by Louisa Trent
"That's it," he said, keeping everything cool, everything businesslike when what he wanted to do was throw himself down on top of her, mount her any way he could, and go at her like an animal. His stiff cock felt about ready to break in two. "I think we've covered all bases, except for money. Though, I'm so good in bed you might want to pay me."
"Dream on, Gallagher."
Humor was good. Humor helped dissipate sexual tension. Steve chuckled at Emily's sarcasm.
It didn't help.
He was dying here, inch by inch. He needed to be put out of his misery.
A hand-job. Five fingers working his meat. A harsh fist doing him good and hard. That would help take some of the edge off.
His own hand, not hers; no way was he having Emily jerk him off. As soon as he took care of her needs, he would go take care of himself.
He quickly named the amount he would pay her and she quickly agreed.
To get what he wanted, he always paid well, and this time was no exception. He intended to be very generous to Emily, take real good care of her, compensate her well above a hooker's going rate.
He preferred it that way. Pay generously for the sex, and the headaches are eliminated. No whore complains of having a migraine; no man who opens his wallet wide ever listens to recriminations when it's over.
Cash for cunt-that's how Steve liked it. Pay as you go.
"And Angel, you'll get a clothing allowance too. I don't want you wearing jeans and a tee-shirt every day."
He cupped her small tits. "Don't bother buying a bra. I'll want to play with these cuties whenever I like. As to panties-you can slip on a pair from time to time, as long as you ask me beforehand. Understand?"
"Yes."
He bent over and kissed her lips. Smiling into her eyes, he whispered, "You're real agreeable all of a sudden."
"I understand tit for tat," she said.
"Speaking of which..." Lowering his head, he curled his tongue around an elongated nipple, gave her some sucking action.
She gasped. "You don't have to do this, Steve."
"Do what?" he asked in between licks.
"Take your time. You know, foreplay."
"I happen to like foreplay," he answered, his cock crying pre-cum tears into his boxers. "There are things I want to do to you, places I want to taste. Like the cleft between your legs."
He gazed at her shaven mons, then mouthed and kissed and licked his way down Emily's slender body to that destination.
When she bucked, he growled, "Hold still," and continued on his way, loitering at her belly button to tongue the small indentation. Moving ever southerly, he rubbed his face back and forth over her bare pussy. Almost drunkenly, intoxicated on the elixir of Emily, he slurred, "You know what I want..."
"Yes."
Was there uncertainty registered in that single syllable, in the slow way she had agreed? Hadn't she ever had a man do her before? Given her some cunnilingus?"
He didn't think so. And that gave him one huge moment of pause. How many other guys had Emily been with?
Couldn't have been many, he decided, if none had ever gone down on her. What man seeing what he was seeing wouldn't want to go down on Emily?
Delving a lover's past sexual history is something a gentleman just doesn't do, but as Steve tenderly fingered the pretty pink slit, he watched Emily's expressive face for clues as to the extent of her experience.
Experience limited, he decided, puzzled by the implication.
His confusion took a back seat to awe when, after gently rubbing her clit, Emily started to go off.
"I'm putting my lips right here," he said, not asking for permission. Telling her. "I'll press my mouth right into your pussy lips. And then, here on the clit." He delicately probed the plump bud at the top of her sex. "You're real hot and silky inside, and I'll get my tongue up there in your pussy as far as it will go so I can taste the sweetest part of your honey." He pulled his attention away from paradise and looked up into her face.
Emily's cheeks were all flushed and rosy.
Lordy! But she was angelic ... even with her gutter mouth.
He dropped his head and licked along the inside of her thighs. She was having a hard time tolerating the strokes the closer he got to her creamy core.
"Steve," she moaned, squirming and panting, alternately pushing him away and dragging him closer, her hands clasping his head, her fingers entwined in his springy curls.
He kept on doing what he was doing, nice and easy, and when she relaxed a bit he sent his tongue straight to heaven.
Man, she was sex sugar in his mouth, warm liquid carnality dripping down his throat. His tongue went at her like a fast moving hummingbird, getting as much of her nectar onto his taste buds as he could. When tasting her was no longer enough, he rubbed his face into her lush honey pot and breathed her in, kissing her outer folds, then the inner, all the time inhaling her scent into his nostrils, swallowing the essence that was Emily.
When he licked the clit, she heaved off the bed. Pulling at his hair now, she very nearly scalped him, the sound of her pleasure more than compensating for any bald spot she might leave.
"Yes," she cried, the affirmation exploding the quiet of the room. "Oh, yes, yes, Steve," she screamed, as orgasm overtook her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That night, Steve dropped Emily off in the center of town. Leaving her there, alone and in the dark, was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. Not knowing where she lived, he let her walk away.
In the cottage, he had set down rules for Emily just as he set rules for any business deal, keeping everything low-key. But he felt neither low key nor business-like as he watched her get into her clothes after making her scream.
He could not take his eyes off her.
He had never felt so shaky, so unsure, so possessive of a woman, any woman and this included his wife, as he did with Emily. He told himself he needed to separate sex from emotion, keep love and lust apart, erect a barricade between the thrust of his cock and the beat of his heart so he could walk away from her when their affair was finished. The one thing he could not do was leave himself open to the kind of hurt he had gone through-was still going through-after Jen left him alone in this world. He was prepared to bleed for Emily; he was not prepared to grieve for her after she was gone from his life.
And still, as he watched her dress, watched transfixed as she pulled that cheap dress up over those beautifully perfect breasts, he knew he was letting himself in for all kinds of grief when he said, "You're moving in with me."
Emily went still.
She was also wearing her obstinate look. Fearing he would lose her altogether, Steve had compromised. "Monday after work," he said amicably. "Or the deal is off. Your choice."
It was the last compromise he would make.
To make her feel safe, she had to understand that she could depend on his male strength, the hardness of his determination ... his total authority. She had to know that no matter what had come before, for the length of their arrangement, she belonged to him and he would protect her.
"Monday after work it is," she agreed.
And because of that last compromise, he now he sat brooding in the driver's seat of his truck while Emily walked away.
He could tag her easily enough...
He decided against following her, as he had decided against following her every fucking night since her arrival. Emily was street smart. As a kid, she had evaded the authorities for years. He was damn good at his job, but he was human and there was always the possibility of discovery. Always the slim chance she would know he was trailing her.
Steve wouldn't risk it. His nerves jammed up when he even thought of losing her.
The ball was in Emily's court; it was up to her to come back to him.
Two sleepless nights stretched out ahead of him until he knew if she would.
* * * *
Funny, how the little things got to her.
She had a past she wanted to fo
rget, a confusing present, an uncertain future, yet that Sunday afternoon with only two dollars to her name-spare change scrounged from the bottom of her backpack-Emily found herself walking back to town again.
To buy a bath towel, of all things.
The night before, she had tossed and turned inside her sleeping bag, unable to sleep for thinking of Steve. She remembered every detail of their time in that dollhouse cottage, only to have her memory seize up like an engine without oil, the pleasure of his caresses too much to absorb, too much to analyze ... just too much.
Her memory had played tricks on her before. There were times when she doubted her recollection, times when stress played havoc with the details of an occurrence, like when she was thirteen.
At thirteen, she may have been raped. May have been because the circumstances were not too clear in her memory. She had never really been sure if the boy had taken her against her will or not. In her heart of hearts, she knew she hadn't given her expressed consent, but there had been no violence, no force during the act. But had she said no?
She almost wished there had been an assault, for at least then she would have been clear in her mind that she hadn't asked for it. The truth was, she had liked the boy. He was several years older than she-eighteen or nineteen. In fact, she'd had a crush on the boy. He was handsome and nice, had paid her attention, and she had been so lonely, so needy, so starved for affection...
It happened in a foster home placement. One evening, when the boy's parents-her foster parents-were out, they had raided the liquor cabinet. She was no angel as a kid. In fact she had been pretty wild, acting out plenty after her mother's death. Stupid behavior, like raiding a liquor cabinet in a foster home, was part of her road to self-destruction.
After sucking on the bottle, the boy just seemed so charming, so irresistible. His flattery had gone right to her head. So had the vodka. She had fallen into a drunken stupor, much as her mother used to do after bringing home some barfly to their apartment. There was no kissing, no fondling, no preliminary petting with the boy, nothing to give her warning as to his intentions. One minute she was aware of what was going on, the next minute she was out like a light. She came to in her own bed, her jeans around her spread ankles, the boy between her legs. He was already ramming to get inside.
The penetration hurt. It had hurt quite a lot. At thirteen, she'd had a couple of periods, and she was almost fully developed, still her body wasn't ready for sex. Her mind certainly wasn't ready for sex. Because of her mother's death and her own peaking hormones, her emotions were up and down, her feelings all over the place.
The boy, drunk too, hadn't deliberately hurt her. She was sure of that. But he was randy and impatient.
It was over in a matter of two or three minutes, her virginity gone.
That very night she ran away. Again. She had to. If she stayed, she knew the boy would come to her bed again ... and she would let him. And the next time, there would be no excuse for her behavior. That's how desperate she was to have someone in her life, to have someone to love.
Ironically, her mother had come to her rescue. Reaching right out from the grave, she had saved her daughter, as she had not been able to save herself in life.
Her mom was everything to her. This didn't mean Emily wanted to be like her. The thought of becoming an alcoholic, of having an unplanned child she might neglect as she herself had been neglected, stopped her from ever drinking again, stopped her from having sex again too.
A decent life, that's what Emily strove for. She wanted to be proud of herself. She couldn't live up to her own high expectations if she was drinking and drugging and fucking all over the place.
Emily never told anyone about that night of drunken sex, or about her confusion about whether or not it had been rape. What was the point? There had been no assault and she had liked the boy. Why get him into trouble? Besides, she was only a foster kid, the illegitimate child of a dead alcoholic. Who would've believed her? She had a history as a run away. The state already had her tagged as 'incorrigible.'
Vowing she would rather die than get sent to yet another foster family that wasn't a family at all, she got involved in petty crime, shoplifting mostly. Clothes. Food. Small electronics that she could later sell. She did that for two years until she was caught, arrested, sent to a corrective group home.
It was okay there. The place was clean, the staff meant well; they gave her some head therapy for her anger and three square meals a day. At the facility, she had finished her education, learned automotive skills, and fallen in love with art. Got her pride back too. She did all right. Though, since her mother's death, she missed someone needing her.
Steve needed her. He didn't know he did, but she could tell. He liked being with her. She knew he was lonely, knew he wanted her. On her side, it wasn't about the money. Sure, she needed money to survive, but she had feelings for Steve. Painful feelings. Hopeful feelings. She was tough, and she was willing to risk a little hurt to have some happiness, even if it was only for a little while. She didn't think Steve had felt anything for a very long time, since probably the loss of his wife. Maybe he would risk feeling something for her too. At least, for the rest of the summer...
That's why the quest to buy a bath towel.
For just this one summer, she would stay put, nest like a bird. She didn't need much to make a home. Her own towel was as good a place as any to start.
At the Bargaineer, she picked over a stack of 'seconds'. Smoothing a palm over a plush cotton terry, ignoring the slight imperfection in the nap, she was imagining how nice the shade of pink would look in the loft's rose-tiled bath when a sixth sense made her look up from the stack.
A man strolled along the sidewalk, directly outside the store window. He looked so ordinary! Nondescript. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height. Average looking. Casually dressed like any vacationing Cape Cod tourist, obligatory camera slung over his shoulder.
Her heart clutched. Was that the gunman from Mr. Fritz's office? Had he found her?
She didn't know, couldn't tell. Mr. Fritz's office had been dark that night. The darkness obscured the gunman's face-her face too. Had he even gotten a good look at her? And she looked nothing at all like her former self. The generic street clothes ... the much shorter, dyed black hair ... the heavy make-up ... had all altered her appearance.
She was tired. Frightened. Nervous about her fledging relationship with Steve. Wanting to stay, but wanting to bolt too. Maybe looking for an excuse, any excuse to take off. Her mind might be playing tricks on her...
Pretending to examine washcloths on the bottom shelf, Emily ducked behind the bin, peaking out onto the sidewalk from behind her barrier. When the coast was clear outside, she left by the back door, racing through the woods behind the store, taking a well-trod path that ran parallel to the road and which must certainly take her back to Steve's private beach lane.
Looking over her shoulder one last time, Emily entered the unlocked side door to the garage. Trembling uncontrollably, she climbed the stairs to the second floor loft area, stumbled into the bathroom and was promptly sick in the toilet.
Filthy from her journey through the woods, clammy with the perspiration of fear, the smell of her recent bout of anxiety-produced nausea clinging to her, she brushed her teeth, then showered, air-drying as usual afterwards-she never had bought the bath towel. Still damp, she pulled a clean man's tee-shirt over her head.
Steve's. He had given her a bunch of white undershirts he said he never wore any more, telling her to use them for clean-up rags.
Clean-up rags! They were practically brand-new, not a thing wrong with them. They got added to her motley collection of belongings.
Feeling much better now that she was clean, the soft cotton undershirt comfortable next to her skin, Emily left the dark bathroom.
And padded straight into a pair of muscled arms.
The gunman! He must have followed her back to the garage. How silly to believe her disguise had altered her appe
arance! How silly to believe she was safe. Thieves were dangerous people. They wouldn't stop looking for her until they found The Cuzin. She would never be safe again.
Regaining her balance, Emily pushed off against a hard, muscled, naked chest.
And got nowhere. Strong arms had closed around her waist, preventing escape.
But not movement. Her knee rocketed up, aiming for the gunman's groin.
To avoid having his balls stuffed down his throat, he let her go, and Emily darted for the door.
Quick as lightening, footwork boxer-smooth, the gunman loped after her, catching her mid-sprint. Two heavy hands fell on her shoulders, anchoring her in place. Not hurtfully. Insistently. As one would do with a recalcitrant child. She lunged, kicked out, scored a hit to his shins. A pained grunt, and she was released.
She tripped over the bedding on the way to the door, falling, belly-down, onto the quilted top of her sleeping bag.
He came down over her, on top of her sprawled body. She wiggled, squirmed, tried to buck him off, succeeding only in baring her buttocks to him as the soft cotton tee-shirt crept up over her hips to her waist.
Rocking onto all fours, she started crawling away on hands and knees.
"Please let me go," she cried, panting, out of breath, cringing as a big, work-roughened palm made contact with her naked bottom before moving upwards.
The soft cotton tee-shirt was dragged up to her shoulders, her body bared to him.
A hand under her rib cage, capturing a wildly swinging breast, the fingers stroking the nipple.
"Let me go," she said, hanging onto control by a thread. "I don't have what you want."
"Angel, you've got everything I want."
"Steve!"
"What?" he growled into her ear. "You expected someone else?"
Yes! A gunman. She had never been so scared.
Arching her back, Emily frantically pushed her bared hips back against the rock-solid security of Steve. Only his lovemaking would make her feel safe!
"Fuck me, Steve," she sobbed. "Please fuck me. Fuck me hard!"