by Tina Donahue
“Au contraire, V. You’re a man first.”
“V?”
She stroked the short dark hairs that swirled around his navel.
His stomach quivered.
Liking that, she touched those rippling muscles. “Do you mind if I call you that from now on, as a nickname?”
“If you want. But shouldn’t it be VG for Van Gogh?”
“I prefer V for virile.”
Despite her corny words, he beamed.
Their artless flirting wasn’t Oscar-worthy, but it was the best life offered. Two souls who could be themselves with each other, their flaws and shortcomings unimportant.
“Want me to help with your jeans?” She wiggled her fingers. “I’m used to working with delicate machinery. I think I can manage your zipper.”
He brushed her hands aside and left the bed but stood near enough for her to touch him. “That’s my job.”
“Then get to it. I’m about to die here.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to rush.” He stroked the metal button, taunting her.
Screw that. She cupped his balls.
His head dropped back. “Fuck.”
“Not with you dressed we won’t.”
Deep laughter quivered his chest. A groan followed. “Give me a sec or I swear I’m gonna come. It won’t be pretty.”
Or fun for her. “Sorry.” She released him and behaved. For the moment.
He rolled his shoulders then slipped the button through its slit. Silky hairs trailed beneath the waistband. She made fists to keep from ripping off his jeans. Once he had his zipper down, the edges fell away, revealing dark blue underwear. Had to be boxer briefs. He was too cool to wear anything else.
He slanted a look. “Ready for more?”
“Break out the popcorn. Give me a show.”
He ran his thumb beneath the stretchy waistband.
“Uh-uh. You’re going too slow.” On her feet, she gripped his clothes and tugged them down, ignoring whatever he muttered.
His cock jumped out. Hard and proud. Thick veins dashed down his length. By her guestimate, he was longer than most guys. His rod looked freaking enormous, its root nested in dark brown curls, his balls meaty and plump, the skin ruddy.
His musk enveloped her. Wasn’t enough. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his thatch.
He swayed. “Hey.”
“Come in my mouth, please.” She licked his smooth crown.
He twisted to get away. “Not yet.”
She followed, turning a tight circle with him, her knees tapping the floor. “Why?”
He fell on the bed and put out his hand. “Later, okay? Right now, I’d like to be inside you.”
“My mouth is inside.”
“Wrong end.”
“You can use my ass later.”
He fought his clothes, the comforter, and her, then finally rolled to the footboard. “I need to undress.”
He tossed his sandals across the room. His jeans and underwear sailed over her head, hit the wall, and fell on her shoulder.
She threw them on the floor.
“Condoms.” He pushed out his hand.
She pressed the packets to her chest. “Let me put one on you.”
“Do it quick. My balls are ready to explode.”
They couldn’t have been redder if she’d kicked them. His cock looked bruised, too, the skin stretched so tight it shone. “It’ll take only a sec.”
She ripped the packet too hard. The rubber fell out and landed on her foot.
“I have it.” He reached for the condom at the same time she did.
The thing slipped through their fingers and hit a Castillo’s bag, then plopped on the floor.
“You can do the next one.” He tore the new packet better than a seasoned porn star, rolled the rubber down his length, and pushed to his knees.
His hairy thighs and tight nuts chased away everything except a primal urge to join him in a timeless carnal dance.
She fell back and lifted her legs, offering herself to him as a shelter, a home. “Ride me hard. Make me scream.”
“If you get louder than the music that might bring your landlady or the cops here.”
She’d forgotten about Alice and the open windows. “To hell with them. This is our night.”
He gave her a soft yet promising smile. “Not yet, but it will be.” After running his crown down her slit, he entered her in one powerful thrust, stretching her as she’d never been stretched.
Her mouth fell open.
He filled it with his tongue and pumped. Their curls touched.
Chapter Six
If heaven existed, Van Gogh had reached it. Clover’s satiny skin, her heat, and scent mesmerized. He’d told her she was narrow. When it came to her cunt, tight was a better word choice, her slick sheath hugging and caressing his cock.
Another shudder sped through him. He wanted to hump her like a lunatic and make the bed jump. If he wasn’t careful, he’d come after one thrust.
He’d waited too long to be inside her, the reality far better than his most salacious fantasies. In them, he’d tied her to his bed or bent her over his convertible chair at the parlor, her ass high, legs spread, ready for discipline and everything else.
The images made him so fucking hard he pushed them aside in order to maintain control.
They returned with vindictive force and more detail.
Shit, shit, shit. He should have masturbated before he’d left work to keep from coming too fast and disappointing her. There were few things in life he wanted to avoid more. Thrilling and pleasing Clover was all that mattered to him, and not only to prove he could do so, but because he wanted to bring her endless joy.
As an artist and a woman, she got him when no one else ever had.
He pulled his mouth free and heaved air, desperate for it.
She breathed as hard as he did. “You okay?”
“Turned on. You?”
“Yeah.” She giggled. “Obviously.” She squeezed her pussy around his cock.
His hair stood on end. “Jesus fuck. Stop.”
“Too much?”
He wanted to lie but couldn’t. His face heated, giving away his embarrassment. So far, the nth time tonight. Thankfully, with her he felt he could be himself. “I don’t want to come too fast. Give me a sec.”
“Take all night. I’m not going anywhere.”
She was either the kindest woman he’d ever met or really into him. Like, seriously.
A nice thought, except he wasn’t foolish enough to believe the impossible dream. Given her looks and sweet nature, she could have hooked up with any guy. Fuck, he was glad she hadn’t, that she’d chosen him for tonight.
To thank her, he intended to perform well beyond any man she’d dated.
He stroked her clit.
Her gaze went glassy, cheeks red.
He risked a thrust, burrowing deeper into her heated core. His balls screamed for relief and his rod thickened, but he didn’t lose his wad. After chancing more pumps, he finally fell into a rhythm he could handle, a slow easy slide in and out of her, the sight astonishing.
She moaned throatily.
Sweat poured into his eyes. His shoulders burned. He rubbed her harder, pumped faster.
Her legs tightened around his hips. The bedframe squeaked, and the headboard knocked into the wall, causing a racket.
She growled louder than the other noise and squeezed his rod, adding to the friction, driving him fucking nuts. He wanted to shout for her to stop but couldn’t find enough breath. His passion betrayed him at every turn, propelling him toward climax. He fought release as he never had, pushing her softness and heat from his mind, concentrating on crappy things instead. Inking in the parlor window. Exposing his talent to careless, sometimes cruel comments. Dealing with customers who didn’t know what they wanted and hated what he suggested.
“Now, now, now.” Clover cupped his balls.
He choked and gasped.
Sh
e fondled him.
Van Gogh lost it. He drilled her hard and fast and thumbed her nub.
She wailed.
He stiffened, cum spurting, the world careening. Trembling uncontrollably, he sagged to his elbows, the magic taking him to the outer limits then straight back to Earth, the party over too quickly, leaving him breathless and weak.
He grinned like a loon.
She giggled. “That was epic, awesome, and legendary.” She kissed his shoulders and cheeks. “Roll over.”
Moving wasn’t in his current repertoire. Give him ten minutes and he’d be good to go. “Am I too heavy?”
“No. Please?”
Took him two tries but he finally managed to get her on top.
She draped herself over him. “How long do you usually sleep after sex?”
Her question stunned him. It was as bad as a guy questioning a woman’s IQ. “I don’t.” He would have killed for a nap but shook off his fatigue. “How long are you down after you climax?”
“How about we find out tonight? We’ll make it one of our goals. I’m hungry. You?”
If eating kept him awake, yeah. “Sure.”
She slipped over his leg, pulled off the condom, and licked his flaccid length.
Too much pleasure shrieked through him, his cock still über-sensitive. “Holy mother fuck.”
“You don’t like this?”
“Sure, once I can breathe and my heart isn’t threatening to burst.”
“Got it. How about this?” She tongued his balls.
He shot to a sitting position and eased her back. “That’s even worse. How about we eat regular food and have this for dessert?”
“I like the way you think.” She tossed his condom to the wastebasket near the table and pulled the bags onto the bed.
Sagged against the headboard, he blinked repeatedly to keep his eyes open. “Want me to help?”
“I have it. Relax—even though you don’t need to.” She winked.
His laughter spilled out before he could stop himself. “I’m fine. I refuse to nod off.”
“You may regret that later. Mind if I ask you something personal?”
“I’ve never fallen asleep during sex.”
“Wow. You’re the man. But that wasn’t what I wanted to ask.”
“I’m six two and a half.”
“I figured as much.” She stroked his cock lightly. “A woman has ways of knowing those things.”
And here he thought a guy’s hands gave away how hung he was.
“But that still doesn’t answer my question.”
“This is about me not being circumcised, isn’t it?” The foreskin covered his shriveled crown, making his length seem even shorter. “If I could have been, I would have, for no other reason than to fit in with the rest of the guys growing up. My parents wouldn’t have it.” He made a face. “They belong to this small, conservative sect that’s pretty much against anything they believe is a liberal conspiracy.”
“Like circumcision? I thought that was an ancient Jewish tradition.”
“It is. My folks haven’t figured that out yet or refuse to see the truth. When I say liberal, I mean other stuff—vaccinations, fluoride in water, following your dream.”
“They didn’t like yours?” Her eyes widened. “I’m presuming you wanted to become an artist.”
“Bingo.” He pointed then dropped his hand. “They wanted me in an executive suite like my dad, working for and eventually owning a major corporation like he does.”
She fiddled with his foreskin, easing it back then guiding it to again cover the head. “That is so cool. I could play hide-and-seek with your cock forever.” She gave him a goofy smile. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because you like doing it?”
“No. I meant why did your folks want you in an executive suite and all that other stuff?”
“Oh. To carry on the family name and organization, I guess. However, to hear them tell it, big business looks out for everyone, not like the rotten government that wants to take personal freedoms away by paying out Social Security, Medicare, family leave, and unemployment insurance to bums who don’t really need it. You know, like artists—” he gestured to her and himself, “—and the elderly. After all, Grandma has a walker. She can make it to her job at Walmart.”
“Wow, they’re hardcore, huh?”
“You can’t imagine.” Even his memories of interacting with them, or trying to, made him cringe. “When the Academy of Art University in San Francisco accepted me, my parents were horrified. Don’t get me wrong; they’re not bad people. I’m simply the son they never should have had. I still wonder if they adopted me but are too uptight to admit it.”
Sadness swept her lovely features. “You guys aren’t close?”
“They’re on the West Coast, I’m here. So, no. Even as a kid, I couldn’t connect with them. Granted, I stopped trying after a while, but as long as I toed the family line, they were happy campers. Trouble is, I never did.”
She rested her hand on his thigh. “You got into trouble?”
“The worst kind. I pursued art.”
“And sniffed glue or spray paint on the side?”
He laughed. “I was tempted, but no. For years, they’d ignored my art or were super critical concerning it and everything else I did. Oddly enough, their endless judgment made me more determined to do my own thing, be as different as I could be. I nearly starved trying to support myself with my paintings, plus paying off my student debt.”
“Did they know you were in trouble?”
“Sure. They had a private investigator tailing me.”
She scrunched her nose. “That’s awful. They couldn’t have called and asked how you were? Whether you needed help?”
“You don’t know my family dynamic. Anyway, they offered to retire my student loans, buy me a condo in San Francisco, get me a Benz, an expense account, and even a young woman who traveled in their circles and believed the crap they did. All I had to do was give up painting, let their personal assistant make me over into a young Gordon Gekko, date the woman in question, and promise to work at my dad’s insurance conglomerate.”
“No.” Clover cupped his face. “That’s so wrong.”
“I know. I don’t believe in arranged marriages, either.”
“I’m not referring to that. Frankly, it’s medieval—forgive me for saying so and being critical of your folks. But really. What I meant is your career. Their disapproval must have crushed you.”
At times, he still questioned his ability in art and everything else he did, believing he wasn’t good enough and would never measure up to his father’s success that he didn’t even want. Talk about fucked up. “I would have drunk myself to death or OD’d if I’d done what they wanted. I tried to explain that to them, but they wouldn’t listen. I finally decided to fly under the radar. Less turmoil for everyone.”
She stared. “Are you saying they don’t know where you live now?”
“If they did, they’d try to push me back into their mold. Truthfully, we haven’t talked in years.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” She hugged him.
He expected pity in her response. So much tenderness flowed from her, his eyes stung. Grateful, he held her gently. “I shouldn’t have told you that. TMI, right?”
“Not at all.” She squeezed him then brushed her lips over his. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Actually, I haven’t asked it yet.”
What in the hell was left for her to know about him after his lengthy confession? Unless she intended to bring up the sketchpad he’d dropped when she’d been in his workstation. Lauren might not have known what he’d been drawing, but she wasn’t an artist like Clover. He slumped. “Fine. I was drawing you.”
“What? You were?”
“You didn’t know or guess?”
“About what?”
“Me drawing—wait. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” His big mouth had struck again. “Let’s forget it.�
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“How? Now I’m curious. You were drawing me? Hold on.” Her gaze turned inward then her face brightened. “After your pad fell on the parlor floor, you looked like you wanted to hurl. That was me you were doing?”
“Just an outline. Your umbrella intrigued me. Thought I’d try something different with it.”
She drooped. “Good to know my parasol finally got you to notice me.”
He should have confessed his months-long interest in her, but couldn’t. Not yet, at least. Despite her easygoing nature and his comfort level with her, he wasn’t that brave. “It’s a cool umbrella—parasol. Haven’t seen anything like it around.”
“That’s because I made it, and most people think it’s weird.”
“Screw them. It’s beautiful.”
She smiled softly. “Thanks. But that’s still not what I wanted to ask.”
He wasn’t surprised. “Since I’m clearly not good at guessing or reading minds, what do you want to know?”
“Your real name.”
She kept blindsiding him. Her asking him here and her impromptu striptease were awesome. This, not so much. He brushed a stray hair off his cheek.
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s not me.”
“Why?”
Sometimes she was too direct. “Do I look like a Cornell—Cory for short—Phillipe Wadsworth the Third to you?”
She worked her mouth but didn’t completely hide her smile. “Nope. You’re right. I like V better.” She tapped his thigh and slid off the bed. “I’ll get us some beers so we can eat.”
He pulled the Styrofoam cartons from the bags. “Do I get to ask you any questions?”
“Fire away. I have nothing to hide.”
She bent at the waist, unknowingly displaying her luscious ass and exposing her slick cleft as she pulled beers from the fridge.
His shaft stirred. “Do you get along with your folks?”
“Always have, except for a brief period during my teens when hormones made me nuts. Or at least that’s what I’ve been blaming my bad behavior on. They forgave me for back then and want me to do whatever I want as long as it makes me happy and isn’t illegal.”
“How’d you get so lucky?”
She padded to the bed, drinks and utensils in hand. “I think the way we interact with one another is because they’re naturists, nonjudgmental, easygoing to the extreme. I grew up in a nudist colony. They own and operate one not too far from here. We talk or text all the time. Next time I visit, I’ll take you with me. You look great naked.”