Beyond Hunger

by Ashley Logan

  I gasp and hold on tighter, meeting him with every thrust.

  “Shit, Vi. I love you so fucking much,” he says, stretching me in the most delicious way as he fills me.

  “I love you too. So much. Fuck. Serge!” My orgasm explodes around him and I cling to him as he rides it to his, calling out my name as he unloads.

  Breathing hard, we meet each other’s eyes. Pressing his lips to mine, Serge keeps my trembling body against the wall until he recovers enough to carry me to the shower.

  LYING MY HEAD ON SERGE’S chest, I sigh; content. My fingers trace circles around his nipple and I shiver as his hand strokes my spine.

  “I met your mother tonight,” he says, making me pause.

  “And?” I prompt, my fingers moving in circles again.

  “She seemed to think I was after your money.”

  Sighing, I lift my head so I can see his face. “She thinks everything is about money. I know what we have has nothing to do with money.”

  Serge nodded and settled me back to his chest, running his hand over my hair. “Why is she trying to give you money if you already have money?” he asks, still stroking my hair.

  “She presumes that because I’m dancing, I must have spent my annual allowance.” Sighing again, I roll onto my back. “I inherited my father’s money when he died. The bulk of it is tied into various investments. I get a substantial payout each year, which I usually donate to assorted charities. I don’t need it.”

  Serge rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand as he watches me. Moving his other arm over me, he scoops me closer.

  “Your Mom didn’t inherit any of it?”

  Shaking my head, I watch my fingers fidget with the blanket.

  “They’d been separated, due to indiscretions on her part. She’d already lined up her next meal ticket while Dad lay dying.”

  Lines appear on Serge’s brow and I smooth them with my thumb. Capturing my hand in his, he kisses my knuckles and holds them to his chest.

  “She didn’t support your claims because it put that meal ticket in jeopardy?”

  Rolling into him, I nuzzle his chest. “She’s a real gem, that one,” I say, taking his nipple between my teeth and tugging it gently. Serge inhales sharply and leans back to see my face.

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  “You hungry?”

  Giggling, I roll away to sit on the edge of the bed. “I could eat,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him. “You?”

  His eyes trail down my back and return to mine with a mischievous glint. “Mmhmm.” He lunges for me, but I make a break for the kitchen before he can get a hold on.

  Opening the fridge, I take out the milk and get two glasses from the cupboard as Serge joins me. Reaching into another cupboard, he pulls out a bottle of chocolate syrup and sets it on the counter next to me.

  Lifting its lid, I turn to him. “You were hopeful I’d return for chocolate milk?”

  Smiling, Serge kisses my cheek and steals the syrup. “Definitely hopeful.” Squeezing some into each glass, he hands it back to me as he pulls out a spoon for mixing.

  “Is that how people made chocolate milk in the old days?” I ask, tilting my head back and pouring syrup into my mouth. Taking the milk, I tip some of that in too and shake my head to mix it. Swallowing, I lick my lips and grin at Serge’s expression.

  Stepping closer, Serge collects a chocolate drip from my thigh with his finger, puts it in his mouth and sucks it off slowly and deliberately as his eyes burn into mine.

  “Young folk,” he says, shaking his head and stirring our drinks. “Always wanting instant gratification.”

  Handing me a glass, he clinks his against it. “Drink up and I’ll show you why chocolate syrup was really invented.”

  An involuntary shiver travels through my body and Serge hides his smile with his glass. Drinking my milk, I keep one eye on him and one eye on the syrup.

  “We old folk are thorough too,” he adds in a warning tone that makes me cross my legs, pressing my thighs together to contain the aching want.

  Putting his empty glass in the sink and picking up the syrup, Serge flips the cap open and closed as he watches me. “The youth of today are in a rush, too impatient to invest their time. We of the wiser generation know that truly good things take time and that they’re worth the wait.”

  Finishing my milk, I set my glass next to his with a shaky hand and turn back slowly, anticipating another body shattering orgasm.

  “I know old people like to give lectures, but it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re naked except for a milk-moustache.”

  Stepping to me, Serge runs his thumb over my top lip and sucks the chocolate milk from it. “You don’t think it makes me look distinguished?”

  Snorting, I shake my head and cover a yawn.

  “Am I keeping you up past your bedtime, young whippersnapper?”

  Laughing, he picks me up and carries me back to bed. Throwing me onto it, he grins down at me. “Kids today have no stamina,” he says, opening the syrup. “I’m not even close to being done with you, Violet Wheeler.”

  LICKING A STREAK OF chocolate from Serge’s jaw, I collapse on top of him in a sticky heap, thoroughly satisfied. Still trying to catch our breaths, we delay the second shower that we know is inevitable.

  “I’m never going to look at syrup the same way again,” I say, laughing a little. “How long has it been since you last had chocolate, Serge? You were very enthusiastic with your removal technique.”

  His stomach jiggles me as he laughs. “I just wanted to get at what was underneath,” he says, looking down his body at me.

  “Mmhmm.” Sighing, I stretch my arms and legs and relax back into him. “Would it be too disgusting if we slept first and showered after?”

  Serge audibly peels his sticky arm from my waist and makes a face. “Yes.”

  Gathering me into his arms, he carries me to the shower again and washes me from head to toe so I don’t have to do a thing. Toweling us off, he carries us back to bed, turns the music down low and tucks us in.

  Snuggling into him, I kiss the skin in the hollow above his collarbone. “Tell me a bedtime story.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “A real one,” I say, closing my eyes. “Like how come you and Bruno are such good buddies now.”

  Kissing the top of my head, Serge sniffs my hair. “You told me to make new friends, so I did. I like him. He’s friendly, he likes some of the same things I do and he needs a friend too.”

  “Yeah he does. He’s in a right twist about Scarlett and she’s completely clueless. I’m glad you two are friends.”

  “Me too.”

  “And Rick and Gina are trying for another baby?”

  “Yeah. Turns out the first one wasn’t planned, and losing it made them realize they really wanted to start a family. I was just complicating the situation,” he says sadly. “All sorted now though,” he adds, drawing me closer with the arm he has around me.

  “They were very good tonight.” I smile into Serge’s skin. “When Gina stumbled in like a drunk and kneed Troy in the balls, I could totally see why you loved her like you did. She’s got your back.”

  “And yours. She’s good like that. It’s what makes her great to work with,” he says, moving to get more comfortable. “Want to spoon?”

  “Am I the big spoon or the little spoon?”

  “You choose.”

  “Little spoon,” I say, rolling over and nestling my hips back against him as he lowers his arm over me and cups my breast. “I like your ‘go to’ position when we do this.”

  “It’s both comfortable and pleasurable,” he says with a smile in his voice as his thumb brushes over my nipple.

  Yawning, I snuggle in closer. My mind wanders with the music and I find myself thinking of the cocktail party again. “Serge?”

  He must have been close to sleep, because his response is “Mmm?”

  “How much is a ‘healthy chunk of chang
e’?”

  “Hmm?”

  Twisting in his arms to face him, I wait until he opens an eye. “What’s up, beautiful?”

  “Your donation. How much is a ‘healthy chunk of change’?”

  Opening his other eye, he looks at me a while. “Some,” he says, sighing. “I’m not after your money, Vi. Go to sleep.”

  “I know you’re not after my money. Why aren’t you after my money?”

  “Because I’m not an asshole,” he says, closing his eyes. Poking him in the ribs, I wait for a real answer.

  “My dad left me money when he died too,” he finally says. “My real dad. Apparently he had no other heirs. Yay for me. Money is so much better than a father would have been,” he says in a monotone. “Money is so much better than a mother who wasn’t beaten to death. And it sure is great to have a shitload of money after my grandparents spent too much of their lives working hard and struggling to keep me fed and clothed and educated. What a swell gift,” he says with a sigh. “I give most of it to charity.”

  Kissing him on the tip of his nose, I twist back into the little spoon position, pull his arm over me and move his hand to my breast. “I am very glad you chased me through the streets of Buffalo. I love you very much, Sergio Moretti.”

  Kissing the back of my head, Serge hugs me closer. “I love you too, Violet Wheeler. You were worth every step of the pursuit.”

  HEY AWESOME READER!

  Thank you for reading BEYOND HUNGER!

  I hope you enjoyed meeting Violet and the rest of the Beyond crew - each struggling dancer will get their own sassy chance at love - and even some of their friends will get some action! If you want to keep up-to-date with new releases, special subscriber only promotions and other news, you can sign up for my newsletter or follow my Amazon author page.

  If you liked Vi and Power Serge... let me know - I’d love to hear from you!

  You can keep in touch with me on Facebook or through my website Ashley Logan Romance

  If you’d like to help other readers find this book, then please post a review (or even easier, agree with someone else’s by clicking the ‘YES, this review was helpful’ option below their review.)

  Thanks again for reading - if you’d like to read Bruno and Scarlett’s story, it’ll be out at the end of June - keep reading for the first chapter, or order now and enjoy the full story.

  BEYOND HEAT

  The Story of Bruno Jackson and Scarlett Warner

  My fingertips blaze across her bare shoulders as I let her stray only so far before pulling her back in closer than I should. Close enough to hear the tiny gasp she didn’t mean to give me. Her eyes meet mine in surprise, and challenge, and something more as her gaze lingers longer than she wants it to.

  Performing a beautifully choreographed romance and doing it justice is a difficult skill to master for a dancer.

  Really it’s all an act. An artistic use of costumes and body language to fool an audience into imagining a fascinating connection coming to life on the stage. Each movement and expression tells the story of the relationship between the dancers. A longing glance, a passionate embrace, or an abrupt cold shoulder are merely tools to which the dancers themselves add personality.

  The art of believably portraying deep emotion, intimate chemistry, and flawless timing actually takes a certain amount of very real emotion, chemistry, and time to achieve. These things must come together in a delicate balance to make the audience believe the story. The performance must be just right to make the magic happen.

  I’m not one to believe in magic, but dancing as if I’m in love with Scarlett Warner is like having all my stars align. Each step is natural and faultless and feels like it’s meant to be.

  I play her lover as I long to in real life, supporting her every move with the strength and admiration she commands.

  It’s easy to fool an audience when the emotion is real, but as we come together, I suspect I may have even convinced Scarlett of a romantic connection.

  Her eyes meet mine with questions that her body already seems to know the answers to.

  Romanced by the routine, she slips readily into the role of my counterpart and loses herself to the immense passion between us.

  We’d normally use this passion for arguing, but today it takes us somewhere else. Our practiced actions become entwined with the emotions lovers should feel. Each look is one of adoration or hunger as the music rises and falls. Each touch becomes a searing reminder that I’m a man and she is a beautiful woman.

  As the dance demands our level of need to rise, I feel it raging out of control within me. Taken with it, I’ve forgotten the audience even exists as I dance for her towards a climactic end. My holds become more possessive and urgent as she plays into my lead and it’s hard to pull my eyes from hers as I long to tell her how much she means to me.

  But tonight’s dance must end. She isn’t my lover, nor will she be.

  Our section of music comes to an end and I find like a fool that for those few brief moments, I believed the act too. Breathing hard as we dance off stage, I break our intense eye contact and desert her in the wings as I rush to rid myself of a fraudulent costume and resume my tortured role in the real world.

  I WOULDN’T SAY DANCING with the elderly is my calling in life, but I’ve had a lot of practice and I’m very good at it. I can whisk an old lady about the tiles with such ease and attention, she need never worry about the phrase ‘hip reconstruction’. After weeks of grueling rehearsals for our unorthodox dance crew's performance in tonight's GlamSlam charity fundraiser, I don’t really feel like more dancing, but I made a commitment to help and I’ll see it through. When it comes to securing a hefty donation from a wealthy benefactor at this post-performance cocktail party, I feel confident it will be my dancing that’s going to seal the deal, because aside from being good on my feet, I’m really not very charming at all.

  Making several comments about my ‘beautiful gray eyes’, Ms. Rumford’s disturbingly soft hands run up and down my bare forearms, making me regret rolling up my shirtsleeves. From the look of concentration on her face as she watches her hands, I get the feeling she is trying to decide if the caramel tone of my skin is genetic, or just a really decent tan.

  Leaning in close, I whisper, “I was born with it,” before spinning her away as far as I can whilst still supporting her.

  Her eyes flash to mine and she gives me a wicked grin.

  “I had a black lover once.”

  Trying not to laugh, I pull her in close again as the music winds down.

  “So did my father. Thank you for the wonderful dance, Ms. Rumford. I hope you’ll support the cause as generously as you’ve kept my company. Thank you for keeping me from harm on the dance-floor.”

  Holding on to my hand longer than is appropriate, she leans in closer.

  “You flatter me, young Bruno. If I were a less mature vintage, you might be in serious trouble.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a second,” I reply with a wink. “But if you keep my hand any longer, I’m afraid we’ll both be in trouble right now,” I add, nodding towards her approaching husband.

  Sighing a little, she reluctantly releases my hand as the next song starts and her husband reaches for her. Watching them with a smile as they waltz slowly away, I turn toward the bar and stop.

  Leaning over the bar and pointing the barkeep to the lowest shelf of his refrigerator, is the most appealing sight. My pulse quickens as I appreciate Scarlett’s perfect ass. The pale yellow fabric of her dress clings beautifully to her well-defined rear before falling to the floor in a shimmering cascade. Smiling as the bartender retrieves her favorite low-budget beer from the fridge, she stands tall again and tucks a loose blond curl behind her ear.

  Swallowing hard, I approach the bar slowly, frowning a little as my eyes trace the lines of her gown. The fabric is cut in an older style, suitable for sensible young women from the fifties, private school headmistresses, and nuns. It covers her too much, and knowing she’
s intentionally chosen this design to hide her scars annoys me more than anything. Despite the overly-conservative dress, she is the most beautiful woman in the room and I hate knowing she never thinks so.

  Taking up beside her, I gesture to the bartender that I’ll have what she’s having. Rolling his eyes in an unimpressed manner, he bends to retrieve another bottle and begins pouring it into a glass. I begin to object, but Scar stays me with a hand on my arm.

  “I tried to tell him it already comes in a glass, but he insists we at least make an effort to appear classy. According to him, swigging cheap beer from the bottle at this bar, even when dressed very elegantly, is the height of offensive behavior.”

  Raising my gaze from her hand on my arm, I meet her green eyes and stop breathing. Scarlett doesn’t usually look at me as she does right now. At best, I sometimes get a brief smile, or maybe a bigger one if she thinks I’m not looking, but right now she’s grinning at me as if she truly likes me. Blinking twice, I turn to the bartender as he offers me the beer in a tall, frosted glass. He seems almost grateful when I remove the cheap drink from his presence and thank him.

  “So people are meant to think we’re drinking fancy beer?” I ask, taking a sip and trying not to look at Scarlett for fear of never breathing again. “Does fancy beer even exist?”

  Scarlett giggles and turns to face the room. “Fancy-schmancy. It all ends up as piss anyway.”

  Choking on my brew, I cough as I laugh. “I don’t care what the bartender says. You are all class.”

  Laughing again, I shake my head and watch the wealthy guests of the charity cocktail party as they schmooze. I want to tell her that she has more class than any of these characters, but she’ll only shoot me down. I’d like to tell her how beautiful she is, but she’ll think I’m lying, or teasing her like the jerk she thinks I am. Gritting my teeth, I realize I don’t want to say nothing. I can’t say nothing; she’s perfect.

  Sighing, I tone it down. Way down.

  “You look nice tonight, Scar.”