The Prick Next Door
Page 14
When she nods, I nudge her thighs apart. My palms cup her breasts at same time my cock pitches forward, under her body, and then surges up into her. Annabelle gasps, her fingers curling, her nails scraping the wall. Her narrow passage encases me and fogs my consciousness. I retreat and slide into her again, and again, and again. Our escalating moans ricochet off the tiles.
My palms leave her breasts to cover her flattened hands. As I lean into her, the wall gives me enough support to move harder, faster, my hips rolling in a circular motion. In mere seconds, we're both rocking against one another, my abs contracting, pleasure squeezing around my groin. My cries are getting more elevated.
"Not yet," she pants. "I need you closer. Please."
I need her closer, too. I need to see her face. Slipping from her, I flip Annabelle around, trapping her once more to the wall. I hook her left leg around my waist, skate her right leg far out to the side, and ram into her again. The force sends her jostling upward. As I master a steady pumping rhythm, her fingers clasp my wet ass, urging me deeper.
"Oh, baby," I whimper.
My lips find the beauty mark on the side of her breast and latch onto it. I relish what our bodies are doing to each other. With a flick of my hips and and a taste of her tongue, and the water hitting us, I come so loudly that I'm practically levitating off the floor.
"Yes, Cassius," she says. "Let me hear you."
We both go still as the tidal wave slams into us, then we dissolve into listlessness. Our mouths connect, bridging our sighs together. We keep our eyes open as we kiss, maintaining eye contact. And I'm thankful for this enclosed space, and for our open eyes, and for the constant brush of the water. I'm thankful that we don't yet know what we'll do today, but that it's our choice.
We grin like idiots as we dry each other off. I slip on loose pants and go shirtless for the morning—Annabelle enjoys seeing me this way—then head to the kitchen. At the counter, I slice a loaf of bread embedded with nuts.
When she's finished using the blow dryer, she emerges wearing one of my flannel shirts. She sets the table, padding around with her legs bare except for a pair of chunky socks. She's looks so cute like this.
As she gathers cups and spoons, her forehead pinches like it usually does whenever she starts thinking of the farm. Immediately, I know it's because of the mural.
She misses her family. Sometimes, I find her crying in the stairway to the café. Whenever this happens, I gather her to me and gently remind her of the promise she and her sister made before Annabelle officially left the community.
Elsie, the day after her sixteenth birthday, she'll just show up at our doorstep. She'll visit during the weekends.
The reminder always makes Annabelle suck up the rest of her tears. She knows Elsie and Mr. Chaste have each other. She knows they love her. She knows they think of her.
Aware that she's suddenly getting melancholy, I stop what I'm doing and leave the kitchen. I head over to the record player she gave me for my birthday, which Bailey helped her pick out. I flip through my records until I find The Lighters. It's an album she's never heard.
A guitar strums through the living room. A tambourine follows.
"Annabelle?" I call.
She pokes her head out of the kitchen, and I curl a finger at her. "Come here."
"But breakfast is—"
"Get over here, Duchess."
When she reaches me, I crush her to my chest and sweep her across the room. The beat picks up. I sway her from side-to-side, with an exaggerated flair, while lip-singing the song's chorus to her.
It works. Annabelle's face breaks into a smile. She plays along, spinning and knocking her hips against mine.
We dance. We circle around each other. I twirl her under my arm and then pull her to me. I dip her back and kiss her. She laughs against my mouth.
It's easy making her laugh. It's easy loving her. And if that's all I ever have to do for the rest of my life, then I've got a pretty great life ahead of me.
Not bad for The Prick Next door, huh?
The End
AUTHOR BIO
Rose Queen lives in New York with her husband and two children. She loves coffee, wine and is often found playing tennis with her whole family.
She would love to hear from you!
Twitter: @RoseQueen