by Trudy Doyle
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, Pam!” It’s Leslie. “Josh was just here looking for you and he’s mad as hell.”
I squelch a laugh. “Well, tell him to come and get me.”
“No fooling, Pam, he was livid. Seems he just came from school—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Renee just called and gave me the news. His suit is so over, Les. All that bullshit about my stealing from him? Well, my boy just found out he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Which is what’s making him go ballistic!”
“Ballistic? Please. He couldn’t even spell the word.”
She huffs. “Look, I don’t think you get me, honey. I’ve never seen him like this. It was scary. He looked ready to break bones.”
“He couldn’t even break wind.”
“But he was like a maniac!”
“Leslie, he’s an actor. He was just projecting.”
“Where are you now?”
Right where I want to be. “At Serious Joe.”
“Well, that makes me feel a little better. But you be careful anyway.”
“I’m always careful, don’t worry. I’ll call you later.” She rings off.
And just in time because here comes my breakfast. “Banana and orange sections, whole grain bagel with vegetable cream cheese, pot of Mocha Javette.” Ashley stands back, her eyes widening with the hope of approval.
I gift her with my toothiest grin. “I couldn’t have picked better myself,” I say, sliding the cup over. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome!” She bounces off.
I pour some coffee and grab the Philadelphia Inquirer off the free paper rack, my own copy forgotten on the stoop. I really didn’t think I’d be having breakfast alone. I kind of hoped I’d be breakfast for someone else. Who isn’t here, not yet anyway. Ah well, life goes on. I spear a banana slice, snapping the Inky open.
The door tinks, slams. I look up.
“There you are,” he says, stomping over.
I turn a page. “Morning, Josh. Crawl out from under your rock already?”
He presses his fingers to the table, which just happens to be covered by the editorial section. “You bitch. I just came from school, and because of you I might get thrown out of the program.”
“Oh please, don’t give me all the credit. I’m sure your talent for screwing up precedes you.” I flick his thumb. “Mind removing your tentacles from my paper?”
“Fuck your paper!” he screeches, shoving it to the floor. Instantly, the place falls silent. “If you think this is going to end it you’re dead wrong! I will so fucking make your life hell, you little cunt—”
“Hey you.” I look up. Roark, standing in the doorway, his face as still as pond water. “You’re upsetting the customers.”
Josh ignores him, leaning into me. “I’m not only going to sue you, I’ll sue your publisher, I’ll sue your agent, I’ll sue your fucking cat!”
“Hey!” In an instant Roark’s behind him, his hand clamping onto Josh’s shoulder. “I don’t think you heard me—”
“Back off, asshole!” Josh shrieks, flinging off his arm, the room heaving a collective gasp. “This is between me and my girlfriend so get the fuck— Urp!”
“You got a death wish, sweetheart? Because I’ll tell you what.” Roark’s hoisted Josh by the collar, his face shoved into his. “I’ll make your dreams come true.”
“I— Uh, er…” Josh chokes out, his color alternating between shitless white and airless red. “Errr…nuh…uh…”
Roark smiles icily. “That’s what I thought.” He loosens his hold, though barely. “Now you listen to me, you little slime. I want you out of here so fast I want to see flames flying out your ass, and if you come within ten feet of this woman again, I swear to God you’ll learn a whole new definition of hell. You get me, sweetheart?”
Josh says nothing. He just shakes himself loose and runs for his life, out the door so fast I think I do see flames. As the door slams, the entire place breaks into applause.
Roark smiles graciously, calling out, “Coffee on the house!” and the applause turns to hoots and hollers. Then he turns to me. “You. Come with me.” He grabs my hand, tugging me toward the back.
We don’t stop until we’re behind the closed door of his office. He presses me to it, holding my face between his fingers. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
He’s frantic, truly upset. “I’m fine. He didn’t touch me.”
“You sure?” No kidding, the man looks a wreck.
“Yes, of course.” But when I close my hands over his I’m shaking. Terribly.
He grasps me by the wrists. “Jesus,” he whispers, his eyes flaring, “That miserable fuck—” Next thing I know I’m being yanked from his office and out the back door.
“Where we going?” I ask as he tugs me down the sidewalk.
“Guess,” he says, low and lethal, and I feel lightheaded, anxious, not only from coffee, lack of sleep and not having eaten anything past a bite of banana at six the night before. But also from the plain fact I have a pretty good idea where Roark is taking me. A minute later, we’re climbing my stoop.
“Open the door,” he says.
I do, and he hauls me up the steps. One more door and we’re in my living room, the vestiges from my night of literary debauchery strewn about the floor and desk. He finally lets go to leave me standing in the middle of the room, his eyes burning into mine.
“Strip,” he says.
I flinch. “What?”
“Take your clothes off.” He takes a step back. “Please.”
A shiver zips down my spine. Naked with Roark seems nearly a natural state, but I know this is different. With his eyes intent and every muscle in his neck on alert, I should be wary, but all I can do is stare until suddenly, I’m complying. As though I’m on autopilot, I’m shrugging out of my coat, kicking off my shoes, sloughing off my jeans, my socks, my shirt and my bra, and when I wiggle out of my panties I’m naked and very, very warm, from my own breathlessness and Roark’s unshakeable gaze on me.
Roark says nothing, just stares until his gaze rakes over me as though he’s taking inventory. Then he steps forward and cups my breasts. My nipples harden instantly and I moan.
He smiles, tweaking one, shooting a tiny electric bolt to my groin. One hand slides to my bottom and he nearly lifts me off the floor, hauling me against the scratchiness of his wool overcoat. With one hand still at my breast, he tilts me back and seizes my mouth with his, his tongue insistently thrusting. His other hand ruthlessly kneads my behind, his still-sheltered cock thickening against me, the thought of it unleashed releasing another groan from deep within my throat.
His head lifts. “You want this?” he asks, grinding his hips. “How badly?” His finger slides into me. I jolt against him, nearly buckling to the floor. He whirls me around and falls to his knees, his big hands splaying across my thighs as he presses me to the wall, his thumbs spreading my lower lips. With my clit pulsing and exposed and hard as a rock, I can feel my heart pounding in my ears, my throat as dry as my palms are clammy. He lowers his mouth to me and then I feel his breath, blowing hot and on target as I sway in his grasp. His grip tightens and he growls something indiscernible a split second before his tongue flicks my swollen clit.
I gasp.
His finger shoots inside me and I’m gone, lost in a violent roll of pleasure as his tongue licks and flicks and sucks me relentlessly, my bottom quivering, my hands latched on to the thick waves of his hair, his mouth devouring me. He spreads my legs and suddenly I’m up on my toes, half crouching as he cocks his head and his tongue spears into me, my breath shuddering as he wrings out the last strains of orgasm, my mind blissfully spinning from his gorgeous assault. A second later he retreats and I’m hauled upright, Roark pressing his still fully clothed body against me.
“Show me every place in this house he fucked you,” he says.
“What?” I ask, still free-floating.
; He touches my pussy and I buck against him. “Tell me” he growls, stepping back, slipping off his coat.
I’m beyond speaking at the moment. Especially while he begins his slow strip to nakedness. I’m sure he’s fully aware he’s doing this to torture me, kicking off his shoes, pulling off his polo, unbuckling his belt to drop his khakis. But the absolute worst is when he bends to yank off his socks, straightening to taunt me with the sight of his tremendously bulging package.
“Show me,” Roark says, whirling me around to the sofa. “Here?”
I shake my head. “No. Not ever.”
“So that’s why you sleep there?”
“Yes, but…”
I can’t continue. I’m beyond speech. Because when he slides down his boxers and kicks them aside he’s naked like I’ve never seen him before. There in the unfiltered morning light of my living room, his body taut with corded muscles, his skin like tanned marble, he exudes a mix of power and elegance beyond definition, and I think, Where did this man come from? And why the hell does he want me?
He walks over, his magnificent cock magnificently engorged. I lean forward to take it down my throat but he stops me, his hands on my shoulders. “No,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “Tell me where.”
I want him inside me so badly I can barely stand it, but my contentious nature intrudes. “Why? Why do you want to know? What difference would it make?”
Again, his hands cup my behind and he hauls me up against him. But this time, instead of pressing me against his fully clothed length, he has me straddling the hard pole of his cock. His shaft pulses under my already throbbing pussy and I gasp again, squirming against him.
“Tell me,” he says, kissing me so hard I taste blood.
When I pull back my gaze shoots around the room. “There,” I finally say, pointing to the floor in front of the television. “There,” I say, indicating the kitchen sink. “There.” In front of the fireplace. “And in the shower,” I say at the last.
I’m done. I’m not going to say any place else and he knows it, even though that stomping elephant crowds us both. He eyes me dubiously. “Is that a fact?” he says and, pulling back, rams his cock inside me.
I see stars. Literally. Dancing, twinkling, lovely stars. I wrap my legs around him and throw my head back, Roark biting my neck as he slides me to the carpet.
“He fucked you here?” he asks from above as he screws me missionary, a slow and steady beat.
“Yes,” I say as he plucks a silk daisy from a vase aside the television, slipping the flower behind my ear. One more thrust and he lifts me up, moving to lower himself to the slate of the fireplace hearth, still joined with me.
“He fucked you here?” he asks, suckling my breasts as his hips pump his cock deep inside me.
“Yes,” I answer, as he reaches into the fireplace and draws out a soot-covered finger. He traces a blackened line from my neck to my navel, then slips from me, scooping me into his arms. He carries me to the kitchen, setting me atop the edge of the sink.
“Here too?” he grunts out, opening my legs and grasping his shaft, aiming it toward my throbbing clit. Its slickened head teases my swollen flesh until I’m squirming and digging my fingernails into his shoulders. Then all at once he looks to his side and his mouth crooks and he’s grabbing the honey bear from the counter. He upends it and, leaning me back, dribbles the sticky liquid atop a nipple, into my navel, down my pulsing clit. When his tongue flicks my breast an electric charge zaps my groin, worsening when he laps it from my navel, positively igniting me when his tongue licks my quivering clit clean.
I’m still coming when he lifts me from the sink and carries me into the bathroom, setting me down in my bathtub.
“And here?” he asks, not waiting for an answer as the shower rains at the opposite end.
I lean against the wall, catching myself in the mirror before he climbs in and pulls the curtain back. There’s a daisy in my hair, a sooty line from breast to booty, all stickied by honey and a lovely kind of lust. I’m trying to take it all in, trying to figure out what it means, but I’m too drunk on the physical, too high on the immediate. Especially when he tugs me to him and kisses me, his mouth on mine as he soaps me all over, sliding the bar from between my breasts, my legs, my hips to under my arms. And when I’m thoroughly sudsy, he uses me as his own bar of soap, sliding me to whistle-clean his cock, his chest against mine as he scrubs his pecs. I am beyond fired up as I grab the soap from him, sliding it up and down and around and into every inch of his rock-hard skin as his hands shampoo my hair.
And afterward, when he lifts me from the shower still dripping, he doesn’t reach for a towel or the hair dryer or even a washcloth so I can swab the soap from my ears. He simply scoops me in his arms and takes me from the bathroom, his feet leaving soppy prints on the tile to the carpet outside my bedroom.
I grip the doorway molding, stopping him. “No.”
A droplet falls from his hair to my breast. “But you have to. You just have to.”
I glare at him. “No I don’t. Not now. I wrote the scene. I‘m over it.”
His eyes soften. “Baby, you only got over their problem, not your own.”
I glance at the bed; it’s still rumpled from their sex, the velvet ropes still hanging from the posts. “Doesn’t matter,” I say, the queasiness returning. I lean my head to his shoulder. “Especially now.”
“Yes it does—to me.” He kisses the top of my head. “Excuse me for wanting my woman whole.” He cocks his head. “That is if you are my woman?”
My heart skips a beat. I look up at him, my fingers wrapping around his arm. “I am if you want me.”
Roark nods, deeply and soulfully, stepping over the threshold. Once inside he sets me to my feet. I press myself against the wall.
He goes to the bed and rips the blanket, sheets and pillowcases from it before he climbs atop, leaning against the headboard. “Now come here,” he says, patting the mattress beside him. I swallow hard, joining him.
He’s still wet, glistening in the late-morning light as though he’s oiled, and he’s so otherworldly beautiful I’m instantly cowed. Especially when he turns to me, his hand on my hip and says softly, “Tell me everything you saw.”
I feel myself redden. “Oh, how can I? It’s so embarrassing!”
His brow arches. “Pam,” he says evenly. “You’ve swallowed my come and I’ve eaten your pussy. I think we’ve moved a little past embarrassing.”
He has a point. But knowing my outside says nothing about my inside. Yet who in my life, beyond a prurient interest, would even care enough to ask? He would. He did. I sit up. “You really want to know?”
He leans in and kisses me. “If it’s still bothering you, yeah, I do.”
“Well…” I close my eyes a second. It doesn’t take much, as though it was burned into my retinas. I relate every sordid detail: Karen giving Josh head, him tying her to the bedpost, spanking her until she welted, ramming his dick up her ass and then fucking her tits, calling her bitch as she calls him bastard.
Roark listens without interrupting. When I finish he kisses me, turning me until his magnificent body slides atop the dampness still covering mine. He threads his fingers into my wet hair, spreading the auburn strands about my head. “Sound like they were making hate instead of love,” he says. “I intend to do the opposite.”
He kisses me, his tongue lacing into mine, his fingers lightly tracing my jawline. “I love your mouth,” he says, kissing the corner. “I love what comes out of it, and I love when you let me in.” He moves against me, his cock nudging my leg as he smiles sheepishly. “Would you…?”
I kiss him back and he lifts himself from me, turning around to lean against the headboard. When he spreads his legs I crawl between him and he throws his arms out, latching on to the still-attached velvet ropes, his biceps bulging as he tightens his fists around them. I place a hand to each of his rock-solid thighs, his hair like silk against my palms and, opening my mouth, take him fully
down my throat.
“God!” he cries out, his hips jerking, the headboard groaning from the strain. The act itself near sends me into another climax, but just as I catch a taste of his juices he pulls himself from me, my head falling to his thigh.
He’s breathing heavily, his massive cock twitching and I remember with all we’ve done in the last hour or so, not once has he had release. I raise my head, looking at him, amazed. He lets go of the ropes and hurls them to the floor, latching on to my wrist. “Come here,” he says, and when I do, he kisses me.
I’m in his lap as he caresses my back. “I love your beautiful ass,” he says, turning me to the mattress, chest down, as he bends over me, kissing my neck, my shoulder blades. “I want to make love to you there too.” And he does, kissing and sucking and spreading my cheeks, licking every inch of me until I’m exposed and raw, his thumb circling my anus, my backside rising to the hitching pleasure until I— “Roark, you’re not thinking—”
He laughs. “I said I want to make love to you, not kill you.” He spreads my legs and slips his cock into my pussy.
I sigh; how wonderful he feels, his soft lower belly, still damp from the shower, gliding against my bottom. I’m practically purring as his cock slides languorously in and out of me, my pussy rocking with the friction against the cotton batting and I’m coming again just as he pulls out, quivering as he bends once again to my behind.
“Beautiful ass,” he murmurs, kissing to leave a mark, and my climax hits a new height anticipating the sight of it.
I roll over, looking up at him. I’m dazed, way beyond sated. He lifts his arms and, shoving his hair back, straddles me, his cock more massive than ever before and it’s fairly evident why. The strain of holding back is plain on his face, and at this point I’m sure he’s suffering. But still he pleasures me, reaching to my overworked clit, his touch bordering on pain. I rise against his hand—where does his self-control come from? And why is he doing this to himself? I squirm beneath him, his legs clamping my hips.