by Rebecca Foxx
“Oh, God,” she cried out.
“Kelly,” he groaned.
“Don’t stop, Shane,” she said.
She felt her climax coming on as the pressure built up inside of her. She could feel the wave of pleasure about to crest and run in ripples through all of her limbs. Her abdomen contracted over and over, squeezing her tight around his cock. He felt it, too, and reached for his climax as he held himself inside of her. He pressed as deeply in as he could go and with her final squeeze, his length pulsated inside of her several times, filling her with him.
When he pulled out, she felt like she might collapse. Shane picked her up and laid her on the bed. He crawled over her and under the covers beside her. She crawled under the covers herself and turned to face him.
“I was wrong, Kelly,” he said, out of breath.
She said nothing, but looked over at him.
“This is what I want,” he concluded and reached out a strong arm and pulled her close to him. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the sound of his heartbeat.
Together, in the afterglow, they fell asleep, and when Kelly woke, Shane was still lying beside her.
THE END
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Wild Wild Love
Chapter One
I Need Your Lyrics To Make My Music A Song
The west area of Mississippi river was full of passions that were typical only to the folks living there in the early nineteenth century. These passions were born in the eyes of women, who saw handsome men riding across the river or valleys absorbed with sunset.
These passions were born in the cups of beer in the pubs hidden in every corner of the noisy countryside. Hot-blooded men warmed up their veins with beer, other spirits, and with presence of curious women secretly looking behind their tables. The passions became mad as some of those girls would lose their heads for the gamblers and give rise to storm of stories wandering on the lips of public.
However, this was quite another story. This love was sweeter than honey, hotter than sunset, and wilder than gunshots, that were to be heard for sake of freedom, justice and love. It made stormy waves over countryside, like the stables of horses made dust over horizon.
And horizon was seen from her window. It melted, as sun was setting. Her name was Annabel, and George had not yet fallen for her charming beauty and fair-minded nature. Her quick-acting manners, open-minded attitudes and witty style of talking attracted anyone who had luck to know her.
This twenty-two years old girl seemed to possess wise passions of middle-aged woman. She was deprived from young egocentrism that girls of her age had. To name some of her flaws, she seemed to be deprived also from sense of tactfulness, and she was not delicate, when she was supposed to keep silence, especially when her father was imposing his views and principles on her.
Annabel was the daughter of the most popular and influential man living in the west. He was known as Great Martin. That was probably because of his great fortune, great business, great reputation and great charities he made regularly.
However, when people gave him that nickname, they were unaware, that he was also the great organizer of all frauds and crimes happening in the area. He was a trusted man, who would talk to higher authorites about the interests of his people, as he liked to call them "his people".
He would "cooperate" with police to solve crimes and, of course, he had partners among policemen, who shared his true profits secretly. So he had managed to build a perfect reputation of a great man. Martin Morrison was not a tall man, actually he was shorter than his wife, Isabella Del Olmo, a woman of Spanish descent, who was very attractive, tall, yet small-boned woman.
Her true wild nature was always expressed in her narrow black shining eyes. There was not mere charm, but some hidden provocation in her gaze. Izabella loved to smoke some slim cigarettes, while his husband was enjoying his cigars, and putting one leg on the other she was studying her bald husband with crooked nose.
She was looking at him, and being Izabella Morrison for more than two decades, she did not believe in his noble-looking manners. She knew much about him despite the fact, that she had absolutely no proofs. That was just the man with whom she had shared her bed for almost twenty-three long years.
She knew that inside Martin was as sly as she was. Annabel was some kind of exotic mix of her English father and Spanish mother. She had inherited her mother's tall slim figure, however she had beautiful feminine sexual curves. Especially her full breasts, round hips and the very narrow waist, that seperated her breasts and hips formed perfect scene.
For many painters popular in painting sunsets in the valleys on their huge canvas using all hues of red, yellow, orange and brown, or those artists, whose free artisitic nature would take them to Mexico, Latin America or some exotic islands,would get an aestethic pleasure from the mere look at her hourglass shaped body.
Annabel had inhereted her determined, hard-working, optimistic, brave nature from her father. As to her noble, fair, loyal, straight and tactless characteristics, we could say, they were simply «gifts» from heavens. Those heavens had also promised her true love, which she felt for the first time in her life in that breezy summer evening.
***
Izabella Morrison adored sports. She appreciated it more than any young girl. She also had passions for weekend dances and hot drinks in pubs. Though Annabel was not passive in her lifestyle, she loved more to paint horizons, passing cowboys, horse riders flirting with young hot sensuous girls in summer flowery dress.
«Anna,» called Izabel. «Leave those papers, go put on the nice dress I bought for you last week.We are going to pub this evening. Norah, her daughter and niece will join us.»
«We are going to have just a cup of cold beer and chat. Do I really have to put on a dress? A t-shirt and jeans will do,» she said without looking at her mother and continouing her painting.
«Oh my God! You do not seem to be my own flesh and blood. I wanted a girl, but have a son. Thanks Jesus you love horses. That is probably the only way we enjoy spending time together,» said irriated lady while fastening her earings made of green emerald.
The summer offered cool fantastic wind and warm smiles on the roads. These smiles and laughters also belonged to couples in love. Still Annabel had not tasted love and could only smell its fine impressions around. She saw blossomed girls, like trees blossom in spring, especially in some beautiful classic Japanese paintings.
However, all young men of her age seemed to him immature. Those who she liked were elder, and deep in her heart she believed it would not be right. Something would miss, maybe emotions, maybe passions, maybe some crazy things typical to two young people being in love.
Maybe being in a relationship with an elder man, she would find young men, who were not so mature and did not strive to be always right, be more sincere in their manners and feelings. However, the strange thing was that she herself, not deliberately at all, attracted elder men.
One day her father's friend came to their house. Her family had always considered, that he must have been interested in her for his son, but that man suddenly remarked about his own merital needs after the death of his wife several years ago.
The "Happy Stars" pub was full of smoke.
Many wondered about the taste of Mrs. Morrison, a middle aged woman, who equally adored glamorous parties with women like her, possessing high status, and those youthful ways to have fun. Of course, this pub wasn't the type, where only men would come, play billiards, swear here and there and leave it drunk with their loyal horses waiting outside.
This was a good place for just a rest, where girls and women came, and all was guarded by two giant men ready to punish and throw out anyone who would violate the rules of that place. Women smoked there, and flirted with handsome strangers, who later offered them good spirits. On weekends the pub was fuller than usual, as
small concerts were held entertaining happy folks.
The Morrison ladies sat around a wooden table offering upmost comfort and waited for their friends to come. Isabella's beautiful eyes did not have to wait long. They arrived soon, a woman and two young girls.
Girls began to talk. It was a typical process of girls getting acquainted. Names, age, occupation... Then they discuss the atmosphere, as Sonia and Jessica had faced for the first time. The sisters were both blonde with curled hair and blue eyes. Besides being petite and cute, their flirty nature also invited lots of attention.
Suddenly several young men entered the pub. We say suddenly, because their arrival caused sudden changes. The folks already knew them, they seemed to be hot and very popular. They were four tall and masculine young men who in spite of their fame, stayed humble with their modest smile and hand greetings here and there.
Annabel felt her head spinning, when one of them, apparently the most popular one, turned back and looked straight at her. She began to burn inside from feeling shy of that bold gaze she went on feeling at herself.
"Oh, he is so hot. Who is he, Annabel?" asked Jessica.
"I don't know," murmured Annabel from the unexpected question.
"But see, Sonia, how he is looking at Anna," said Jessica.
Annabel hated, when she was being referred as a third person at her own present.
"She has gone red," joked Jessica. "Is he your ex?"
"No, I see him for the first time. And I am red because of these drink." said Annabel, who had already managed to dislike Jessica for her long and ugly tongue.
"Girls, he is a musician," said Sonia.
They saw the handsome stranger on the stage. He took his guitar and played something nice though Annabel wasn't actually listening to the music. She had lost herself not even in the lyrics, but his staring at her. As if he was just singing and playing for her.
Being inexperienced and for the first time feeling all those strange sensations, plus high music, noise of the crowds hitting the cups on the tables and demanding more beer, the mixture of various sweet scents made her want for more air to breathe. And also she felt shy from his bold look at her. Blonde sisters had been following her reactions and were laughing under nose painting hearts in the air.
"He is singing for you, Annabel," said Sonia with sly funny tone of voice.
She went out to have some breathe. Air was cool and summer breeze gave her sense of freedom and peace. Nothing else in the world could help. Suddenly she felt the footsteps behind, that were going to become one of the most loved and expected things in the world.
"You are Annabel Morrison, aren't you?" asked the same man, who had been haunting her with his music and gaze for the last twenty minutes.
He looked at her in the way, she could never dream in her sweetest romantic fantasies.
"Yes, and you...?" she murmured like a timid deer, who suddenly felt incapable of a wiser question.
"I am George Ray. A most common cowboy, a horse rider, sometimes splaying his sad guitar in country pubs.
"Nice, George." she smiled.
"Can we have some walk along these dusty streets? I had not felt inspiration for a long time. And now when I saw you, do not think I am flirting here, but I felt your shyness is bolder and more sincere than the expressive open-mindedness and initiative nature of many girls."
So he is conservative, thought Annabel. Shall I tell him that I liked him too, or he would prefer to guess it from my eyes and smile?
Annabel smiled and felt that something noble was growing between them, something that perhaps could be called friendship. Yet some fiery sparks were playing with too simple and humble definition she decided to give to her growing interest. He was not lying in his compliments.
They were genuine like her acceptance. Acceptance to try a short walk through that evening in his company. So they walked slowly, time from time looking at each other and smiling and laughing at small witty jokes George would make. Out of blue she noticed quite late hour, and that she had left the pub for more than forty minutes.
Mother must have been quite anxious about my sudden disappearance, she thought. They directed their steps to the direction of the pub at the end of the long curvy road, called street.
"Thanks for not refusing my offer. You inspired me to write beautiful blues song. I will play it next Sunday special for you."
And I will paint your eyes and forehead, Annabel thought, but she said something very different.
"After you compose the music, let me write the lyrics."
"As you wish, my lady." smiled George.
When Morrison ladies and their friends left the pub, a stranger approached them.
"I must talk to you for the sake of your own safety," he said to Annabel with begging mannerism.
Annabel looked at him and saw that he was not at all a beggar. The stranger was a man in his late twenties, quite well dressed, with a scar on his left cheekbone. Neither his words, nor his scar frightened her, but she felt something bad in him, in his nature, eyes and even voice. And her intuition had always been a good and faithful adviser. However she did not refuse to listen to him.
"Beware of George Ray. He is a very dangerous man. This is my responsibility to warn you against the consequences," said the stranger.
"Who is George Ray? What consequences?" asked Mrs. Morrison confused.
But the stranger did not answer. Without saying anything, he approached to his horse ready to leave.
For the last impressive gaze at Annabel, he disappeared in the dark shrubs. For the first time in her life, Mrs. Morrison wondered what was there behind the shrubs, behind the pub. But being unable to understand the stranger, like all other four women, she repeated her question, this time for her daughter Annabel.
Annabel said nothing. She was confused herself, but promised to talk at home.
"George was the man, who played the guitar in the pub," she said..
She told that she did not know him simply because they shared about forty minutes together studying not just sleepy, but already tired country roads.
"He looked a nice guy," she summed up.
"Ah, what do you know about nice guys, my naive girl," sighed Mrs. Morrison. And then after keeping silence for about half long minute, she declared with clear tone and determined facial expression as if she found a good clue. "Nice men do not have enemies. If he was, why should he be so hated? Uh? Think about this, honey."
"But you do trust a stranger and that is alright, yes mom?" rebelled Annabel not because she had managed to store good feelings and create sparks of love inside, but because all that seemed to her strange and unfair.
"Stay away from that man, Anna!"shouted Mrs. Morrison. I do not care about a stranger or his word. But I do not like all this story. I only want my daughter to be safe. And do not dare to let him closer to you again. Or your father will know about this, and things will go worse."
"You say this just because he is not rich! Because he is just a country man, a cowboy, playing blues in pubs! Isn't it so? You would be kinder if he had some status and rank. Then you would pay no attention to the words of some mad stranger!" shouted Annabel.
"Shut up, girl!" said Izabella with wild and threatening voice that made Annabel cautious in her verbal battle. She knew that when her mother talked this way, then she had made up her mind to do something.
Annabel went to bed, but she could not sleep. Still previous night her life was so peaceful and clear. All she cared about was the quality of paper she used in her paintings. Her difficult choice was between the colors of paints to draw something. Annabel felt as if she was in front of a boat and with it she had to travel all endless sea over which mad storm was whistling.
She was pragmatic to believe that love was in her heart. So when her heart beat she knew that reason was the newborn love. But it was not hidden necessarily in her heart, but in the air of her bedroom mixed with the scent of flowers, in the raindrops on the window, that looked at the long road and
horses under summer rain and over the silver line of horizon.
When exhausted of all troubling thoughts and overwhelming feelings of passion, she put her head on the pillow, she made her decision. She decided to love.
***
Annabel waited for him next day, and the other day too. The more he was late, the more her longings were inseparable from her sufferings. He had not promised her to come, he had not promised her to love. She painted the veil, the curtains buoying freely in the wind thrusting into her room with no invitation like her thoughts about him. Someone knocked at her door.