by MV Ellis
We don’t get to talk again for the rest of the evening, but while we mingle separately, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Even before the Marnie show kicked off, no matter where each of us was in the room, no matter who we were talking to, I found my gaze drawn to her. The pull she has over me is magnetic. Now, whenever she glances my way, which is often, the playful sexuality of her earlier looks is gone. Instead, she gifts me with a small, tight smile, as though even that’s hard to manage. It’s better than nothing, but she’s clearly holding back. Still, I can work with that, I just need time. I was enjoying the launch before the whole Marnie mess, but now I can’t wait for everyone to get the fuck out of here so I can talk to her alone.
The next few hours feel like the longest of my life, which in my line of work is really saying something. With so much travel, so many interviews and other publicity bullshit, we have some long-ass days. What is it about our relationship that seems to always have me waiting? Waiting for London to give me an inch. Waiting to tell her I love her. Waiting for her to admit she loves me too. Waiting to have her to myself once and for all. I’m not a patient man, never have been, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. The waiting is fucking killing me.
When we finally say goodbye to the last guests, I can’t wait to get her out of the studio, into the car, and home. I hustle her past the crowd of paparazzi, among the flashbulbs and mandatory jeers. “Arlo! Arlo! This way! Give us a smile. A wave!” “London, how did the show go?” “Are you two ‘official’ now?” “Where are you headed?” Standard procedure and pretty much a constant feature in my life, but London is like a frightened rabbit. She hates this shit at the best of times, let alone right now. It’s been a long and emotional day, and I can see it’s all starting to get to her.
As the driver pulls away from the sidewalk, I turn to her. She’s crying. Not big sobs, just slow, full tears silently cascading down her cheeks. She says nothing. My chest tightens like someone is squeezing it with a vise. I never realized love was such a physical thing, that I would literally feel my emotions in my organs and limbs, but I do. The love I have for this girl is instinctive and ingrained in me. I pull her into my embrace, but she doesn’t yield to me.
“I’m sorry.” It’s lame, but I am sorry, and it’s all I’ve got right now.
She stares dead ahead. “What for?”
“My shit. Gramps, Luke, Marnie. Me. All of it.”
She draws a ragged breath. “Why was she even there? ”
Good question. “A misunderstanding between her and Luke. It should never have happened, and trust me, I’m majorly pissed. I’ll be taking it up with him again tomorrow.” And by “taking it up,” I mean tearing him a new asshole and feeding the old one to the wolves.
“Why would she even want to be there? I thought you broke it off with her ages ago.”
“There was nothing to break off, but I thought I did too. I mean I did. The thing between us was never really a thing, but whatever it was, as far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient history. I don’t know what’s going on with her, and why she would want to crash something like that. But she is one of our oldest friends, so maybe she just wanted to be part of something so major in my life. As a friend, I mean. I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I genuinely can’t work out why the hell she would want to be anywhere near London’s launch. The whole thing is epically weird.
“I think Luke was right when he told me all those months ago that she’s in love with you. That it was never just sex for her, like it was for you.” Her voice is small and sad. Shit. I never want to admit that Luke might be right about anything, but I can’t deny Marnie’s behavior seems to point that way, even though I had previously denied it. Why couldn’t I see it before?
“I’m sorry I tainted your night, L, but I’ll handle the situation with Marnie, again. I swear.” She sighs and nods silently. I hate not knowing what’s going on in her head, which seems to happen often.
As we pull into the underground garage at Rosamond House, I’m thankful we don’t have to negotiate the paparazzi madness again. Still, I can’t get London into the house and upstairs to my bedroom—our bedroom—fast enough. I carry her over the threshold, new bride style, and whisper, “Welcome home,” into her hair. She looks up at me and smiles indulgently, her love for me radiating from her captivating caramel-colored eyes. I heave a huge internal sigh of relief. I’m forgiven.
In the bedroom, although part of me is desperate to be inside her right now—the sooner the better—another part of me wants to take the time to enjoy this moment. Though we’ve already fucked today, upstairs in the studio with a room full of people mingling below, it was fast and furious. It was also before London told me she loves me.
This time feels different. It is different. Not only do we not have to worry about two hundred people hearing every grunt and thrust, but this is also a first. The first time since we officially became a couple, in the bed we’re going to share every night, forever. My already hard cock stiffens further at the thought. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to take it slow. I want to appreciate every moment of what’s about to go down. No pun intended.
I lay London on the bed, spreading her legs, affording myself a stellar view of her pussy. If there’s a more perfect sight in the world, damn if I know what it is, especially when it’s gleaming wet and ready for me. My dick strains painfully against my pants, reminding me to remove them. Commando as usual, I spring free as soon as I get the zipper undone. A few swift movements and my pants are in a heap on the floor, followed by London’s.
I quickly kneel between her legs, lowering my mouth to her clit and taking a deep breath in. I can smell her arousal, and I love it. She squirms in anticipation of my next move. Not wanting to disappoint, I slide my hands under her butt and lower my head to bring her to my mouth. I flick her clit with my tongue, lightly at first, causing her body to jolt, then harder, applying just the amount of pressure I know will make her body sing. Sure enough, she pushes herself up to my lips, wanting more. Who am I to deny her? I oblige, flicking her clit a few more times before slipping my tongue inside her. Dripping wet, she tastes like heaven. I feel her walls tighten around my tongue immediately.
She’s close already. Damn. She pauses for a moment, clearly trying to collect herself, before pushing up against me again. I fuck her with my mouth for a little while, but don’t want her to come until I’m inside her. When I feel like she’s getting too close, I quickly pull back, causing her to groan her displeasure. The sound goes straight to my balls—they tighten painfully. I swear, this woman will be the death of me.
I straighten up a little and reach across her to retrieve a condom from the vanity. Now that we’re officially together, I hope we can go without them soon—we’re both clean. We haven’t discussed it yet and it’s definitely not the time for that particular conversation. So at least for now, I stick to the arrangement we made a few months ago—condoms as well as London’s birth control pills. Better safe than sorry, right? I get it on as quickly as possible and rest between her legs again. While I was sheathing up, London took the opportunity to take off her shirt, and is now lying on the bed in all her bare-breasted glory, playing with her nipples. Holy. Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a while and concentrate hard on not coming.
After a few deep breaths, I’m ready to go. London is still squeezing her nipples, alternating from one to the other and letting out little involuntary moans as she does. I need to be inside her right now. Her being so wet, as ever, makes it easy for me to slip between her slick folds as I lift her butt up to meet me again. Jesus Christ. It’s not that I’d forgotten how good it feels to be inside her; it’s just that the overwhelming sensation somehow takes me by surprise every time.
I’ve nailed a boatload of women, more than I could ever even hope to count or even remember, but one thing I know is that it never felt this way with any of them. Ever. It’s like all this time I’ve been gorging myself on cheap coke cut with baby milk and God knows wh
at else, until one day, I get my hands on some true Colombian, and it’s a whole different class of experience. One from which I can never go back, nor do I want to. True story.
Just the thought of giving up London has me thrusting desperately inside her. I feel her clamp around me, taking every inch I have to offer. I push deeper still, and her breath catches as I reach the hilt. She takes a few more deep breaths to situate herself and acclimate to the feeling of taking me deep. Yeah, baby. Once she’s there, I bend her knees farther, allowing me to push deeper. We establish our rhythm again, rocking together, frantic but perfectly in sync.
I lean forward so my chest is covering hers, and for the first time slip my hand around the base of her delicate neck, applying a small amount of pressure. Her neck is sexy as all hell. She’s got that ballet dancer swanlike thing happening in spades. Her body bucks again—she’s shaking like a leaf, feverish with arousal. My girl likes a little rough play. Good. I thrust deeper, harder, and faster, aided by London who has reached around me to grab my butt, drawing me farther into her as though trying to mold the two of us into one.
Chapter Four
My orgasm hits me like a train—and without the usual buildup or warning. My whole body spasms out of control as the waves of my climax flow over and through me. I’m totally unprepared and don’t get the chance to make sure that London is there with me. Another first. Luckily she is, and we come hard together in perfect unison. But as I look down to meet her eyes, I see that they have clouded over. Clearly she has something on her mind. What the fuck?
“Hey, Tog, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. Umm… I think I’m just overwhelmed and overtired or something. It’s been a big day. In fact, a big few months. Ignore me.”
Not gonna happen.
“You’re pretty hard to ignore, sweets. Especially when I’m balls deep inside you.” I smile down at her, hoping to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t seem to work. She props herself up on her elbows, looking into my eyes, but more importantly allowing me to look into hers, to really see her. The connection we have is clear when our gazes lock. I stare at her, long, hard, and unblinking. I’m sure the worry I feel is etched on my features, just like hers is.
“Seriously, you okay, babe?” I probe again.
“Yeah I am, I promise. I know you’re sick of hearing me say I’m overwhelmed, but it’s true. It’s been a hell of a few months, as you know, and I’ve been running on nervous energy and little else. The tour, the photos, the interviews, the show tonight… it’s… big. I guess. I mean, I know it’s just another day at the office for you, but for me it’s a lot to handle. The crash was inevitable. I’m just relieved I made it through the show before losing my shit.
“I’m so unbelievably tired. I’ve been bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. It’s so unlike me, but I guess exhaustion will do that to you. I can’t wait to catch up on some sleep and get back to my normal self. I’m fine, honestly.” She licks her lips slowly and salaciously.
Although I’m aware she’s trying to distract me from what’s really going on with her, it doesn’t stop my body responding—I’m hardwired to want her. Still inside her, I feel my dick twitch again. I don’t think I will ever be able to get enough of this woman.
“You’re killing me here, London. Killing me,” I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her thick black curls are completely out of control right now—I love them at the best of times, but even more so now, when she’s sporting the “freshly fucked by Arlo” look. I guess it’s kind of a caveman thing. Like I’ve left my mark on my woman in more ways than one. I love it, but I need to stop thinking this way. As much as I’d like to go for round two, I really don’t think it’s the right time.
“We’ve had this conversation before, Tog, and you know I’m not going to be okay with you holding back on me, right?” I know her well enough by now to know that if something’s not right with her, it’s far from “nothing,” and if I ignore it now, I’ll regret it later.
I run my fingertips up and down her ribs, idly stroking her tattoo as I speak. I love it. Strength Through Weakness is totally appropriate for her. For someone so physically small, she’s one of the toughest and most resilient people I know. It may be discreet—you’d only see it if you were intimate with her—but it’s totally intrinsic to who she is.
It’s the same with the cluster of silvery scars on her hip. They’re an everyday reminder of how fleeting life is. How one day—in fact, one tiny moment, one split second in one day—almost tore her from the world. Each time I look at those scars, which is often, I fall in love with her a little more. I’m also thankful they’re there. They mean she’s a little broken, like we all are, but more importantly, they mean she’s here.
“We’re gonna be married someday, but for us to ever get to that point, you need to trust me. With what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. With everything.”
London chokes on thin air. I don’t think she’d look more shocked if Elvis turned up carrying Bigfoot in his arms.
“Don’t look so horrified. Anybody would think I said I’m going to eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Judging by her expression, I think she’d almost rather that. Fuck. I should be offended. I swallow my pride, something I seem to be required to do on an almost daily basis to survive life with London Llwellyn. I lean toward her, planting tiny light kisses down her spine.
“You’re…” Kiss. “…perfect…” Kiss. “…and…” Kiss. “…one…” Kiss. “…day…” Kiss. “…you’re…” Kiss. “…going…” Kiss. “…to…” Kiss. “…be…” Kiss. “…my…” Kiss. “…wife…” Kiss. “…and…” Kiss. “…have…” Kiss. “…my…” Kiss. “…babies.” Kiss.
“Knock it off, Arlo. That’s not something you should joke about, even if you’re trying to cheer me up.” Finally she speaks! She tries to scooch out of reach of my kisses, but I simply move across the bed with her, scooping her up in my arms. She always feels so tiny when I hug her, I guess because compared to my six-four frame, she is. It’s just that her personality more than makes up for her physical size, so I always think of her as bigger than she really is.
“No joke. I’m deadly serious. Never been so serious about something or someone in my life.” She starts to squirm in my arms, but I hold firm.
“I know it’s just the post-orgasm endorphins talking, Arlo.” She’s starting to sound angry. What the actual fuck? Before I can come back in my defense, she continues.
“I’m also pretty sure that unless you’re blind drunk in Vegas and accidentally have a quickie Elvis wedding with a hooker, I’ve got more chance of walking on the moon than I have of seeing you walk down the aisle. With anyone.”
At that, she leaves me openmouthed as she wraps the sheet around her body and stomps into the bathroom, I presume to clean up. I feel like I have whiplash with this woman. One minute we’re coming down from our postcoital high, the next I’m inadvertently offending her in yet another unexpected way. Music, I get. Bars and clubs, I get. Tattoos, I get. Fucking, I get. Love? London? Not so much. I sigh and wait for her to emerge from the bathroom.
“Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think that you’d freaked out and hightailed it out the window. That would have been a first—it’s usually me bailing, not the chick.” I grin, hoping that my good humor will prove infectious.
“I was just trying, and failing, to tame the stupid bed hair.” Funny that she hates it whereas I find it unbelievably sexy.
As she approaches the edge of the bed, I pull the sheet from her body, yanking her down toward me.
“I swear I will never tire of looking at this body,” I murmur, a note of awe in my voice. I pull her in closer, so her back is against my chest. I’ve never been the spooning type. In fact, I’ve never been the type to want anything after sex except maybe another round and a fat blunt. If a woman is still there ten minutes after we’re done, I start to get restless, even with Marnie. Hell, te
n minutes seems long. Yet with London, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.
She traces idly around my tattoos with the tip of her forefinger. It’s such a small, almost subconscious gesture, but so intimate. As she often does, she begins narrowing the path of her finger, circling one particular tattoo.
“This one’s new. Tell me about it?” she says finally, scrutinizing the ink on my chest. It’s a little ritual we have. She picks a tattoo and asks me to tell her the story behind it.
“Yeah, I guess you could say it’s new.”
“So…?” Her tone is probing. Why does this feel like an inquisition?
“So…?” I have the feeling my stalling is getting me nowhere except further under the microscope.
“So tell me.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I can tell she’s not going to let it go until I spill the beans. I guess I deserve it. When I want to know something about her, I’m like a dog with a bone—I won’t take no for an answer.
“It’s a hummingbird.” A hummingbird flying out of an open birdcage door, to be exact.
“I have a pair of working eyes, Arlo. I can see that. You know how this game works, so why are you dragging it out? Is there something you don’t want me to know? Is it about Marnie or something?”
Where the fuck did that come from? “What? No, of course not. The opposite, in fact.” I sigh. I had hoped we could let the subject drop, but now with the mention of Marnie, I can’t.
“Hummingbirds are beautiful. They’re these tiny delicate-looking little creatures, but they’re capable of so much more than their fragile appearance would suggest. Just being in flight takes unbelievable strength, yet they make it look effortless. They flap their wings, and then they’re there, but not there, you know? It’s like they hover somewhere between reality and another world that the rest of us can only observe from afar.”