by Teagan Kade
She bucks and lifts from the bed, forcing me to hold her down while I work and soak in the exquisite tastes and textures of her pussy.
My cock’s about to put a dent in the side of the bed, so I draw away and stand.
She sits up, panting. “What is it?”
I raise a finger, moving to the side table as quickly as I can and opening the drawer there. “Give me one second.”
I find a foil wrapper and tear it with my teeth, sheathing myself.
I climb onto the bed and position myself between her open legs, resting my arms on either side of her head and cupping her face. “You’re so perfect, so completely, utterly perfect I don’t even know if this is real.”
She smiles, her eyes glassy and glazed. “Neither do I.”
I slide inside her as we kiss, plunging deep into her body. She cries out, but the kiss swallows the sound. She’s tight, wonderfully tight, but her arousal helps, drawing me deeper with every thrust.
Every time my cock runs into her it’s pure bliss. I feel as though I’m about to shatter from the inside-out the feel of her body is so exquisite, so silky and wet, caressing the entire length of my cock with every stroke.
Her head falls back and she opens her eyes to take me in, her lips lightly parted. The sight alone is enough to kick me into second gear. I thrust harder and faster, deepening my strokes until she’s bucking up against me, the two of us working in tandem to heighten the pleasure, the tension growing between us.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she’s panting, a quiet mantra as her eyes go wide and she thrusts against me with everything she has.
My balls tighten and I know I won’t be able to hold out much longer. She’s undone me.
Her panting grows in intensity, her eyes saucer-wide and mouth fully open, her entire body tightening, her sex closing around my cock.
It’s too much.
Our eyes lock and she gives a little jerk, her body starting to convulse, her pussy clamping and releasing around my length in orgasm.
With a final, haggard thrust, I bury myself all the way inside her, my mouth open but no sound escaping as the initial throes of my own climax take me.
It’s the most intense feeling I’ve ever known, light exploding in front of my eyes as I come, my cock firing endlessly inside the welcome grip of her body, pumping and releasing until it feels like my very soul is going with it.
I think she groans, I shout, but it’s unclear in the foggy limbo of climax, that cage of pleasure I find myself in that stops me thinking past anything but my own pleasure.
Spent, I collapse onto the bed and pull her into my chest. She’s still wearing her shirt, her bra somewhere around the top of her chest.
Her body jerks with the aftershocks, my cock joining in, kicking from my chest.
I’d never felt such satisfaction before. Normally I’d be thinking of how to kick them out by now, the numbing effects of lovemaking kicking my brain back into gear, but not this time.
This was different. I can only pray Sofia feels the same.
We don’t speak, instead lying there together in that semi-light, the world outside a million miles away.
CHAPTER TEN
SOFIA
Waking up next to Ethan is the best kind of dream. Even if it all fades away today, I know I’ll have last night to remember.
But I don’t want anything to change. I want it to go on like this forever.
Ethan kisses the top of my forehead. “Morning, beautiful.”
I can see past him it’s already 10am. We’ve slept in, it would seem.
I smile back. “You look awfully pleased with yourself.”
He falls back into the bed, fingers playing with my hair. “Refreshed, revitalized… and ready for more?”
I could certainly go another round myself, but I can’t seem to pull my thoughts away from the story. “Has anyone called?”
He reaches across for his phone and checks. “Nothing. Sorry.”
“Can I call Abbey, the reporter?”
He seems a little unsure, but when I pout he rolls his eyes and gives in. “Fine, fine, let me find the number.”
He passes the cell over. “Don’t be disappointed if you can’t get through.”
“I won’t.”
I sit up waiting on hold while Ethan swings out of bed and heads towards the kitchen.
A voice comes onto the line. “Hello?”
“Hi, Abbey. It’s Sofia… the amnesia girl?” I add, feeling incredibly foolish for somehow gifting myself with this title.
It does the trick, though. “Yes, Sofia! Hi,” starts Abbey, the TV world a-bustle in the background. “How have you been?”
In-freakin’-credible, I want to yell, thinking back to last night, but I maintain my composure. “Very well, thank you.”
“What can I do for you?”
I shift my weight to my other foot, pressing the phone a little firmer against the side of my head. “I was just wondering if you’d had anyone call in, to identify me?”
“About your story?” She shouts to someone in the distance. I can’t hear what they say back. “I’m sorry, Sofia, but no one’s called—at least no one who’s not completely crazy, and we got plenty of those.”
I’m shocked. “No one?”
“Give it a time for word to spread.” More shouting in the background, a buzzer going on. “I have to go, sorry.”
“Yes, sure, thank you,” but she’s already hung up.
So much for my hopes of instant identification. Did I really think it would be that simple?
What if your husband had called in? I look at my hand and don’t see a wedding band mark.
A boyfriend? It’s possible, though I don’t feel like I have one. It’s kind of the last thing I’d want given the sheet-heating nocturnal escapades of one Ethan Meyers.
I almost drop the phone when it starts to ring in my hand, ‘Private Number’ showing on screen. “Ah, Ethan?” I call.
He arrives in his boxers, a carton of milk in one hand.
I hold the phone out. “It’s for you, I think?”
He takes the phone and answers, placing the milk down and using his free hand to sweep up my side under my nightshirt until it’s cupping a breast, his thumb sweeping over my nipple.
I close my eyes and relax into it, note the way my legs are starting to buckle at even this simple touch.
He takes his hand away. “Again?” he says.
There’s muffled conversation on the other end of the line.
He runs his hand through his hair, looking at his feet. “Fine, okay. We’ll see you then.”
He throws the phone onto the bed.
“Who was it?” I ask.
“The police,” he answers. “They’ll be around in half an hour to talk to you.”
“Do they have new information?”
He shrugs. “They wouldn’t say.”
He approaches me until we’re chest to chest. His hardness grows against my hip, his heart beating above mine. “The real question is, how many times can I make you come in thirty minutes?”
*
I’m still buttoning my blouse and raking my hair when Ethan goes to answer the door.
I settle myself into the sofa, a delightful and welcome ache between my thighs where Ethan was inside me only minutes ago, a second orgasm folding into the first and threatening to leave me comatose against the shower tiles.
I straighten my back and place my hands in my lap as our guests enter.
Ethan remains standing.
These two men show me police badges, but they’re in casual clothes, not uniformed like the police who interviewed me at the hospital.
The first man, who looks to be in his mid-forties with little hair and oddly dark eyebrows, introduces himself as Detective Diaz and, gesturing to his younger partner, Detective Hayes.
“Does someone know who I am?” I ask, eager for news.
Detective Diaz tempers my question with a raised hand. “Not yet, I’m afraid, but we
do have some follow-up questions.”
The detectives seat themselves on the two table chairs Ethan placed opposite the lounge when we emerged from our shower sex-a-thon.
“I already gave a statement to the police at the hospital,” I tell them, unsure why they’re here. Ethan looks equally puzzled. I look up at him and can x-ray right through those clothes, can picture full well the hard lines of his body, can feel them against my own.
“Have you recalled anything else since you last spoke to the police?” asks Hayes.
I look to Diaz. “No, officers.”
They exchange a look I can’t read.
Diaz presses the side of his cheek out with his tongue, nodding. “Look, you should know we found a weapon in a nearby dumpster to where you were found, a revolver. It wasn’t registered, of course.”
I look to Ethan for help, but he’s just standing there. I return my attention to the detectives, confused. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Do you know anything about the weapon, Sofia?” starts Hayes, his tone firming. “It really is in your best interests, legally, to tell us if you do, to tell us everything.”
“Easy,” warns Ethan, “she doesn’t remember.”
“You’re the paramedic?” asks Diaz.
Ethan nods. “I am.”
Diaz smiles at me. “I see.”
Again, I don’t know what’s going on, but I get the feeling I’m under interrogation here, that these men believe I know more than I’m telling them. “I don’t know anything about a gun, or a dumpster. I don’t even know my last name,” I blubber, the words running on together.
Another exchanged look before Hayes speaks. “Sofia, we need to know what happened. Tell us and we can help you.”
My head’s starting to ache, and not the pleasant thanks-to-Ethan kind. “I don’t know. What do you want me to say?”
“The truth, for a start,” says Diaz, losing his patience. “Tell us what you’re involved in here, right now.”
This is getting out of hand.
Ethan comes around and steps in front of me, his hands wide. “Hey, hey, hey now. She’s telling you she doesn’t remember anything. Bullying her like this isn’t going to get you a response. It’s not going to suddenly jog her memory back.”
Diaz stands to shirt-front him, even though he’s a good foot shorter. “You seem to be taking an awfully special interest here, Mr. Paramedic.” He looks past Ethan at me. “I can sort of see why.”
Ethan goes to move towards him, but Hayes lightly pushes Diaz back. “We need to know what happened,” he tells Ethan.
“Don’t we all?” he replies. “Does she need an attorney? Is that where this needs to go next?”
That seems to quieten them down.
“There’s no implication of wrongdoing here… yet,” says Hayes, “but we’re investigating all angles.”
“I think you better leave,” barks Ethan, hands on his hips.
I expect the detectives to pull rank, but they nod and turn, leaving quietly through the front door before Diaz reappears, placing his business card on the carpet. “If, you know, you get your memory back.”
Ethan slams the door shut. “Fuckers.” He bends to pick up the business card, flicking it into the corner of the room. “You good?”
It’s taking a while to calm down, but I nod. “Have I done something wrong?”
Ethan kneels before me, taking up my hands, kissing them. “No, no. Don’t even think like that.”
“But how do you know? It sure seemed like there was something they weren’t telling me, and they are the police, after all.”
“This isn’t going to do you any good.”
But I can’t stop thinking about it. “Until now I thought I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but you heard them. I want to believe I am—was a good person, but I can’t be sure, can I? I could be anyone.”
Ethan’s hands shift to hold my face. “I know who are you and you are not a criminal. It’s simply not possible.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Call it professional instinct.”
“Are your instincts always right?”
He smiles. “Most of the time.”
He stands and kisses me on the forehead, his lips light. “What you need is a distraction.”
“If I come again,” I laugh, “I’m pretty sure you’ll be driving me back to the hospital.”
Now Ethan seems pleased with himself. “That good, huh? But no, I was thinking something more like, I don’t know, dancing? Do you think you remember how to dance?”
I pull his hands away, dipping my head to the side. “Do you remember how to butter toast?”
*
We spend most of the day like semi-dressed sloths watching TV and ordering in takeaway. In a way I don’t want to remember who I am because this life seems so great already. I don’t care there’s a world outside. Ethan’s all I need.
After dinner I slide on the one dress I picked up at Target, a classic navy sheath, and stand in front of the bathroom mirror trying to work out what to do with my hair. I pull it up behind my head, looking left and right.
Ethan comes up behind me, his hands sliding around my waist. In a white shirt and distressed denim he’s irresistible. I spin around and stand on my tip-toes to kiss him, reaching around to squeeze his butt. “Maybe we should stay here instead.”
His hands drop to my ass and the squeezing is returned. “You need to get out.”
“I need to get off, maybe,” I tease.
He thrusts his pelvis forward. “Clearly, you’ve never danced with me before.”
“You’re saying you can make me come on the dancefloor?”
“Stranger things have happened. Here,” he draws back and opens his hand to reveal a pair of pendant earrings.
“Who do they belong to?”
He shrugs. “Who knows?”
I shove him in the chest. “Are you really that much of a man-whore? Should I leave before I become another notch on your belt?”
He looks down at his belt. “No notches, no more man-whore. I’ve only got eyes for one girl.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re stealing lines from rom-coms now?”
He laughs at that. “I’ve been stealing them for years.”
I take the earrings and spin back around to the mirror. “Alright then, Elvis. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
*
Apparently it’s ‘retro night’ at the Astoria. I don’t think I’ve been here before, but the songs are familiar. I’m feeling buzzed even though I’m pretty sure there was no alcohol in my Shirley Temple. This doesn’t seem like a buzz you’d find in the bottom of a glass or bottle.
Ethan’s no Elvis, but he’s definitely enthusiastic on the dancefloor. He may only have eyes for me, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more than a few sets directed his way.
I try to ignore the other girls who seem significantly younger and significantly better (read: far more scantily) dressed than I am.
“I think I like this,” I tell Ethan, swinging my arms and shifting my body around in time to the music.
“Dancing?” he laughs, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “They say it’s the hidden language of the soul.”
I laugh back as he spins on the spot, throwing his arm up and whooping aloud. “I don’t think that’s any language I’ve heard before, at least not on this planet.”
He holds his heart. “You’re killing me.”
The song changes, the beat booming along. It’s really catchy but, yet again, I can’t place it. I cup my ear. “What’s this song?” I shout. “I love it.”
“Aqua, Barbie Girl.”
“Does everyone like it?”
Ethan cracks up. “Not exactly.”
I keep on dancing, sliding my arms around Ethan’s neck. “I bet Ally does.”
He holds me away. “What did you say?”
The music’s so loud I can barely hear him. “What?”
I think back. “Ally?”
He takes my hand and leads me from the dancefloor, leading us right into a hallway down the back of the club where the music, though loud, is more muffled. “Who’s Ally?”
“Ally Grose,” I reply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, picturing us spinning around on the dancefloor just like Ethan and I were right now. Ally, the girl in the locket with me.
Ethan’s smiling. “You remember. Do you know what this means?”
It suddenly occurs to me what has happened. “I remember!” I shout, yelling it at a girl dancing beside me. “I remember!”
She jumps back like I’m insane.
“I remember,” I tell Ethan, my mood falling when I realize that’s all I remember—her name.
“Hey,” he says, holding me, “it’s a start.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ETHAN
Sofia’s leaning over my shoulder, the light from the laptop screen the only illumination in the room. She was so eager to search for her friend we didn’t even have time to switch on the lights.
I think we can both feel it now, the thrill of the chase. This is the first tangible, concrete piece of information Sofia’s remembered yet. It could be the key to everything, and with that comes a certain sense of excitement… and anxiety.
I load up Facebook and punch ‘Ally Grose’ into the search bar. If it was Ally Smith or Jones we might have been in trouble, but as it stands only five results pop up. “See anyone you recognize?” I ask.
Sofia leans closer to the screen, her hair brushing the side of my neck, her breast against my shoulder blade. I want to slap the laptop closed and take her in my arms, but I know this is too important. One-on-one time can come later.
Sofia scrutinizes the tiny profile pics. “Mmm, I’m not sure.”
I start to read off the locations. “We’ve got an Ally Grose in Melbourne, Australia; Louisville, West Virginia, Philadelphia…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, pointing at the screen. “Philadelphia. Cheesesteaks. Ah, Tony’s.”
I spin around. “Whoa there,” I laugh, “this isn’t Family Feud.”