’d never forget. He has been sitting here for almost an hour, and for most of it he has talked about his car and how much money he makes in a whole year.

"I've always wanted to go there," he says. "Maybe when I do, you could show me around."

And there it is. The same follow up line spoken by a man every time, just in a different jacket.

I look at the bottles behind the bar and do my best to avoid him. Half an hour ago I spilled a full glass of red wine down his shirt. I thought it would send a message.

I thought he would scream, bang his hands on the counter and realize his ego is bigger than his dick. Yet he just wiped his chest, laughed, and bought me another drink.

So much for messages.

Most nights I don't mind a one-night stand. I pick the man, I pick the place, and I leave when I want to. That's how I like it. But tonight is different. Tonight I want one small thing that men in bars never give.

I want someone to be gentle for a minute before they get hungry.

"Can I get you another one?" he asks, and he waves at the bartender before I answer.

And that’s it. This is where my limit ends.

I'm about to tell him exactly where he can put that drink when a voice comes from behind me.

"Not gonna happen, bro."

It's a low, almost calm voice. It doesn't push, and it doesn't try to be loud. It just sits in the air like it has a right to be there, and I feel it all the way down my back.

I turn around.

The man standing there is tall, with wide shoulders under a dark shirt. His hands are in his pockets. He isn't looking at me. He's looking at the guy with the car, and he has the kind of face that doesn't need to try. Short dark hair. A jaw that looks like it never loses an argument and can work its way in you.

Okay. That's a problem.

The guy with the car stands up. He is a full head shorter than the stranger, and he does not seem to notice. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not with me," the stranger says. "She's been looking around this room for half an hour. Not at you, at the door, at the pool table, at anyone who might get her out of this. Her arms are crossed. Her feet point away from you. She has checked her phone four times. If she wanted to leave with you, she would have done it in five minutes."

I did check my phone four times. I didn’t know someone, anyone would notice. I don’t know if I should be offended that someone noticed, or relieved.

I think I’ll go with both.

"That's not true," the guy says. "She's been talking to me for an hour."

"She's been polite for an hour. That's different."

The rich guy looks at me, probably asking for me to stand up for him, thinking I could save him. And I could say something kind. But I don’t.

Instead I lift my glass and wait to see what he does next, because honestly, I want to know.

He coughs, looks at his shoes, and walks off without his drink.

The stranger watches him go. And for a second there, neither of us say anything or fill the heated silence between us that’s been already forming.

Then he sits on the chair next to mine, but not too close. He leaves one empty seat between us, and he faces the bar, like he's not sure he's allowed to look at me.

"I'm right here, you know," I say. "I can talk for myself."

"Then talk."

"You could have asked first."

"You're right." He turns his head, and now he looks at me. His eyes are dark and steady. "Do you want me to leave?"

I think about it. I really do. It's a fair question, and nobody has asked me a fair question in a long time.

"No," I say. "Aren't you going to buy me a drink?" I let the words out bluntly, since I never talk in puzzles.

"That depends on how my night is gonna go."

I laugh, and it comes out before I can stop it. "Do you read people for a living?"

"Sometimes. When I know it’s going to be worth it."

"Then read me again. Go on." I tell him, totally amused by him.

He doesn't answer right away. He shifts to the empty chair in between us, and shifts it a little so his knee almost touches mine. His eyes go to my hands, then my mouth, then back up.

"You don't like questions," he says. "You act like you do, but you don't. You give short answers so nobody gets close. And you came here tonight wanting something, but it's not what everyone thinks you want."

My throat goes dry despite me chugging the whole shot at once, and I put the glass down. Then I ask.

"Do you know what I want?”

He thinks for a while. I can see the debate going on behind his eyes, followed by a small curve forming on his lips. "I don't know yet."

His mouth moves, I see the full smile on his face now, and it does something stupid to my stomach.

"But I'd like to find out."

Fuck this. I want to find you out.

So we talk. Just talk, for another hour. He doesn't ask where I'm from. He asks what I eat when I'm sad, and I tell him cereal, and he says that's wrong, the real answer is soup.

He tells me he hates his phone. He tells me about a dog he had as a kid that was scared of the vacuum cleaner. I realize I'm leaning toward him, and I let myself.

When I ask for his name, he shakes his head.

"Not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because then you'd have to give me yours, and I think you want tonight to be only tonight."

Fuck me. He's right, and it scares me a little how easily he does that. "No names," I say.

"No names."

I finish my drink while he finishes his. Neither of us says what comes next, because we both already know.

His place is a short cab ride away. We don't touch in the car. He sits with his hand on the seat between us, close enough that I can feel the heat of it, and every red light feels like it lasts a year.

By the time we get to his door, my heart is going so hard I'm sure he can hear it. He unlocks the door, I walk in, and I hear it close behind me.

He kisses me against the wall in the hallway and it starts fucking slow. His mouth is warm, he tastes like whiskey and mint, and he takes his time like he has nowhere else to be.

I grab his shirt and pull him closer, and the slow part is over fast. Now it's teeth and tongues and hard breathing. His thigh slides between my legs, and I push down on it before I can stop myself.

His hands find my wrists and lift them above my head, pinning them to the wall.

For one second, everything in me goes tight. My stomach drops, and the unease comes instant. It's not him, it’s never any man, it's what my body remembers, and it remembers fast.

He feels it. He lets go right away and steps back.

"Too much?"

"No." That's a lie, and we both know it. "Yes, sorry. Just… not like that."

"Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about it." He says it like it's never a big deal with him, and he appreciates the honesty.

He doesn't ask me to explain. He just waits, and somehow that is what lets me breathe again.

I take his hand and put it on my hip. "Here. Hold me here."

"Here," he says, and his fingers dig in, firm and sure. "Better?"

"Much better."

"Good." He smiles against my neck. "Then let me hear you."

He bites the skin under my ear, and I moan out loud. He does it again, harder, and my knees almost quit on me.

He lifts me by the thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, pressed right where I need him. I grind on it, and he swears under his breath.

He carries me down the hall like I weigh nothing. I don't see the room. I only see him. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me to stand between his knees, and his hands slide up the backs of my legs, over my ass, to the zipper of my dress. He pulls it down slowly and the dress drops to the floor.

I'm standing there in black lace, and he breathes out like I hit him in the chest.

"Look at you," he says.

He doesn't grab. He looks, from my legs to my hips to my tits, and it's hotter than any hand could be. Then he unhooks my bra and lets it fall, and his mouth closes over my nipple.

I gasp and grab his hair. His tongue circles, then he sucks, then he scrapes with his teeth, and I feel it all the way between my legs. His other hand slips inside my thong.

"God, you're wet," he says, low and rough.

"Don't be smug."

"I'm not smug." His fingers glide over me, slowly. "I'm grateful."

He lays me back and drags my thong down my legs. He kneels on the floor, pulls my hips to the edge of the mattress, and spreads my thighs wide with his hands.

I'm shaking. I’m fucking shaking to my core. And I hate how much I want this.

"Please," I say, and I don't care that I said it. “Don’t make me wait.”

He doesn’t. He licks me, one long, slow stroke from bottom to top, and my back comes off the bed. Then he finds my clit and circles it with the flat of his tongue, soft, then firmer, then he sucks, and I cry out.

He slides two fingers inside me and curls them up, hitting a spot that makes my toes curl, and his mouth never leaves. I grip the sheets with both hands. I can hear how wet I am, and somehow that makes it hotter.

"Don't stop," I say. "Don't stop, don't stop."

He doesn't and speeds up. And the pressure in me gets tighter and tighter until it snaps. I scream until my lungs give out.

My thighs clamp around his head, and my whole body shakes while he licks me through it, slower and slower, until I tug his hair and laugh because it's too much.

He climbs up my body. His mouth is wet and he's smiling, and I kiss him hard as I taste myself on his tongue.

"My turn," I say.

I push him onto his back and unbutton his shirt, one button at a time. His chest is hard and warm under my hands as I kiss down his stomach.

When I open his belt and pull his jeans down, his cock springs free, thick and hard and already wet at the tip. I wrap my hand around him and stroke slowly, and he hisses.

I take him in my mouth. I lick around the head, then slide down as far as I can, and his hips jerk off the bed. His hand rests in my hair, light, never pushing. I look up, and he's watching me with his mouth open.

"Stop," he says, almost laughing. "If you keep doing that, I won't last."

"That's the idea."

"Not yet." He pulls me up by the arms and kisses me. "I want to be inside you."

He reaches for the drawer, and I hear the small tear of the wrapper. I take it from him and roll it on, slowly, because I want to watch his face while I do it.

Then I climb on top because I want to be the one to decide, and he lets me. I hold him against me and sink down, one slow inch at a time. The stretch makes us both stop breathing.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel so good."

"Don't talk," I say, and I move.

I rock my hips, slow at first, then deeper. His hands stay on my waist, exactly where I put them. He sits up to take my nipple in his mouth again, and I ride him harder, and the sounds we hear in the room get filthy, skin on skin, his groans, my breath breaking.

"Look at me," he commands.

I obey. His eyes are dark and wide open. He rolls us over like it's nothing, and I land on my back laughing, and he kisses me through it.

He sits back on his heels. "Can I take you from behind?"

Fuck, I love that he asks. "Yes."

I get on my hands and knees. He grips my hips and pushes inside me in one smooth stroke, and I moan into the pillow.

He starts slow, then faster, his hips slapping against my ass, deep every time. His hand slides around my front and finds my clit, rubbing it in tight, quick circles.

"Louder," he says. "I want to hear it."

"Right there," I say, and it comes out as a sob. "Don't stop. Right there."

He doesn't. He pounds into me, and my arms give out, and I press my face into the blanket and scream. The second one hits harder than the first. It shakes me from the inside, again and again, and I feel myself squeeze around him.

"Fuck, I can't," he groans. "Turn over. I want to see you."

I roll onto my back, and he pushes into me again, faster now, with my legs wrapped around his hips. He holds himself over me, and our eyes lock. Every deep stroke makes my breath catch. I pull his mouth down to mine and bite his lip.

"Tell me if it's too much," he says into my ear. “I’ll stop right…”

"It's not." I dig my nails into his shoulders, letting the action speak for itself . "More."

And his thrusts get faster and rougher as his breath breaks against my neck. "I'm close," he says. "I’m fucking close."

"Then come.”

He thrusts once, twice, and then he goes stiff and groans against my skin, shaking hard until he drops down next to me, and we lie there breathing like we ran a mile.

For a long time, neither of us talks.

"That was amazing," I finally say and I don't even try to be cool about it.

"I know." He turns his head and grins. He wraps his hand around my cheek, a gesture none of the guys i’ve slept with before tried to do so. Then his face softens. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good." And the strange part is that it's true.

He pulls the blanket over us and tucks me against his chest. His arm is heavy and warm around my waist. His heartbeat is under my ear, slow and almost even now. Then he kisses my forehead softly, lasting more than a second.

"Sleep, beautiful." he murmurs, before drifting off to sleep himself.

I always leave before morning. That's my rule, and I have never broken it.

But at this moment, it feels like I'm going to break my own code for the first time in my whole, shitty life.