Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  “That many, huh?” she spits. It surprises me.

  “Really? You’re upset over the potentiality that I’ve slept with a lot of women?”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Fine, I’ll make a guess. I’d say somewhere between fifty and a hundred.”

  “Jesus, Keyon. You’re a slut.”

  That makes me laugh. Her small hand runs over my stomach, feeling it shake beneath her fingers. She trails down the curls leading to the elastic of my briefs. I stop laughing and hiss in a breath as she slowly lifts it and lets in air.

  “Can we do it my way?” she asks quietly.

  My eyes pop open. I’m feeling good, very good, and I’m close to that stage where a guy’s about to agree to anything in order to get wet. “What, you want me to leave you in charge?”

  “Please? I want to show you.”

  My dick twitches at the thought of being shown stuff. My brain’s still not sure. The urge to win her over—win over her—wars with a few gentlemanly brain cells telling me to listen up and let the lady have her way.

  I groan again. Jut my hips up for more of her dainty fingers on me.

  “Let me please you,” she whispers, and that does it, because who says no when a girl asks permission to fucking please you?

  “Do it. Please, please me.” I shove a pillow under my neck and lace my hands behind my head for a prime view of her activities. She smiles a vixen smile, lashes lowered and the tip of her tongue poised between her teeth. She looks mischievous. Not leery anymore. And she’s so damn sexy I grunt when she pulls my briefs off, braces her hands against my hips, and lowers her head over my cock.

  “Take your bra off,” I demand. She has no problem obeying, and I realize I’ve found another way to control the love fight. Damn it’s nice when she obeys.

  “Show me your boobs,” I whisper, my voice already rough. She bites her lip and holds them close on her chest, pushing them up. “Your nipples, baby. Squeeze them for me.”

  She does, and I fist myself. Pull on my swollen member and watch her gaze heat and trail to my lewd actions. “Let me relieve you.”

  I pull myself up by the stomach, still clenching my cock and staring into her eyes. “Lose the rest of your clothes first, Paislee. I need to see all of you.”

  She stands, shameless, and wiggles her hips out of her jeans. Her pussy is the smallest triangle of black fur calling to me.

  “Get on the bed,” I say. She crawls up, misunderstanding. “No, stand up. Give me the best view a man can have.”

  Her breath does a quick stutter again—seems she likes it when I talk dirty. I’ll remember that for when I’m pushing her over the edge. Fuck yeah, I’ll have her screaming.

  Paislee gets up and balances precariously on the soft pillow top, naked and beautiful, thighs trembling as she steps up my body with a foot on each side. She doesn’t stop until she’s over my shoulders, just where I want her. I grab her calves and slide upward until I clasp her right above her knees. I wish I could reach the soft folds above me.

  “Ah you’re gorgeous. Look at you,” I whisper. “Open for me.”

  “Open?”

  I’m sure she understands what I mean, so I just nod my encouragement once. And there it is, white fingers spreading herself carefully above me, revealing pretty pink that’s already moist.

  “Hot damn,” I say, stroking myself and looking. “Sink down over me.”

  She tries to scoot down, but I grab her legs again and push against the back of her knees. “I want a taste, sweetheart.”

  “Geez,” she manages. Then she does what I want. Drops to her knees and presses her sweetness in over my face.

  The fire rises in me. My fingers bite into her ass and force her against my mouth. I want to devour her whole, lick and suck every fold, every slick, fragrant surface of her until she quakes over me and I’m roaring with the need to push inside her.

  “No… stop.”

  Stop?

  “Fuck no, not stopping,” I heave out.

  “No, I mean—can you be more careful?”

  My hands freeze on her butt. Slowly, my sexed-out mind catches what she’s saying. I loosen my grip on her, but my breath increases exponentially, because—

  Frustration.

  I don’t understand. She’s not going to let this happen, is she?

  Her hips rock slowly over me, her cleft working my mouth. I lap tentatively and draw a happy sigh from her. She lowers herself a little more, allowing more contact between us. Okay… she’s enjoying this.

  I suck her clit into my mouth but keep it gentle. She shudders a good shudder. I fold my arms around the small of her back and pull her down to me. The tug is a bit hard, it seems, because she stiffens in my arms at first. Then she slides down over me, leaving a moist path and raising chills on my body until she blankets me.

  Before I know what’s happening, I’m inside her. I squeeze my eyes shut, enduring the pleasure and throbbing for more. “Oh baby…”

  “Good?” she asks at my ear. I lock her in my arms and move with her, allowing her to set our speed.

  “So. Good.” I sound choked, and it’s the way she clamps around me that does it. There’s no speed, no battle of wills, no force, chasing an orgasm. It’s still damn amazing. Especially when she hooks me deep inside her body and slides so far down I can’t—even—

  “Fuck. Paislee?”

  “Keyon…”

  “Shit, I think I’m about to lose it.”

  “I can feel it.”

  It’s the last straw. I do lose it when she says that. With soft moans at my ear and a quiver around my dick, I give in and rock into her, using force, lifting off the mattress, topping her from the bottom. I squeeze her as hard as my body craves while I grunt out my release.

  When I flop back down again, spent, I glide my eyes open slowly to check if we’re good. The last thing I want is to see her eyes bright with stress because I lost it and became too rough with her again.

  I tried. It was too much at the end. What fucking wimp is going to lie flat on his back, arms at his side and politely shiver through a climax? Not me. If she wants a sissy for a lover, she’s come to the wrong place.

  But her gaze meets mine, soft and liquid. There is no fear, no terror, absolutely no panic. “Wow,” she murmurs, lowering her nose to mine and rubbing us together. “That was crazy.”

  I flip her so fast she squeals. I lift enough to pull the condom off before I settle down on her, making her cough. Then I lie flat, heavy on purpose and pressing her body deep into the mattress, because she needs to know I’m still in charge.

  “Heavy man you are,” she says.

  “Hell yeah. So you liked it?” I tease.

  “Mm-hmm. You did too.”

  “Eh,” I say, half-suppressing a smirk. “’Twas all right.”

  PAISLEE

  “Why does he do that? He’s so silly!”

  “Because he can, because he gets away with murder too often, and with you around, even more.” Keyon chuckles. “That cat is no good. He’s a total brat.”

  I nuzzle my nose into Simon’s soft fur, and he purrs up a storm—for my entertainment, Keyon believes. Apparently, Simon’s been known to win girl hearts even faster than Keyon. My heart does a little skip, showing me how mine is already far gone. “So a brat cat, you’re saying?”

  “Definitely a brat cat.”

  Last night, Keyon and I decided it was easier for me to sleep over. In the morning, we’d just get up early, and he’d drive me to Calceth. Since Keyon didn’t volunteer, I took matters in my own hands before we turned in and opened the door for Simon. In Keyon’s words, this was “an all-time low of a mistake” and the reason why I’ve hardly slept.

  It all started innocently enough with Simon snoozing at the foot of the bed. But as soon as light snores puffed from Keyon, and I was drifting off on his arm, Simon made his move. Slowly, he prowled up my body. His first stop was at the crook of my knees. He curled up there and kneaded me through th
e blankets with just enough claws protruding for it to hurt. Even half asleep, I wanted to laugh. I was too exhausted to do anything about his ministrations though, so I drifted off again.

  Simon made a new move, probably once he’d watched me return to dreamland, and the next time I woke up, I had a twenty-pound cat on my hip.

  By the time Keyon’s alarm buzzed, Simon had used at least half a dozen parts of my body as his personal basket and was now lounging on my chest, so close to my face I had fur on my tongue.

  “I wish we had time for more of you,” Keyon murmurs, morning-sexy and letting his gaze skim over me.

  I shake my head, mock-stern. “I have a big day.”

  “Paislee, my little businesswoman,” Keyon jokes, and I smile, liking the “my” part a whole lot. Yes, suddenly, I think it must be wonderful to be Keyon’s.

  I bite my lip to keep from grinning; Keyon’s stance is that of a bodyguard, feet planted apart, torso erect and shoulders studiously squared. I have to cover my mouth when he tips his chin high. Geez, he looks intimidating.

  The man is glaring at the double doors in front of us. No one has opened them yet, but Keyon is doing the Stare-Down, the one he pulled on me in Rigita to show me how he scares fighters in the ring. Any minute, those thick fists of his are going to be crossed over his chest. It’ll be menacing and, for me—hot.

  It’s just wild that he’s worked up over me. I mean, why would anyone work themselves up and want to protect a lowly girl from some frozen little town that’s barely on the map? I’m not on the map. Something huge flaps slowly in my stomach. For some reason it makes me think of babies, of how they probably do that, move lazily like a whale’s tail against your insides.

  It’ll be okay, I mouth to him. Keyon’s response is a slight narrowing of golden eyes as he shortens the distance between us. I’m starting to wonder if he’d rather loom in front of me. The thought is the last straw, and I burst into laughter. Which is funny too; with Keyon I’m so easy to entertain I wonder sometimes where the real me goes to hide.

  “What?” he says, glowering at me. “What’s so funny?”

  I sober as quickly as I can. Clearly, the boy doesn’t have a sense of humor this morning. “Nothing. You act like Mr. Markeston is about to pull me inside and beat me within inches of my life.”

  Keyon’s pupils dilate with alarm before glancing down the half-mile long driveway to both our cars. “Don’t be silly.”

  We’re on the widest, deepest southern-plantation-style porch I’ve seen in my life. Thick, mile-high columns stretch pale above us, and the house itself must be double the size of the Coral Mansion.

  In the front park—because that’s what it is, a park—insanity dots the lawn and the wide-slung gravel road that leads back down to the gated entryway. Dozens of whining peacocks, all bright blue males, strut about. Three sizes of fountains replete with marble angels culture-collide with hedges manicured into Disney figurines. Then there’re all the loose dogs.

  No. Those are not dogs.

  Did you see the horsies? I enunciate inaudibly.

  Keyon does a slow, irritated blink before staring at the door again. I guess I shouldn’t be interrupting his concentration. Fight mode.

  The door opens, and I swear to God what appears is a maid straight out of the early years of motion pictures. I suck in her appearance so she can become a part of a film clip later. The woman is made of black and white. Everything from the uniform—black shirt and matching skirt—the sensible white apron fringed discreetly with lace, to her pale skin and dark hair and eyes. She even has a white headpiece!

  “Yes, hhhow can I hhhelp you?” she says, lingering on the friction of the “h”s for much longer than Americans would.

  “I’m here for Mr. Markeston about his hall of mirrors?” As I lilt out my request, I watch a broad, furry hand settle on the maid’s shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze. She almost curtsies out of the doorway leaving the spotlight to the newcomer, a few mumbled words in her native language accompanying her retreat.

  “Miss Cain!” Richard Markeston exclaims, all cheery jowls trembling with excitement at seeing me. “So good you could make it down here to get this project started for me.” Small, shrewd eyes bounce up and find Keyon a few yards above him.

  Seamlessly, he stretches a hand out and says, “Mack, was it?”

  “No.” Keyon’s voice boulders from deep within his chest. I want to laugh again; it makes me nervous to watch guys size each other up.

  But my customer isn’t buying into Keyon’s hostility. “Oh I’m sorry,” he says. “Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”

  Keyon’s threatening stance doesn’t seem to alarm Markeston. Either he doesn’t notice, or he’s just that cool as he peers up at my friend with undiluted interest.

  A hunch tells me it’s how Markeston takes on new situations; head on and all the way with a positive attitude. I smile. I didn’t spend time with him during his visit in Rigita, but I already like him.

  “I’m Keyon Arias, MMA fighter and Paislee’s boyfriend,” Keyon blisters. He thrusts his arm past me, reaching for Mr. Markeston, who grabs it and shakes merrily.

  “Really? A cage fighter in my front yard? Where do you train?”

  “In Tampa. At Alliance Cage Warriors,” Keyon clips.

  “Wow, I watch EFC religiously, but I’ve never met a fighter in person before. Are you with the EFC?” He pulls at my non-boyfriend until he’s got him close enough to clasp his shoulder and draw him inside his palace.

  “Not yet. Soon is the plan.”

  “Jesus. So this is probably a stupid question, bear with me; I’m a layman, all right? How long does it take to get over a knockout? Do you end up in the hospital for long bouts at a time? I’ve seen a few of the big guys in the EFC just, you know, disappear for a while. Then they show up again, and bam!, they’re back full force.”

  Keyon sends me a quick glance, the lines around his eyes softening as Mr. Markeston lets us in.

  “This way.” He waves us forward with blunt fingers. Despite his physical padding, the man swivels on his heels with surprising agility. “Let me get you a drink, and then I’ll show you the room.”

  “Keyon,” I whisper behind them. His focus floats from our tour guide, from the shockingly beautiful rooms we’re traversing, and meets my eyes with one of those unwavering stares only Keyon can perpetrate.

  “Babe?” he says, waiting for more. My chest hurts a little from hearing him use the expression outside of the bedroom. Though it’s a good pain, I almost want him to stop.

  In bed, people say whatever. I’ve had men tell me they’ll leave wives and slews of kids during a tryst. Those are hormones talking, spur of the moment blurt-outs, but this? I’ll be far away from here so soon, and Keyon will no doubt have other “babes” as soon as I am gone. I can’t picture him without them. And I hate picturing him with them.

  “Is this going to be okay?” I ask, freezing my wayward thoughts and returning to what I need to know. “I can fend for myself if you have training.”

  His pupils thicken like he worries I’ll ask him to leave. “Nah, I’m fine. Dawson will be in late today. Wife’s got a doctor’s appointment,” he adds.

  I think he’s lying, and that’s even sweeter. He plays hooky for me. I don’t even know how to handle how it makes me feel.

  I flow through the next rooms with Mr. Markeston spearheading our excursion, hand engulfed in Keyon’s like we’re a couple. His is strong and warm and keeps me close, and I’m not sure I’ve ever been this happy. I need to hoard how I feel for a film clip.

  My clips can be a sensation nowadays. A description of colors and scents and sounds. On bleak days, I want to recall today, because what I feel is bright and beautiful and perfect.

  “Is it too early for adult beverages?” Markeston rocks on his feet by the Vegas-sized pool. Not that I’ve been in Vegas. He swivels on a heel as he uses a small remote to open the bamboo blinds of a Hawaiian-style bar.

 
“Nope, not too early,” I quip and make Keyon snort quietly. Maybe he’s thinking of my Bloody Mary flight.

  “How about you, sir?” Markeston says, eyes innocent at his contact with Keyon’s.

  “Sure, why not? It’s hours until training,” Keyon lies.

  “How long left ’til the big fight?” I murmur for his ears only.

  He frowns my way. “Five weeks, a few days, and none-of-your-business.”

  “In Tampa?” Markeston is observant. Which probably makes sense—I mean, you don’t accumulate his riches by ignoring what goes on around you.

  “Actually, this one’s in Mexico City,” Keyon says. Markeston gestures toward the array of liquors and wines on the shelves behind him.

  “Ah a ways. What’s your morning poison?”

  “Whiskey. Whatever you have, as long as it’s not Glentromie,” is Keyon’s order.

  Markeston snickers. “Not a Scotch guy, huh?”

  “Oh no, I’m fine with Scotch in general, but Glentromie is a small disaster in your glass. And in your stomach.”

  Markeston turns, and out of nowhere, they’re both mischievous boys. They grin at each other, slap shoulders across the counter, and mumble things like Ain’t that the truth and Gotta love hangovers from Hell. I shake my head, smiling.

  Despite the hangover chat, we all walk back inside with giant tumblers, mine containing a mixed drink. I accepted a Captain Morgan with Coke—goodness knows why—I’ve never had it before. And halfway into my measurements and picture-taking in the ballroom, Markeston calls the maid in with refills.

  “Now that you’ve tasted Chapter 14 Unpeated, try this one. It’s astonishing; whatever the Japanese set out to do they become the best at, even whiskey.”

  I peer over my shoulder and find Markeston tipping a bottle into Keyon’s glass. “Yamazaki Single Malt Sherry Whiskey 2013. It’s near-indescribable genius, much to the chagrin of certain European distillers I won’t mention.”

  Keyon nods, intrigued. Light eyes flit to mine, and the kiss he air-puckers my way transports me back to another time.

  “Woooh!” Keyon says, dragging the word out like gum. With swimming eyes, he blinks against the ceiling fan in his father’s office, the glass with our last concoction from daddy’s bar half tilted in his hand.