by Toby Neal
“Magnus. Oh, please. I want you in me,” she says, and guides my hand to her. She’s so hot I can feel it through the fabric, damp and slippery and God, she’d feel so good. My hard-on feels like a stick of dynamite between my legs, dangerous and heavy.
“I don’t know if I have a condom. I didn’t expect…”
She sits up in a flash, ripping off her outfit which I have to remember to get a good look at in the morning, and she stalks naked over to a small backpack I can see leaning against the wall and unzips a side pocket. She pulls out a packet, and a roll of condoms spring out like a Jack-in-the-Box. “I did expect.”
I laugh, and she launches herself at me, all bouncing breasts and silky skin and eager hands.
“I’ll do all the work if you’re still tired.” She pushes me down, ripping open the condom packet with her teeth and rolling it down over me with panache. “You don’t seem tired.” She rubs the member in question, and I stop her hand.
“Please,” I say through clenched teeth, and she gets that I’m barely hanging onto control. Without another word, she climbs aboard and straddles me, taking me all the way into her with a deep, heartfelt moan.
When I’m where I’m supposed to be, meant to be, destined to be—sunk hip-deep in her slick heat—she starts moving.
I try to make it last.
I think of ugly things. My mother, yelling. The cockroaches in Venezuela, the mold that grew on the inside of the tents, and the man with the smallpox scars and the little paring knife who tortured me for information.
Nothing works to slow down this freight train. Nothing works, because Pearl Moon Michaels, goddess in the flesh, is rising and falling on me, hands on my chest, breasts bouncing, head thrown back, panting and making little kitten noises.
I can’t take it any longer. I fill my hands with her glorious taut ass-cheeks, pulling them apart so her pleasure is intensified as she’s pulled tight around me filling her. She cries out and I can tell she’s about to go, so I sit up hard. Our chests collide. Holding her ass, her hands on my shoulders, I drive into her again and again, and come in an explosive burst that wrings a groan out of me that’s echoed by her cry as we slam into each other to an intense, totally satisfying finish.
I crush her close and fall back down with her in my arms. I clasp her tight against me, and she hangs on like a drowning victim.
It was over too soon, but so damn good I’m pretty sure I burst a blood vessel in my eye.
Pearl
My ear is right on top of Magnus’s thundering heart. His arms are tight around me, and we’re still connected. I know I have to get up, we have to deal with the condom, but right now all I can do is cling to him. Thinking of how close we came to dying in Dubai makes a wave of emotion swell through me. I don’t want to go through life without him, I know that now. I don’t even care what he was doing there. I don’t need to know.
I gulp back a sob but can’t stop tears from filling my eyes, running over to drip onto his skin. I snuffle a little, and his hand comes up to stroke my head, soothing, massaging, ruffling my curls.
“I hate the haircut,” he says conversationally.
I let the sob out on a choked laugh. “It was all Melissa’s idea.”
He keeps stroking my head. “Grow, little hairs, grow.”
It’s almost as good as him saying that he loves me, and the tears ooze out some more, and he rolls to the side, still holding me. “Are you crying?” Alarm colors his deep voice.
“Just a little because… that was good.” I wave a hand in the direction of his midsection, chickening out on any further revelations.
“Brought a girl to tears in bed. I can die happy now,” he jokes, but there’s a line between his brows and he rolls away and stands up. “Be right back.”
Whiskey raises his head to watch and so do I as moonlight gilds Magnus walking away toward the bathroom. Yes, his ass is as amazing as I remembered, and those shoulders… God.
I wipe the tears off on the edge of the sheet and borrow half of the pillow to prop my head on. Well, he may be married to his secret dangerous job, but at least I know I don’t have any competition from other women—there were no condoms here, and not even a second pillow.
I wonder where to go from this moment, what to do next. I’m terrified he’s going to tell me to leave so I don’t say anything as he returns, his face hidden by darkness but the moon lighting up that body I can’t get enough of. Just looking at him, I can feel myself heating up again.
He slides into bed with me and lies on his side, propped on an elbow. I reach up to play with the thick black hair falling over his shoulder. “My hair will grow. And in the meantime, you have enough for both of us.”
“Let me look at you.” He tosses the sheet back off my body so that moonlight bathes us like milk.
He tugs me close, so that my head rests on his bicep and I’m lying along his side. His eyes on me, he slides his free hand from the firm curve of my hip into the dip of my waist, up the plane of my belly to my ribs, circling the round of my breast, flicking the nipple.
I wriggle even closer, one hand questing down his abs, but he gently captures my hand and lifts it up above my head, curling my fingers around the iron bedstead.
“I need a little time to recover. Both hands up here. Hang on, baby, because this time, it’s all for you.”
I put both hands up and hold onto the bedstead, anticipation quickening my breath and loosening my knees, setting up an almost painful throb between my legs as he teases my nipple, pinching and rolling it, and leans over to suckle me.
His hot mouth on one breast and confident hand on the other make me arch and shudder, and, still suckling, flicking my nipple with his tongue, his busy hand continues its journey back down my body in a deep, smooth, slow stroke, feeling the silk of me. Through his hand on my skin, I can feel me too as he traces and discovers my hills and valleys, edges and grooves.
Up, down, around and around, suckling first one breast and then the other, skimming my mound but never going there, he drives me mad as I pull on the bedstead. I arch and shiver as he plays a masterful tune on the fiddle of my body.
“Please,” I beg hoarsely, and then that questing hand skims across my mound and he slides a finger in. It nearly rockets me off the bed with sensation. I’m so hungry for him, so needy, pushing up with my hips into his hand as he finds the source of my pleasure and strokes me firmly, first two fingers, then three.
I find a fierce focus as he hits just the right spot, and it winds me tighter and tighter. I’m pulling on the iron bedframe with all I’ve got, plastered against him but only really aware of a fierce hot brightness that’s burning between my legs. My body is extended and bowed, every muscle tight and trembling as I pant and beg, “Yes, yes, don’t stop that. I love that, yes…” It’s an unbearable long, long moment just before, and he extends it, varying the rhythm of his stroking, sucking one sensitized nipple then the other. My every muscle is rigid as he controls me with just the tip of his finger. I’ve become nothing but a steel spring coiled with unbearable tension, begging for release.
Then it comes, oh it comes, a tremendous lifting as a tidal wave of pleasure rolls over me, cresting as he plunges his fingers into me, curling them to touch my G-spot and extending the moment. My hips levitate off the bed as my body arches up, supported by my feet and head. I break over his hand and convulse against his body. My spine snaps back and forth, my head tosses, and my eyes are rolled back as he supports me on the muscle of his arm. My hands cling tight to the iron bar above my head as he takes me past the point of ecstasy.
And finally I dissipate, spreading like honey along his chest, belly and thighs, deliciously limp, utterly melted.
I can’t move. I’m incapable of thought.
Magnus kisses my forehead tenderly, then reaches up to pull the curtain closed and the sheet up over me. He tightens his arms around me, holding me so close that my cheek is against his heart and every inch of us touches, and then we sleep.
I’m awakened by Whiskey snuffling in my ear. I crack an eye, and he’s wagging his tail. The door of the little bedroom is shut, though, and I hear the rumble of Magnus’s voice out in the main part of the house, fading with the sound of the front door shutting.
He’s on the phone with somebody.
Morning lights the humble room, and this is the perfect chance for me to get a shower. I get up, slip into my cami set, beams of sunlight swirling dust motes around me. I feel like I could run a marathon I’m so strong and energized, but there’s still a curl of apprehension in my belly for whatever comes next.
I push the door open gently. I can hear Magnus’s voice intermittently on the cordless phone on the front porch. It sounds like business; business he clearly doesn’t want me overhearing. Whiskey follows me as I tiptoe across the living room into the bathroom. He’d follow me in there too, but I shut the door on his interested gaze.
I am tempted to linger in the shower, hoping Magnus will join me—but I have a sense that won’t happen. We need to talk, and under the flow of water, soaping briskly, I consider my options.
I can pretend nothing happened in Dubai and wait for him to bring it up, and hope we can keep going the way things are going.
I can ask my questions, and see what happens.
I can plead my case first, tell him that I want to be with him regardless, and see what he says.
I decide on the first option. Say nothing, and hope he doesn’t send me home. I’m a coward. The truth is, I’m in love with him and I don’t care if he can’t ever tell me about his job. I just want to be in his life. Every day, as much as possible.
I get out, use the hand towel to dry my hair. That’s one good thing about short hair—no fuss. I forgot to bring my backpack in, so I put the cami set back on without underwear, and open the door.
Magnus is in the kitchen, and I smell bacon sizzling. My stomach gives an instant rumble, and he widens his eyes at the sight of me.
“So that’s the little outfit you had on last night. Show me.” He makes a circling gesture with his finger.
I grin, lift my arms like a ballet dancer. The fabric of the twin set is ivory silk, printed with tiny rosebuds but it’s sexy because of the cut. I swing my hips, do my runway spin and pause, spin and pause. “It’s called a babydoll.”
“Oh, baby. You’re a doll,” he says, and I laugh, relief curling through me. He’s not going to kick me out, at least not yet.
“Got any coffee?”
“That I have. I went to the store, too, so there’s half and half.” He points to the full carafe, and I go into the space with him, reaching up to the cabinet, taking down a mug. He is humming as he turns over the bacon. I’ve never heard him hum before.
I pour the coffee, feeling the space between us vibrate with attraction like trying to hold two powerful magnets apart, but I’m determined not to crowd him and scare him off. He flicks off the stove and moves the bacon, still in the skillet, to a back burner. He turns to me.
“I can smell you.”
My nipples tighten at his rough, husky tone.
“I smell bacon.” I smile, playing it cool, but he plucks the coffee mug out of my hand and pulls me in for a kiss, still humming way back in his throat.
Something’s changed, but I’m too afraid to ask what. I’m just happy it did, as he kisses me thoroughly, his hands all over me.
“So, shall we do this before or after breakfast?” He whispers in my ear.
“I thought it was breakfast.”
“That’s my girl.”
I’m his girl.
Oh God, that’s really what he said.
He lifts all five foot nine of me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist and hook my ankles, my arms around his neck, as he carries me back to bed, holding me against him by the ass.
He shuts a bewildered-looking Whiskey out, and the dust motes dance in the golden morning sunshine as he sits on the bed and positions me standing between his knees.
“I like this outfit.” He slides his big hands around on the loose, skimpy shorts that I’m wearing without panties. He lifts one spaghetti strap onto a finger. “Because there’s not much to it.”
He yanks the shorts down and pulls me to him by the waist, kissing and caressing my belly, hips, and lower down until I’m clasping him by the hair, whimpering, my knees wobbling.
He stands up, and he’s magnificently ready for me. “Where are those condoms?”
I point at the pile on the floor by the backpack, and it’s an endless moment as he gets one on and then bends me over the edge of the bed. I’m panting, so hot for him, so eager I push my butt back toward him, but he pauses, sliding his hands all over it, stroking my core. He wedges my legs further apart with his knee.
“This is a world-class butt, Pearl,” he says, “and it’s all mine.”
“Yes, please,” I manage to say. He grasps me by the hips, his thumbs digging into the little dimples above my ass, and slides into my welcoming heat.
I throw my head back with a gasp at the incredible, overwhelming sensation, the utter possession of it. We both pause a moment to savor and adjust. Then, slow, deep and heavy, he moves into me. I gasp at each stroke, feeling ripples of sensation building toward a climax unbelievably quickly. He leans over my back and bites my neck, sending a thrill zipping down my spine as his breath tickles my ear.
“I’m never letting you go, Pearl. You’re mine.” His voice is low and stern, as if making a vow.
“Yes, please.” I’m overwhelmed with relief. He’s not sending me away, at least not now, and he makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan, and things get crazy, a vortex of sensation and movement and sound and smell and taste and touch.
I’m shattering, coming apart and mindless, and so is he. It’s all anyone could ever want or dream.
I sit on his lap at the breakfast bar and feed Magnus bites of bacon, secretly letting Whiskey get a few bites too.
“How do you feel about a road trip?” he asks. I’m back in my cami set, and he idly fondles the skin of my knee as he takes a nip of bacon from my hand.
“Yes, please,” I say, and this time we both laugh. “Where are we going?”
“Not sure. But let’s take the bikes, go away for a while.”
“I love it.” I bite my lip to keep from adding, “and I love you,” but I think he sees it in my eyes because he captures my cheek, turns my face to his. Kisses me. Then stands, setting me back on my feet.
“Make whatever calls you need to make. We can buy whatever we need on the road.”
I feel the same swell of emotion that brought me to tears earlier rise up, and my eyes prickle. I turn away to hide it, going to my little backpack and getting out jeans and a tee shirt, dressing quickly. I can’t help glancing at the jumbled bed, smiling.
I hear the rumble of Magnus’s voice, and a similar one, lighter and feminine. He’s talking to his mother.
Oh, God. I’ll just keep busy in here for a while. I decide to strip the bed and wash the sheets since we’re leaving.
I hear the voices raised, moving away. Good. I don’t want to hear what she has to say about me, and truthfully I hate that I’m a bone to pick between them. It’s not a good thing long term.
If there is a long term.
I’m hoping there is, after he so totally laid claim to me, both in word and deed. I smile at the thought as I wash up the dishes. I find the apartment-sized washer and load the sheets, turning it on.
Magnus returns. His brows are lowered over those charcoal eyes, but he smiles when he sees what I’m doing. “Gorgeous, great in the sack, and cleaning up my kitchen. Am I dreaming?”
“I’m buttering you up so I can have my way with you later,” I tell him.
“That’s a given.” He gets out a duffel bag, battered and patched. “Did you make your calls?”
“I wanted to get this done first. And give you time to talk to your mother.”
He turns to me. He walks over,
takes my chin, and brands my mouth with a kiss. “She’ll settle down. She’s watching the cabin and Whiskey for us.”
Us. He said “us.” I’m doing a happy dance in my heart. “Okay. I’ll use the phone then. I need to call the agency and my sister. How long are we going for?”
“A week. To start.”
My eyes flare wide. “You promise? Really? A road trip on our Harleys, for a week?” My voice has risen to a squeak of excitement.
“That’s right. Down with that?” I can tell he’s worried the squeak wasn’t happiness. He just doesn’t know me well enough yet, but he will.
“I’m down with that. Oh my God. I’m so excited.”
It’s a glorious week, riding across the great U S of A on my bike behind my man. He’s got an atlas in one of his saddlebags, and when we stop along the route, we plan the road ahead. At night we find motels, and make an embarrassing amount of noise.
I never ask about Dubai, and he doesn’t tell me.
We reach Vegas, and Magnus heads us in to get a suite in the Bellagio. Checking in, I look around the opulent lobby, everything trimmed in gold. My leathers are scuffed and my hair is plastered to my head with sweat and dust as I hold my helmet under my arm.
“Don’t you think this place is a little much?” I whisper to Magnus.
“Past time we spent some of your world famous modeling moolah,” he grins, and I elbow him.
“Fine. This one’s on me.” I take out my wallet at the counter and hand over my card. The concierge’s eyes light up. “Pearl Michaels! I didn’t recognize you.”
“I’m traveling incognito,” I whisper.
She giggles, cutting her eyes over to Magnus, clearly seeing what I so appreciate. “Our guests’ confidentiality is always our highest priority, of course.”