by Jianne Carlo
Jesus. She had a quarter of him down her throat. How long did it take a woman to learn how to deep throat? Jesus. The sight of her luscious lips covering him, the wild hair tickling his belly, one little hand gripping the base, the other fondling his balls, did him in.
“Enough,” he growled, and lifted her off him, breaking her suction, flipping their positions, so he straddled her.
“Spread,” he ordered, not able to manage any more than guttural one-word commands.
Settling between her thighs sitting on his haunches, he squeezed a liberal amount of lube onto her pussy folds, and flicked the container to the side. Massaging the clear gel over each fold, each crevice, he studied her face.
At first, her gaze locked onto his hands, but then her eyelids fluttered, long lashes casting half-moon shadows on bronzed cheeks. His hand continued the intimate pussy massage, rubbing the thick clear cream into her center, getting as far inside as he could, one finger, two, three.
She moaned, doing that little throaty sound.
Unable to resist, his other hand slid below her ass. One finger trailed down the crease, the lube making the path easy, gentle.
Her hips lifted off the mattress, her ass resting fully on one palm, and he lost it. Again.
No control this time, he plunged inside, and drove into her over and over again. Hands gripping the tops of her thighs, lifting her off the mattress, he pounded her pussy, the lube one of those warming ones, making her sheath as hot as Hades.
And lust escalated, driving him harder, his testicles constricted painfully. He spread her folds with his fingers and rubbed hard circles over her button, until she clamped around him, a hard fast wringing motion, which sent him into orbit. He climaxed, his cock shooting semen into her passage. He collapsed on top of her in pure caveman satisfaction.
It took long moments for a smidgen of sanity to return, and when it did, Rolan immediately rolled them over. He weighed a solid two hundred and guessed she scaled in around a hundred. “Did I squish you?”
“Mmmm, a delicious squishing.”
The dreamy tone, the way she turned her lips to his chest dotting a kiss here, there, stroked his ego. One thumb did a slow circle on her neck and she let her head fall to the side, inviting more. “Hungry?”
She heaved a sigh and her breath fanned across his skin. “How can you even think of food after that?”
“Because, Sarita honey, you’re dessert. And that’s my favorite course.”
Chapter Five
The following day proved hectic. They left Nice early, as Rolan had promised, and Sarita figured she had loads of time to prepare the evening Phagwa meal. But as they drove through Cap D’ail, Suresh phoned Rolan. The Internet wunderkind bumped their planned meeting from one to noon and announced he would be bringing six guests for lunch. He rang off before Rolan could obtain more details.
Panic set in. Sarita’s fingers drummed on the leather armrest.
Rolan reached over and squeezed her hand.
All the way back to Monte Carlo, her mind buzzed, planning and discarding menu items.
They made it back to the Glory by ten o’clock, and Sarita had time for a brief shower before whipping into fast forward mode. She ordered Tony and Austen into town to obtain fresh flowers. Sarita set the table and put together a simple three-course menu, appetizer, entrée, and dessert. The time flew by once she started cooking.
At two, Austen served dessert.
Plopping onto a bar stool, Sarita stared at the lemon-hued kitchen walls, wondering how ten long years of planning and struggling had evaporated in one fateful day. She’d had a crush on Rolan since grade school. When they’d made love on prom night, she’d cried because of the poignant beauty of the moment.
She wore her love for him like a favorite old cotton T-shirt, the material worn so thin and soft it became a second skin, part of her makeup. One chance encounter, one soft kiss on her palm, and she was fused to him, bonded. No solvent could save her heart, for it was already lost.
“Hey lovey, why so glum? Jeez, you look like you lost your best friend. What happened?”
Austen looked the image of the stereotypical mafia henchman, dressed in his usual uniform of black jeans and black T-shirt. He leaned one muscled shoulder against the doorframe and scrutinized her slumped form.
“Why are you so upbeat? We’ve that cocktail party tomorrow. I’ve begun to hate those events. Honestly, they’re more work than a sit-down meal.”
“Didn’t you hear? Boss changed plans. Tomorrow he’s taking his guests to the Hotel de Paris. Rented out the entire Grill Room, wouldn’t you know? Some sort of special occasion, and get this ‑‑ we’re invited.”
A shiver of apprehension snaked up her spine.
“Mademoiselle Khan?” The soft feminine voice issuing the question came from a petite ebony-haired beauty with a porcelain-fragile complexion half hidden by the Navy SEAL.
Head whipping to the side, Austen appeared as bemused as Sarita.
“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Yvonne d’Artagnan, here to outfit you for tomorrow.”
“Outfit you?” Austen belted out the question plaguing Sarita’s lips. Hands clamped on lean wrestler-firm hips, he stared at the woman and edged closer to Sarita.
“Your marriage, Madame.”
“Beg your pardon?” Sarita managed, certain her hearing had gone awry. She hopped off the bar stool and faced the woman.
Tony skidded into the doorway, bumping into Madame Yvonne and sending her flying forward.
Austen opened his arms and she settled into them like whispers on a cloud, wide chocolate eyes meeting his gaze. He hefted her sideways and seemed to enjoy the sensation, pulling her so close you couldn't work a centimeter between them.
“Now, that’s just plain fun, missy. You can stay right there for a while.”
“Mom? Is it true?”
Feeling like a gazelle taken down by a lion, chased, caught, and trapped, Sarita concentrated on her son’s confused features and asked, “Is what true?”
“That we’re getting married tomorrow night.” The flat pronouncement came from Rolan, who seemed to materialize from thin air right behind his son. “I asked Tony to be my best man.”
Little black spots boogied before her eyes, sort of hollow, without any depth. They all crowded into a black circle, dancing a crazy lizardlike slither. She swayed, her knees crumpled, and she had to clutch the rounded counter to stay standing.
Within seconds, Rolan enfolded her in his arms.
“Sarita, get a grip.”
She met his emerald gaze unseeing, unfocused. And reality crashed in, smothering her breathing. The air seemed to collapse on her chest and she stumbled out of his embrace. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“Oh, but you did, right after we had dessert last night.”
Heat seared her cheeks as the images from the wee hours of this morning burned her pupils. He’d poured Bailey’s all over her last night and then licked her clean. She’d favored Grand Marnier. They’d made love three times, each one a different experience.
A first frenzied coupling. Then over a two-hour meal, he’d seduced her, bringing her to orgasm with hands, tongue, and then finally, when she was reduced to begging, his penis, sweet penetration. The third time had been at dawn, a poignant tender loving. He’d whispered through it all, telling her what he was going to do, how much he enjoyed her body, and the way she responded. After that he cuddled her close and they swapped tales of their ten-year hiatus.
Had she agreed to marry him? Sarita couldn’t remember anything other than making love, touching him, being touched.
“We even discussed the fact you didn’t want a ring,” Rolan said and tugged her back into his arms. “It was after I finished the first round of dessert, the Bailey’s, remember?” he whispered into her ear.
“Oh,” she murmured and buried her face in his white linen shirt, catching the mixed aromas of cigar, Cool Water, and Rolan.
“The ceremony’s set
for eight at the Hotel de Paris. Tony and I scoped the place out while you were resting. According to Tony, it’s awesome, right son?”
“It’s way cool, Mom. It’s painted like moon and stars ‑‑ you know the kind of things girls like. And it pulls apart, starting in the middle, and it’s on the top floor. You can see Italy and France from the balcony. Dad and I had ice cream there.”
“Retractable roof?” she said, brains too fuddled to function.
“Dad?” She glowered at Rolan. “Dad? You earned Dad in one day?”
“Mom, he is my dad,” Tony said, his voice firm, arms akimbo, as if waiting for her repudiation. “You said so.”
She swallowed and had to bite her lower lip hard to stop the threatening flood of tears. With a quick jerk of her head, she acknowledged the truth in Tony’s statement. She grabbed a knife, from a magnetic wall strip, ready to pulverize anything that she could find.
“Monsieur, I must insist you release me,” Madame Yvonne’s haughty tones didn’t quite match the incongruity of Austen’s broad palm caressing her tiny backside.
“Give me ten good reasons,” the Navy SEAL said, beaming a broad grin at the elegant black-swathed Audrey Hepburn look-alike.
“Monsieur! Release me, at once.” And she stamped one ballet-slippered foot.
“Hmmh, I’m beginning to think we should have a double ceremony tomorrow. What’dya think, boss?”
“I’m amenable, but the little lady doesn’t look convinced. Besides, she has to clothe my bride.”
“Madame, I must protest. These are insufferable uncivilized men.” The other foot did a couple of stamps.
“Tell me about it,” Sarita replied. “This is nothing short of a bullet train running over a couple of innocent pedestrians.”
“Wear white,” Rolan said.
“Mom looks good in white.” Tony concurred and both males vanished like bombs bursting at midnight.
A whirlwind of activity followed. Madame Yvonne hauled Sarita off to myriad haut couture boutiques. The petite Frenchwoman had cast-iron determination. Madame demolished Sarita’s protests, but she repudiated the woman’s attempted bullying at the mention of an entire wardrobe. They purchased one wedding dress with corresponding accessories, one going-away outfit, two dresses, one for each honeymoon night, and a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals Sarita couldn’t resist.
When they returned to the Glory, Sarita remembered the planned Phagwa celebration. She hurried to the galley and examined the contents of the freezer.
Austen bustled in as she closed the appliance’s door.
“What’s wrong, lovey? Why are you frowning?”
“We need to stock up. Austen, have you ever done a clambake? A real one? You know ‑‑ the hole in the sand and coals bit?”
“You’re talking to a Maine native, missy. I can do things with a lobster that’d make your head spin.”
“I’m not sure what that last part implies and I refuse to go there. Think we can source all the ingredients for one here?”
“Are you kidding? We're in Monte Carlo, luxury capital of the world. I can pick up everything easily. I’m guessing you’re planning that for tonight?”
“Yes. Since we’re going to be lighting a bonfire anyway, it would work out well.”
The Bosun checked his multifaceted diver’s watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better head out right away.”
“I’ll come with you. I want to pick up a few supplies.”
Shopping for a meal and preparing it always calmed her down. Sarita returned to the Glory humming, her earlier morning panic forgotten. Sarita and Austen deposited the groceries on the galley’s counter and she went to her cabin for a quick shower and change.
Rolan found her sitting on the floor of the galley surrounded by burlap bags.
“What on earth are you doing?”
She glanced up and answered, “Making the powder for Phagwa tonight.”
He stooped and his lips lifted at the corners. “You’ve got red, yellow, and brown stuff all over your face.” Eyes angling down, he continued, “Your neck, your hands, and even your feet are covered, too.”
“It’s difficult not to get it everywhere. That’s why I’m wearing old clothes.” She dipped her eyes to her torso. “I’m almost finished. This is the last thing I have to do.”
The Glory engines roared to life and the yacht rocked.
His eyes flew up. “I guess we’re off. Terry says it’s a short ride to the private beach. Why don’t you change into a bathing suit and we’ll dive into the water when we get there. It’ll be easier than trying to get that stuff off in a shower.”
“I’d planned on doing exactly that.” She stirred a navy-hued powder with a wooden spoon and slanted him a mischievous glance. “You don’t know what you’re in for tonight, Rolan Paxton. Every year your son mixes the Phagwa powder with water and fills balloons with the liquid. Then he goes hunting. One year, it took me two days to get the stains off my skin.”
“It sounds like an adult water-gun party. Now, if only you could add something sweet to it, then I’d offer to lick it all off.”
Two sentences and bantering amusement morphed into a sexual heat so dense, she could almost taste it.
“On second thought, maybe we should take this down to my cabin. We never did have that bath together.”
Tony skidded into the room. He halted inches away from a sack. “Aw Mom, you did it without me. You know I like to make the PP with you.”
“PP?”
“Paghwa powder, Dad. Gotcha, didn’t I?” Tony’s grin went from ear to ear.
“Watch it, buddy.” Rolan cuffed his son’s shoulder.
She loved watching their interplay, the obvious affection between them. A coal-sized lump formed in her throat.
Tony squatted in front of the open bags. He picked up a handful of reddish brown kernels.
“What are these things?” Rolan asked, jutting a chin at the seeds and ground spices in the burlap. “Smells like…” He sniffed a couple of times. “Lemons.”
“Lime. You smell the lime in the kumkum over there,” she said, pointing. “It’s turmeric mixed with slaked lime. Turmeric’s normally yellow, but the lime turns it red.”
“This one’s neem,” Tony answered, displaying a handful of kernels in his open palm.
She pointed. “That one’s haldi, which is the Indian word for turmeric. Next to the haldi is ground bilva fruit. Bilva is a sacred tree for Hindus and every part of it is used in ?yurvedic medicine. The tree is associated with the worship of Lord Shiva.”
“And all of this goes into making a powder that will be washed off in a few hours?”
“It’s the ritual and the symbolism that are important, Rolan.” Sarita read his bewilderment in his creased forehead and pursed lips. “It’s a different way of thinking.”
The ship’s engines died.
“We’re here.” Tony jumped up. “Terry says the beach is awesome. I’m going to swim to shore and hunt for twigs for the fire.”
“Remember Captain Terry had all the wood delivered, so don’t go overboard with the tinder.”
As usual, her son sprinted out the doorway.
“I hear we’re having a clambake tonight?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Austen’s doing everything pertaining to the meal. He’s from Maine.” She lifted a shoulder to rub her cheek and tried to blow a stray hair away from one eye.
Rolan tucked the lock behind her ear. “You don’t have to sound so defensive, Sarita honey. Is that finished now?”
Sarita’s gaze dropped to the series of stainless steel bowl filled with powders of all hues. “Yes. I think I’ll take you up on that swim now.”
“I’d prefer my cabin and a bath,” he said, standing and extending a hand.
“Anthony will be waiting for us, Rolan.” She reached up and grabbed his fingers, and he pulled her to her feet. “If we go to your cabin…”
“We’ll end up making love for hours,” he finished her senten
ce. Brushing the back of his hand on her cheek, he added, “I know. Okay, let’s table that for later. Tonight, we sleep together.”
Sarita shook her head and said, “I want to save that for our wedding night.”
The horrified expression on his face prompted a wry smile. “The actual sleeping part, Rolan, not the stuff that goes before.”
His hunched shoulders lowered and he let out an audible sigh.
“Thank God.” He spiked his hair. “Go get your suit on. I’ll wait for you on deck.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“I’m gone, before I give into temptation.” He smoothed his thumb over her lips, kissed the tip of her nose, and left.
Sarita made sure she didn’t brush against anything on her way back to the cabin. It took her a while to change and gather the items she need because of the powder stains.
When she reached the deck Rolan helped her into the Boston Whaler, and they motored the short distance to the glistening white shore.
Terry waded out to the boat, accepted their baggage, a large cardboard box, and returned to the shore.
Rolan shed his T-shirt. Sarita took off her long cover-up and jumped into the Mediterranean.
“Sarita.”
She heard his shout, but kept swimming. When her feet touched soft sand, she stood and strolled over to Terry, Austen, Harrison, Suresh, and Tony. Crowded around a wide opening in the sand, the group was digging the hole deeper.
Wedging in between Austen and Harrison, Sarita squatted.
She heard Rolan’s heavy tread and glanced up to see him stomping toward them.
Sighing, Sarita dusted off her hands and stood. “Where’d you put the box, Terry?
“By the rocks up there.”
Sarita headed in the direction he pointed.
Rolan caught her elbow with a cupped hand halfway to the boulder.
Halting, she took a deep inhale, cut to his face, and squared her shoulders. “It’s a swimming suit, a decent one. There’s no need for you to look like that.”
“Humor me and put this on.” He thrust the long cover-up into her hand. “I know it’s a decent suit, but damn it, I don’t want anyone else to see you in it.”