by Kat Turner
“I don’t feel obligated in the slightest. I want to be here, with you. So much. But this has to be just sex. Nothing complicated or ambiguous, no caveats. Anything more could confuse the situation, confuse our goals.” Translation: anything more than sex would scare her too much. The epiphany darted out before she could plug its escape hole.
“Well, then, allow me to show you great sex. If that’s what you want.” The soothing note in his timbre shifted to a randy, gruff burr. Still, the rich way he said the word “sex” rendered such a base concept inadequate to describe or do justice to their impending act.
Enough analysis. Helen reacquainted herself with her good old buddy snark. “You do realize you’ve asked for my clear consent a good three times. The only thing you’re missing right now is a shirt that says ‘Feminist’ across the front.”
“I’d wear it. What can I say? I’m in the ‘consent is sexy’ camp.”
“Consider it given with the utmost enthusiasm.” Steering their encounter back on the amorous track, she flashed her best seductress’s grin.
He replied by dropping a quick kiss to the tip of her nose, a subtle gesture of affection tendered in nonverbal whimsy. “I’m glad.”
With a swift physical transition, deft but not methodical, Brian moved his lips to Helen’s. He brushed her mouth, savoring. Then, in a show of dominance that stole her breath, he molded his mouth to hers and took her with his tongue. The waltz began as he explored the inside of her and she replied in kind.
His cock thickened, growing back to full readiness while they kissed. Soon he was as stiff as a poker, pushing into the crease of her thigh in rhythmic hip thrusts. Sucking her lips while thrusting dry, Brian moaned into her mouth and closed his hand around hers, interlacing fingers, and squeezed their palms together.
She welcomed the closeness of his callused skin, warm and dry, foreshadowing the physical release of two people escaping to the joys of each other’s bodies. This man was a gentleman and had sex like one, even if sex was all they were doing.
Wetness flowed from her center and dampened her panties, and she opened her legs farther in invitation. Brian’s sensual kisses travelled a downward journey to her neck, a flurry landing on the pulse point behind her jaw. Nipples peaking and clit throbbing, she punched up her hips.
“Are you ready?” he murmured into her tingly skin, taking his oral attentions to her collarbone.
“Yes.” She tugged the elastic hem of his boxers. A glimpse at the pattern on the fabric made her smile. Tiny Christmas trees dotted festive red cotton. The out-of-season underwear endeared her to Brian. They demystified him and represented his lack of pretention, rendering him accessible, human, real. “I’m so ready. Fuck me.”
“Not before I taste how ready you are.” His exploring hands pressed her breasts together, and he lapped and nipped each large swell. He sucked one pebbled tip, grazing her sensitive bead with gentle teeth. “Perfect.”
She gasped, moaned, a tingle shooting from her chest to the hard bud between her legs. Brian took his lips to her opposite breast and licked the underside of her nipple, rubbing the other between a wetted thumb and forefinger. Her sex lit up, pounding, need growing to a near-painful burn.
Running her fingers through his hair, she stretched her legs wider. Just a brush of contact to her clit and she’d come, he’d worked her up so much.
“I love your beautiful body.” Brian kissed her belly button, her hip bone as he made his way down. “I want to kiss each and every one of these precious freckles.”
He kissed several of the small birthmarks dotting her body. She’d always been mildly self-conscious of them, as they evidenced a few summers’ careless sunscreen lapses, but in the present moment she felt gorgeous. Inside and out.
“You’re so good at this.” Helen’s throat tensed. “This” meant more than sex and, as much as she’d tried to kick her denial into overdrive, she knew the act wasn’t just about fun. He was caring for her.
She willed herself to stay in her body and focus on the pleasure Brian gave her. Pleasure was okay, beauty and tenderness and caring were not. She couldn’t fall for him. They could enjoy each other, sure, but nothing more serious. Because the truth was as stark and clear as an exit sign. Brian’s life hung in the balance, and she was to blame.
If she fell for him, she would lose him. Such was Helen’s fate, and if history was any indication, the grim decree had been prophesized.
“Are you still good to go, sweetheart?” His voice was rough now, raspy.
She could tell he was horny, impatient to slide his hard cock somewhere wet and stroke until he came. But he wouldn’t do that unless he could rest assured that she was with him all of the way.
Why did Brian have to be so special? A lousy lay in the form of an arrogant, famous jerk making love to his own ego she could have detached from with no effort.
“I want you to keep going.” She treated his neck to a little massage. “I haven’t had sex in awhile is all. I suppose I got a little overwhelmed. But I want to, Brian, with you.”
“I still get nervous sometimes, too.” He took his hands from her chest and held hers for a moment, squeezed, and resumed his kisses.
She smiled at the thick hair on top of his head, not buying the claim for a single second. Everything about his approach so far was practiced, experienced, in control. Methodical, yet spontaneous. Suited him perfectly.
“If you say so,” she said.
“Just relax and let me make you feel good, if you’re sure.” He glanced up to her.
“I’m sure.” She was. And for the time being, despite how fleeting and illusory and sex-clouded the feeling might be, Helen lost herself to the scary-amazing emotion running through her.
The goodness might vanish when they parted ways in the Denver airport. Or get snatched away the second she got used to it, like all of those foster families did. But for now, she treasured something mysterious and precious. The word started with an L and she was not permitted to feel the stirrings anymore. Never again, and for sure not now.
Brian nuzzled her pelvis, filling his palms with the roundness of her hips. “Bet you turn heads so hard they whiplash.”
With her ginormous boobs, round hips, and big ass, Helen affectionately thought of herself as an hourglass with a little extra sand, though at times she longed for a perfect beanpole yoga body like Lisa’s. Now, though, under Brian’s hands and mouth, she unequivocally loved her goddess curves.
Okay, okay, maybe she could feel the banned L-word about herself.
Brian took her panties down in a single firm tug, Helen assisting with hip wiggles. He found her swollen center, the work of his lips drawing a moan from her. He kissed her lower lips like he’d kissed her mouth, romantically. His nose brushed the neatly groomed hair above her seam. He kept the kiss up, languid and unhurried.
His tongue darted out, fast and surprising. Helen gasped and bucked off the bed, surged by a jolt of pleasure.
“You want me to lick you?” Brian grabbed her bottom and held on, the frank question a dirty, thrilling preview.
“Yes times a million.” Her clit was so tender the spot hurt. Her bent knees shook. This wouldn’t take but a minute.
He got to work, lapping her stiff, bulging bud with firm ministrations. Medium pressure, steady pace, long strokes up and down. He found her nub’s underside, the hot spot, and massaged with his perfect and dedicated tongue. A handful of licks, and the buildup pulled in her lower abdomen. She panted, pressure focusing to a beam of tension.
“I’m close.” Her tense voice mirrored the ratcheting tightness inside. Brian took her nerve bundle in his mouth and sucked. The wet suction propelled her to the edge.
Balling fists of sheet, she screamed, existing on the knife’s point of release. He sent two curled fingers into her, found her pleasure on the first attempt, and stroked, coaxing a leveling earthquake from her core.
Climax ripped her open, erasing relief tearing from center to extremities. A wa
terfall gushed from her, and she writhed, groaning, lost to bliss, out of her mind.
Finally, the pulses slowed to aftershocks, and Helen fell limp on the bed, gasping and seeing stars. Brian let up on the sucking, withdrew his hand, and lapped her opening like her fluids were nectar of the gods.
“Thank you.” She petted his hair.
“My pleasure.” He rose, returned to kneel between her legs, and wiped his mouth. Winked. She gave him a big smile. So dirty-cute and naughty-nice. The man wielded his contradictions with adroit mastery.
Helen stole a look between Brian’s legs. Her brows widened. His cock stood at proud alert, fully hard and curved, an impressive length reaching his belly button. A thick silver hoop pierced the head of his penis, looping through his urethra. She slid his adornment in a circle, finding the chunk of metal warm. “I like. Did getting pierced here hurt?”
“Oh, probably.” He grunted, eyelids fluttering as she played with the intimate jewelry. “I wasn’t exactly in a sound state of mind at the time.”
Brian was an official secret badass. A milky bead of fluid bubbled from his opening, and she slicked the moisture across the smooth flesh of his crown.
Relief from her orgasm ebbed as she anticipated the feel of him inside of her, how the piercing would stimulate. Helen ran her hand up and down Brian’s shaft.
“Did, uh.” A broken, hoarse cry interrupted his speech. His cock jerked, the tip darkening. A blue vein pulsed on the side. “Did you bring a condom?”
Oops. She’d subconsciously assumed he had protection covered. Helen pumped her lightly curled hand up and down his length, keeping him primed. “No. I take it you didn’t either?”
“No. Like I said, I’m not all that active sexually.” He bit his lip, stomach muscles clenching. “I wouldn’t last anyway…fuck. Don’t stop touching me. Please. Ah, I’m sorry.”
Dirty decadence made a fleeting vixen out of Helen. She’d brought Brian Shepherd close to unraveling with a few rubs. No point in pretending to deny the high of that drug. “You’re almost there, huh?”
She jacked faster, studying his expression. Eyes hooded, mouth open, breath choppy—he without a doubt sailed to the precipice.
“Can I finish on your breasts?” His request rushed out in a hungry slew of gasping syllables.
Depended on whether he could still banter. “Can I give you a prostate massage?”
“Love, right now I’d agree to let you give me a root canal without anesthetic.”
She chuckled. “Stellar comeback. Get on up here, the dentist is in.”
Brian moved to kneel at Helen’s chest. She did quick little up and down motions right beneath the ridge of his crown, drinking in the sight of his face drawn in a pained cast of pre-orgasmic desperation.
The tightness pinching his features crumbled into relief, dazed and awestruck, his gaze landing on her naked chest. “Oh my God.”
Already rigid manhood swelled to impossible stiffness in her grip. A deep groan erupted from Brian, blissful and long to accompany the white streams shooting from him. Three thick ropes splashed her breasts with liquid warmth while he moaned through the finish, thighs and abs clenching and releasing.
When he was done, Brian hunched forward, catching his breath in big pants and rubbing his stomach.
“I hope you’re still speaking to me after I embarrassed myself like I did.” A trace of worry underpinned contentment. Smiling sheepishly, he stripped a pillow and wiped Helen clean with the case.
She patted his leg above the knee. “We don’t have to put that narrative around it. Instead, how about we say that my dry hand jobs are the stuff of legends.”
Brian threw the pillowcase to the floor and reclined to lay beside her, bringing them face to face. He brushed hair from her eyes and kissed her lips and cheek. Sweet and unhurried kisses, for lust had been sated. There was no hurry anymore. “No doubt about it.”
A rumble sharper than thunder sliced silence beyond the window.
“Look.” Brian pointed to the glass, pulling Helen to rest in the crook under his arm.
She laid a hand over his thudding heartbeat, her gaze skating across the rising and falling plateau of his tattooed chest as she snuggled into his warmth.
A light show of city buildings dusted ebony skies. In the elevated blackness, above domes and skyscrapers, red taillights blinked. She kissed his pectoral muscle, breathing in the rich scent of his post-coital satisfaction. “An airplane, yes. I’m literally from flyover country. I’ve seen them overhead.”
“Ah, but have you flown in one complete with leather seats, your choice of drinks, and a private bedroom in the back?” He murmured the words into her hair, lazily palming the side of one nude breast. “Throw in a catered meal, and Fanny’s your aunt.”
She laughed, not with complete lightness as she retreated from his subtle advance. His question danced too close to fanciful ideas of a happy future. “What do you think?”
“I have a jet. Hardly ever use the plane, but I’d like to again. I could fly you out to visit me and then we could set off to, I don’t know, Hawaii. Or Aspen, if you’d prefer to ski. And you, my dear, would look criminally cute in snow pants and big clunky goggles.” He nibbled her earlobe.
Tight pain coiled through Helen’s torso. He was teasing her into believing he had feelings for her. She could not let herself think a chance existed. They’d discussed this issue. Brian had no right to mess with her like this.
“You don’t have to flaunt your wealth to impress me. And I couldn’t accept a big gift like that.” Her response came out snappier than she intended. The sharp tips of her words turned inward and scraped off old scabs. Damn him.
Brian drew back with a frown. “I apologize. Did I offend you? It was just a spontaneous idea—”
Three knocks pounded the door, an angry sound that fried Helen’s nerves. Was a break-in underway?
“Get out here, Shepherd.” Joe’s distinctive, worked-up voice shouted beyond the wall. “You have got some serious explaining to do.”
Twelve
Hovering in the hotel room doorway, Joe, red-faced with a vein popping near his temple, yelled at Brian about some social gaffe he’d allegedly committed.
Helen shrank in the wake of the manager’s furious accusations. Screaming matches still rattled her, excavating memories of hiding in the closet of her volatile, toxic home. She wrapped herself in a hug, picking at the decal on her old sleeping T-shirt.
“I don’t owe you so much as a hello. As the matter of fact, you’re fired. Get out, bugger off, and leave me alone.” At Helen’s side, Brian shoved the door into Joe, pushing him into the hall.
Joe growled through a useless attempt to insist his way into Brian’s suite. His sausage fingers appeared in the crack between door and jamb, knuckles white and tendons straining, but he retracted them before the force of Brian’s weight trapped and smashed the digits.
“I’m sorry, mate. I tried to keep him away, but he was on a mission.” This from a third man. He spoke in an English accent like Brian’s but with a husky smoker’s gravel.
“Don’t do this, man,” Joe bellowed, but a tremor of fear shook his voice. “I’m going to tell you one more time that you need to do the right thing and abide these guys. For your band. Your career. Your daughter.”
Brian snarled, muscles feathering in his neck and jaw. His entire body tensed, and he emitted a scarlet, furious energy. In a big yank, he tugged the door wide.
Joe stumbled over the threshold, a feral look in his eyes. His shirt was inside-out and backwards, and he smelled fishy and foul. Dude came off like a complete shit show, which made his presence more worrisome. Desperation could act as a powerful drive, goading people into all sorts of abusive and hurtful acts.
With a hard shove, Brian pushed the manager back into the hallway. “If you ever, ever, threaten my daughter again, you are dead. Understood?”
The third man, handsome in a rugged way with brown waves grazing beefy shoulders, caught
the manager before he collapsed. His hair and thick build rang bells, conjuring up memories of magazine covers. Thom James, the bassist whom Stacy had been with.
“I’m not sure he’s the one threatening your girl,” Thom said.
“The fuck you talking about?” Brian shot Thom a look of wounded confusion, then glowered at Joe.
“I’m warning you.” Joe panted. “It isn’t me. There are guys higher up than me, way higher. But I’ve made promises that I must honor. These guys have expectations.”
Who were “these guys”? Music industry cult members like Elwell? Helen better figure out what this slimy little orc knew and how much skin he had in the whole fucked up game.
“Who are you talking about?” Helen took a step forward. “You need to be more forthright, because we could all be in danger.”
Joe sneered at Helen. “You aren’t part of our ‘we,’ honey.”
“Leave her alone. You heard her. Start spilling,” Brian said. “Details. Now.”
Thom propped Joe upright and thrust a manila envelope at Brian. “He says someone slid these under his door. I was on my way to the ice machine when I saw him headed for your room. I said I needed to take a look.”
Face pale, Brian accepted the tan folder and unfolded its metal clasp. He slipped out a stack of black and white, eight-by-ten photos and flipped through grainy pictures.
None of the four people present uttered a peep. Time hardened into amber, fossilizing everyone in mute paralysis. Down the hall, a vacuum cleaner buzzed.
The first shot showed a headshot of a gorgeous teenage girl with a cropped pixie haircut.
Glossy paper made a whisking sound as Brian flipped. Same girl, sitting on a couch with several other girls, drinking coffee. In the third, she leaned over to buckle one of her sandals. The pose and lighting created a striking, unsettling sense of intimacy. Stalker-ish.
The fourth shot was a close up of the girl’s sleeping face.