by Paula Cox
He pays the driver, and we walk quickly across the motel parking lot, past old cars and over the gum-plastered concrete and then into Room 45 on the bottom floor, a window view of the muddy-water pool. Kade kicks the door open, drags me inside, and then slams it behind me. The motel room is simple, with a double bed, a bedside table and lamp, an old TV set with the door to the bathroom just behind it. What interests me more is what is resting next to the TV set: a handgun in a holster and scattered bullets.
“You just leave them lying around?”
“The owner of the motel knows me,” he says. “Knows how to work the law, too. They’d never get in here in time to see it.”
“You’re careless and dangerous,” I say. We stand next to the bed, staring at each other. Careless and dangerous . . . and hotter than any man I’ve ever seen. I stare into those bright blue eyes and I feel my body thrum with lust, thrum with the power of it, my toes already curling, my heart pounding, my head heavy and foggy with desire.
“Yes,” he says, and he closes the distance between us. “I am.”
His eyes hold a thousand feelings, all of them variations of lust, all of them aimed directly at me with animal ferocity.
He leans down and kisses me again, this time harder, and then we begin tearing at each other’s clothes. I pull off his jacket and drop it to the floor, grab at the front of his pants. He’s hard. Fuck, he’s hard. He’s so hard I can feel the outline of his cock through the denim, rock-fucking-hard. He’s huge, too. I undo his belt and rip his button out of the hole and then pull his pants and underwear down. At the same time, he removes my coat and tears my clothes free, until I am standing there in my bikini. His cock springs up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It must be eleven inches, and thick, too. I grab it and my hand doesn’t even go around the base.
“Oh my god,” I moan, as Kade reaches down and pushes his fingers against my clit through the fabric of my bikini. “Oh my fucking god.”
His hand is powerful, pushing against my clit with such force that I have to stand on my tiptoes; he almost lifts me off my feet. He rubs it in small circles, hard, fierce small circles that send twisting pleasure all the way up into my sweet spot and beyond, making my belly warm, making my nipples harder than they are even on a cool spring morning at the Twin Peaks. He breaks off the kiss, groaning as I grip his cock in pleasure.
“Come for me, Lana,” he says, and hearing my name said in that husky biker’s voice is almost too much to handle. “Come for me.”
He slides down my underwear. I let it fall, liking the feel of the fabric rustling against my skin, down to my ankles, and then Kade slides two fingers into my tight pussy. I feel my lips stretch for those fingers. Then I can’t feel any individual sensation. He slides his fingers all the way to that burning spot inside of me and fucking teases it. I don’t jerk him, I can’t, I’m too caught up in the scorching pleasure inside of me. But as spasms rock through my body, my arm shifts, my hand shifts, and Kade groans and moves his fingers quicker inside of me.
“Come for me,” he says, and when I look up at him all I see are two stern azure eyes, commanding me.
“Come for me, now.”
As he moves his fingers inside of me, I think about all the things those fingers have been involved in. I think about the way those fingers were part of the hand which slammed that neo-Nazi back at the bar, I think about those fingers pulling the clutch on his roaring motorbike, I think about those fingers pulling the trigger of a gun. All bad things, and yet—fuck, yes, yes, fuck. I can’t help but want them. Want him. Want him and all the bad things he’s done. He moves his fingers almost brutally now, slamming around inside of me.
Heat builds, builds. I moan—I think I moan. Everything shimmers and shifts until I can’t focus. I close my eyes and fall forward into him, bracing my hands on his chest, which is pure muscle all the way through.
“I’m going to—”
I stop, drawing in a gasping breath. Everything stops. Time stops. All thought is an echo. All feeling except for the explosive release inside of me is numb. All I can feel is the eruption deep in my pussy, an eruption that is triggered from the ends of his fingertips. I close my legs around his hand, sit down on it. He holds me up with one arm and swivels his fingers around that super-sensitive spot. Yes, yes, yes. Jesus fucking Christ. Yes. I can’t—I can’t do anything but feel—feel. I close my eyes and see red, like sunlight on my eyelids, as the orgasm really strikes me. I feel like I’m floating. Floating atop his fingers. Euphoria courses through every part of me, touching ever nerve, every simmering inch of skin. My toes curl so hard I think they might snap. I collapse forward, biting down on his chest, tasting the sweaty, oily fabric of his shirt. I bite down as wave after wave of the orgasm surges through me.
And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, I open my stuck-together eyes.
Kade is staring down at me with so much passion for a second it makes me afraid, like looking into the eyes of a wolf on the hunt.
“I fuckin’ need you,” he says, voice huskier than ever. “I need you fuckin’ now.”
Without waiting for a reply—he can see I need him too; he must be able to—he lifts me up by my armpits and throws me onto the bed. As soon as I land, I open my legs, opening myself for him. It feels good to lift and part my legs and look up at him through my bent knees with my toes pointing, beckoning him. My pussy aches for it. The creature of lust inside me screams for it. I want it; I want it so fucking badly I can barely think. The universe has reduced down to this room, this moment. Never before in my life have I felt so much captured pleasure.
He takes off his top, revealing a torso which is muscular and marked with scars here and there: a few old stab wounds and a line across his bulging pectoral. He climbs onto the bed, naked and hard, and leans over me. There is no doubt now, no hesitation, no confusion. For one of the rare times in my life, I am one-hundred certain about how I feel.
“I need you, baby,” I moan.
Kade props his hand on the bed, near my head. I reach up and grab his muscles, his biceps and triceps, both of them well-defined and bulging out of his skin, muscles as hard as his massive cock. With his other hand he reaches down and grabs his cock, guiding it toward my pussy. The tip brushes against my hole, and then he pushes in with his shaft. He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever fucked, much bigger. My pussy sends urgent signals at me, urgent and mixed, pain and pleasure intermingling. Then the pain abates and my lust takes over. I widen for him. I welcome him. I open my legs and I draw him into me.
He pushes right up to his balls. The tip of his cock slams into my hot spot.
It’s warm and fucking unbearable. I reach up and grab his back and dig my fingernails into his skin. I feel my nails prick skin, but he doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even grunt. I know all he can feel is the pleasure, just like me. He stares down at my breasts, and then glances at my face, holding still inside of me.
“Tell me you can fuckin’ take it hard,” he moans.
“I can—”
As soon as I say the words, he starts pounding into me, his cock like a jackhammer. I am so ready for him that I fall into the rhythm at once. We fuck like we know each other’s bodies, our rhythms matching straightaway, the biker’s massive thick cock pounding into my pussy at the exact right angle to smash into my sweet spot, to send fiery pleasure spreading through me in tendrils which reach every part of me. I keep thinking to myself: This is the leader of a bike gang. This is a tough fucking man. This is a man who could beat up anybody. This is a fierce, tough, scary man. It drives me wild. I dig my fingernails harder into his back and sit on his cock, over and over, sweat soaking into the sheets.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream, not caring if the whole world hears.
He buries his face in my neck, biting my skin, his breath as hot as his cock, everything hot, too-hot, hotter than I’ve ever felt. He pounds into me for five, ten, twenty minutes. Time warps and I have no clue. I bounce on his cock, up and down, up and down, taking every i
nch of it. Each time the tip strikes that perfect spot, I feel an orgasm getting closer, closer.
“I’m going to—I’m almost—oh, fuck.”
He pounds into me like a machine, teeth biting my neck, hands next to my head, every muscle in his body tight and honed.
“I can’t—I can’t—Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I’m being fucked by a biker. A biker who stood up to men in a bar when he was outnumbered. A biker who rescued me from Chester. A biker with muscles and a huge cock and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I repeat these words to myself, over and over, his cock jackhammering into me. And then my pussy goes tight around his cock, so tight he has to grunt and push hard to get inside of me, and then—
There is a fire deep inside of me, a blazing fire. Not that it feels like a fire. No, as I lie here, Kade’s huge cock drilling into me, I feel a flickering fire deep in my pussy, a fire whose flames spit out throughout my body, a fire which causes me to squeeze my hands so tight I draw blood from the skin on his back, a fire which makes my pussy go the tightest it has ever been. I wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze tight, pulling him into me, as the orgasm’s flames send ecstasy spitting through me. I shift my hips, desperate to have his cock linger on my hot spot, and drive down with all the force I can muster. His cock pushes through my tightening pussy and hits the spot. I moan: “Hold it—there—baby.” Kade drives in deeper, and then holds it. Crashing, spitting pleasure captures me. I am sitting atop a blazing fire and nothing will put it out. I feel my pussy get even tighter around his cock, and then, oh fuck, and then everything just releases, my come spilling down his cock.
I lay back, panting, and Kade grunts. Grunts again. Louder. Comes inside of me and rolls aside.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Fuck,” I agree.
Both of us lie there for a long time, drawing in ragged breaths. His come pools around my pussy, on my thigh, but I’m too tired to move.
“Fuck,” he repeats.
“Fuck,” I agree again.
“Come here, you fuckin’ nympho,” he says, pulling me into him.
I rest my head on his chest, and no sooner do I close my eyes than I fall asleep.
Chapter Five
Kade
Duster peers through the window at me as Dad rants and raves, waving the loaded gun with one hand and his bottle of whisky with the other. Whisky pulls over the rim onto the carpet and Dad hawks and spits and Duster, blond hair framing his oddly feminine face, smashes his hands on the window. “Get out of there!” he screams, and I know Duster isn’t here, not really. I know my mind is playing tricks on me. I know Duster is in his trailer, with problems of his own. But Duster and the trailer park and this moment are all tied up in my mind.
Dad doesn’t mean to do it. He’s just drunk, and clumsy, and stupid. And waving a loaded weapon around a trailer.
“He’s going to hurt himself, or you,” Duster says. “He’s going to hurt somebody.”
“I know,” I hear myself say. “Somebody always gets hurt. I know.”
“Look—look!”
Dad doesn’t mean to do it, but that doesn’t stop it happening.
He trips on one of his old, unwashed shirts, dances to the other end of the trailer trying to get his footing, trips again, and then tips his head forward and pulls the trigger of the revolver. The bullets cuts through his forehead, and now he’s supposed to fall, brain dripping out of him, life dripping out of him, but instead he turns to me and grins sideways. “This is your fault, you stupid asshole,” he says cheerily.
Duster, no longer at the window but standing next to the old dying drunk, says, “It is, you know.”
They walk toward me, hand in hand, specters of my past at the trailer park, all the fighting and pain, the accidental suicide of my father, the only friend I’ve ever had. They walk toward me and I know they mean to drag me down with them, make me dead, too, make me as twisted as them. Duster is my friend; Duster is not here. But this is not Duster. Dad is dead. He is moving. Dad is dead and he is moving and I can’t—
I wake up, coated in sweat, with morning sunlight shafting through the window.
Lana murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over.
I go into the bathroom and splash water in my face. Then I get dressed. I’m about to leave—I’ve got a meet in Portland with some gun dealers stupid enough to try and short me—when I look down at Lana, looking sweet and tired and beautiful, like a baby deer, a woman in the wrong profession. I look down at her and I feel something. Then I stamp the feeling out. Feeling means pain, and pain is a distraction. I write a quick note and leave it on the bedside table, along with a couple of twenties: Money for a cab. Don’t worry about checking out. Maybe we’ll see each other around.
And maybe I’m an asshole for not waiting for her to wake up. Maybe I’m an asshole for not making sure she gets back okay. Maybe I’m an asshole for not at least saying goodbye.
I stand at the motel room door, thinking for a second that I might lie down and wait for her, maybe spend the day with her, Portland be damned. But that’d lead to feelings, to pain, and all that bad shit.
So maybe I’m an asshole for leaving the room and going into the main office and calling a cab.
But I never claimed to be anything other than an asshole.
Chapter Six
Lana
I suppose it is naïve of me to expect Kade to be kneeling next to the bed, flowers in hand, waiting to greet me with a wide smile and a, ‘Hey, shall we get breakfast?’ After all, this isn’t a romantic comedy and he made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t that sort of guy. That sort of guy wouldn’t have twisted the neo-Nazi’s arm around and that sort of guy wouldn’t leave guns in motel rooms. Yes, it is naïve of me, but when I turn over, squinting against the morning sunlight, I am still disappointed when I realize Kade has gone.
I lean up in bed and look around the room, as though I am going to see him lurking in the bathroom or hiding under the bed. I laugh at myself. Of course Kade wasn’t going to stick around. Of course he was going to leave after our night of explosive passion. Explosive passion. Yes, that’s the phrase. As I swivel my legs, stand up, and walk to the bathroom, I feel my thighs roaring at me, my pussy aching dully. A nice ache, though, the sort of ache which will remind me for the next few days of what we have done.
I splash water in my face and look into the reflection, muttering: “The girl didn’t know how she felt about the man fucking her and then leaving. The girl didn’t know whether to be excited or annoyed. Maybe this had something to do with her time at the Twin Peaks, where she felt the same, simultaneously excited and annoyed.” I grin to myself, and then splash more water. Creative Writing third year here I come!
I leave the motel, use the cash Kade left me to get a cab, and then go into my bedroom at home and lie on the bed. Mom mutters hello, but she’s too out of it to even really notice I’m there.
I need to get out of here. I really do. I can’t stand listening the glug-glug of Mom’s hipflask or the way I’m always on-edge waiting for her next drunken rage. That’s the thing with Mom. She’ll be quiet for a few months and then, one day, she’ll knock on my door and ask me what the hell I think I’m doing leaving the dishes in such a state. When I try and remind her that those are her dishes, she goes crazy and starts throwing things, breaking things, even once slapping me. I’m not a fan of Pity Parties and I don’t want to admit that I might have had a difficult childhood, but I definitely want to get out of here pronto.
Which means I have to be ready to go back to work at the Twin Peaks tomorrow.
I can’t let the incident with Chester cost me my job.
And, anyway, Kade might drive through again.
At that thought, I feel butterflies doing backflips in my belly.
Kade. Kade. Kade.
I sing his name out in my mind. I want to see him again as soon as possible, if only because the sex was one-hundred times better than any sex I’ve ever had before, one-thousand
, even. One-million. How can you go back to mediocre sex after you’ve experienced really mind-blowing, toe-curling sex?
I don’t think it’s even possible.
Chapter Seven
Lana
“She’s taking everything,” David says, leaning against a crate of coffee granules and massaging his forehead. It’s a few minutes before my shift starts and David, as he often does, is complaining about his situation with his latest wife. I’ve only worked here at the Twin Peaks for around nine months and yet I’ve seen David go through two divorces, one he was finalizing as I joined, and now this one.
I want to say to him: “Then you should stop getting married so quickly.” But I’m going to request something from him today, and I can’t risk annoying him. No, better to wait and let him blow off some steam about this latest botched marriage.