by Angel Payne
Her hum trickles into a giggle. “Wait ten minutes. That might change.”
I almost yank back to again channel my inner Masterson. She’s struck a subject that really does need our sober attention. If Lux continues to develop at his current rate, it’ll only be seven and a half years until we start worrying about his driver’s license. Less than five years after that, he’ll be wanting to drink. Then date. By the time he’s chronologically twenty, he’ll be talking about long-term care insurance and addressing items on his bucket list.
“Okay, the kid has already detonated my brain once tonight, thank you very much.”
She grabs the wide lapels of my vintage suit, warming my chest with her next laugh. Out in the living room, Lydia’s cheer coincides with a defined crank of the sound system. The penthouse is flooded with Dua Lipa’s soulful voice. A second later, Lux’s scream joins his auntie’s joy. At once, we know what’s going on. The two of them are like Rogers and Astaire reincarnated when it comes to music and dancing.
As Emma raises her head, her smirk reconfirming that our son’s shriek was one of joy and not distress, I take a second to soak up her beauty all over again.
“So,” she ventures, centering her stare on me, “detonating your brain, hmmm? Now I do need to hear all about it.”
“In a second.” All right, maybe longer than that. “I need to just…drink you in. Like this. Right here. With the lights in your hair and your face looking all va-va-voom…” Not even her full laugh deters my intent. “Just a little while longer,” I persist, skimming her creamy arm with my fingertips.
“Oh, hell.” She rocks her head back. “Was the conversation that serious?”
I press tighter in, not visiting the real answer to that. “Maybe you’re just that gorgeous, my sheba bunny.”
My use of the twenties slang, referencing the classic film theme in which she chose to outfit the terrace and the bathrooms, spreads her lips into an adoring smile. “You are definitely slick tonight, my dashing sheikh.”
“Only tonight?”
“Says the guy who swept me off my feet in the very next room, nearly two years ago?”
I’m the one with the exultant grin now. “You remembered.”
“How could I ever forget?”
And just like that, the world falls away.
Not completely, but just enough that every sound and vibration in the air—the thuds of the dance music, the honks and sirens of the city traffic, the gentle rushes of night winds against the window pane next to us—fade away, making the room silent but for a single buzz of sound.
The sizzle of our connection.
The call of our heartbeats, crashing together.
The energy of our bloodstreams, fusing together.
The force of our attraction, screaming out together.
Without hesitation, I obey that urgent insistence. In one second, I wrap an arm around her smooth, firm waist. At the same moment, I clutch her other hand within mine and then curl it against the center of my sternum. Neither of us says a word as our bodies give up to our heated pull, swaying and rolling in time to the newest track that’s come on in the next room. Dua sings about a lot of perfect things, like floating and bending and breaking and dying. The main line of the song is another ideal affirmation of everything we have been and everything we are.
Getting lost in the light.
And yeah…everything we will be, as well.
Everything so vivid…vivid…
As our lips touch and then smash, and our tongues stretch and then twirl.
Everything reckless, tangled, suspended…
As she plunges her free hand into my hair, twisting until I snarl from the rush of urgent pain. As I drop my hand and dig my fingers into her ass with the same brutal intent.
Wanting it all, nothing wasted…
And I swear, her tonsils are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. And now her body, sweet and soft and electric and alive, is the most perfect pressure I’ve ever felt. My skin crackles and incinerates. My arms are aching but filled and thoroughly on fire. The very threads of my being have been transformed into glowing strands of fiber optics, ignited brighter than the damn lion float I was thinking of earlier. Funny, because a wildcat is feeling a lot like my spirit animal right now. I’m starving. Stalking. Every instinct is on alert, craving the second I can make my move and pounce…
And seduce…
And devour…
And mate…
Except the crafty woman beats me to every single one of those charges.
In the space of two seconds—one for her to plummet her hand across my fly, the other to clench into it as hard as she can—she’s turned me into her stunned, gasping prey…her helpless, huffing possession.
“Urrrmmm. Fuck!” I grate them nearly as one word, forcing my tongue free from her mouth while ordering my body to stay standing. Barely. As soon as she skates her fingertips up and then over the prominence in my pants that betrays the location of my cockhead, I’m a goddamned goner. All right, as far as my mind, my logic, and half my equilibrium are concerned. “Jesus with a boner, woman!” I end it on a groan while hitching my hips with fierce demand, needing the hot cage of her fingers again.
“Ohhh, Mr. Richards,” she rasps, tilting her mouth up and scraping her teeth along the edge of my jaw. “I don’t think that’s authentic twenties slang, either.”
I let my face drop into the crook of her neck while sliding my other hand down and around, palming her gorgeous buttocks with savage intent. “Oh, I’m sure Al Capone would know exactly what I’m talking about.”
She giggles softly. “You and Al would probably get along real well.”
I nibble the shell of her ear. “You calling me a criminal, Mrs. Richards?”
“I’m calling you notorious, Mr. Richards.” With moves that match her sleek volley, she unbuckles my belt and then opens my fly. The chinks and zwips of her actions are as potent parts of her seduction as her husky narrative. “And naughty. And arrogant. And slick.”
“Slick?” I manage a rickety laugh while snaring her in my lust-fogged gaze. “Isn’t that supposed to be your line, sheba?”
It’s a corny comeback at best, but I bask in the glory of taking full credit for it—though tell myself to rev the reflexes as soon as she flings back an equally cocky smirk.
“Not anymore.”
Oh, hell.
Revved reflexes, my ass—which at the moment has been stunned into fully flexed mode, courtesy of the temptress who’s truly embraced her inner Greta Garbo to the max. On her knees in front of me—and wielding as much bold, irresistible desire as she did two years ago, damn near in this very spot—she parts her ruby lips, taking in the hard, heated length of my growing arousal.
And just like it’s that first time again, I moan hard.
But unlike that first occasion, I don’t have to worry about what she’ll see or experience or feel.
She already tells me so much of that, in the brilliant blue gems of her huge, gorgeous gaze. She’s hungry for me but starving for a bigger taste. Intoxicated but needing a deeper buzz. Filled but ready to take more.
More.
Every vein in my now-lengthened dick looks like a lightning-zapped stream, and her eyes start to water from the strain on her mouth. I want to come hard and far and deep down her throat. And when I do, I want to feel her swallowing every drop of my essence.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
Because now, I need more too.
I need to give her more than this—and feel all of her reactions as I do.
I need to watch her be transformed by her lust in all the same ways I am. In the radiant light beneath her skin. The Tesla coils of her muscles. The solar flares in her eyes. The energy through her body. And yes, the charged clench of her perfect cunt and the glowing gold honey it’ll drip all over my cock.
I need to see it. To watch it. To witness all of that perfect, modern power take over every inch
of her body…
As I fuck her like a primeval beast.
There’s a rousing cheer from the living room as Dua becomes Rihanna, singing about light in the beautiful sea and diamonds shining bright in the sky. Perfect timing. The noise masks Emma’s distressed cry as I pull on her hair to separate her mouth from my body. And the moan she follows it up with? I drown that out as well, stealing the carnal sound away from her swollen lips as soon as I drop to my knees and then replace my dick with my tongue. I scoop powerfully into her mouth, stroking into every wet cushion of the orifice I’ve just invaded. Everywhere I sweep, I taste…me. My flesh, my sweat, my possession.
You’re mine.
The recognition, rocketing me into the stars that Rihanna sings about, turns my senses into a nebula of need…and my cock into a rod of raw lust. I fist the length, turned on more as my hand is streaked in glowing precome. I’m like a power station on meltdown alert. A circuit breaker with too many plugs jammed on full. A bomb about to blow.
A monster ready to rut.
“Turn around.” I don’t wait for her mind to register the order. I just help with the compliance, twisting my grip into her shoulders and then spinning her away from me. “I’ve got to fuck you so badly, beautiful.” While the endearment rasps from my lips and brutality dictates my movements. As she gets into position on the floor in front of the window, I snarl in pleasure at the sight before me as soon as I hike up her dress.
With eager lust, I stroke her bare thighs and ass cheeks, framed for my pleasure by thigh-high stockings that are attached to a sexy-as-fuck garter belt with matching black lace panties. The lingerie is offset by the pink glow of the city lights across her skin, joined by the faint gold of her aroused blood. Except for the first sight I ever had of our newborn son, this has to be the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Jesus God, Emmalina.” I knead my way up the backs of her legs, stretching my thumbs into the peachy crevice of her ass before splaying my grip across the flawless flesh of her gorgeous rear. “You make me want to become a real animal.” In every wild, snarling, savage sense of the word.
She absorbs my declaration with a lush toss of her head, leaning back to the point that her body forms a gorgeous arch. As she does, all my bestial instincts are heightened by the gleam of her vintage earrings against the smooth column of her neck. Then even more by the words that make their way out of it.
“So who’s stopping you?”
Ohhhh, those audacious words.
Ohhhh, that brazen ass wiggle of punctuation.
Ohhhh, the little glance over her shoulder, openly taunting me.
Ohhhh, her.
Always her. Only, ever her.
The only one who’ll ever be the white to my black. The dawn to my midnight. The beauty to my beast.
Who’ll never stop making me this hard with her sigh as I tear away her panties.
Who’ll never not complete my whole being as I drive into her with one merciless stroke.
Who’ll never cease speaking to all of my soul as her body gloves me with her wet, wonderful light.
“Oh!”
Who’ll never hold back the ferocious grin across my face as she screams in the first throes of her golden fulfillment.
“Oh, Reece!”
I growl deep while seizing her hips with my hands, securing her frame for my next barbaric thrust. I pause there, my dick embedded and my balls clamoring, just long enough to give her a few gifts from my mouth, as well. A ruthless bite at the back of her neck. And then commanding words, rumbled from the pounding depths of my chest.
“Brace yourself good, Bunny. This ride isn’t going to get any gentler.”
As I expect, she lets out a long, keening cry.
What I don’t expect: her hard, crashing orgasm.
And no, I harbor absolutely no doubt about what it is. The rapid vibrations up and down her channel, along with her staccato breaths and the juices drenching my cock, have dropped me onto a precipice of conflict. Half of me crows at giving her such swift and perfect pleasure. But the other half examines the daunting challenge ahead.
To give her a hell of a lot more.
“You enjoying that, my sweet goddess?” My teasing drawl is a direct contrast to the repetitive punches of my body, filling the air with harsh slicks as I impale her tight tunnel over and over again. “You like coming that good as I tell you how much my swollen cock is going to conquer your gorgeous cunt? That I may really turn into a beast and lose myself in the glory of taking over your body? That it might even hurt, but you’ll love every fucking second of the beautiful torment?”
“Yes.” She drops her head but rolls it back up at once, as if her skin feels as tight as mine. As if the pressure of her pleasure is a force under her skin, demanding her full detonation from it…
And so she does.
“Yesssss!”
Screaming hard as her second climax pounds in, overwhelming her. Glowing so brightly that I can see every exquisite inch of her completion reflected by the window’s dark glass. Her lips, parted with lust. Her cheeks, suffused with sensuality. But best of all, her eyes—which remain open. She wants to watch too. She wants to see every undulation of my hips and every dominant stab of my cock. She wants to witness how she endures it all, answering my light and lust and passion with equal amounts of her own.
She wants to acknowledge her power.
An understanding that already starts building toward her next orgasm. A perception I share as our gazes connect in the murky world of the glass.
“Good,” I say to it—and her. “So good.” As I grab her tighter and fuck her deeper. “Let it come,” I command from between my locked teeth. “Let it come, beauty. Let me give it to you. All of it.” I flow more energy into my fingers, letting her see my possessive grip across her skin. I change up the rhythm of my rutting, ensuring she gets an eyeful of my cobalt length before I shuttle it back into her tight, soaked walls. “All of me.”
“All of me too,” she whispers back, tears wobbling through her words. “I love you, Reece Andrew.”
“And I worship you, Emmalina Paisley.”
“I know.” She punctuates it with a shudder, bucking her head because I’m gripping too hard for her to gain control of her hips. “Oh fuck, how I know. Oh. Ohhhh, God. Ohhhh, Reece! I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know.” Not a shred of bullshit in it, either. “I know.” My commiseration is beyond sweet syllables of seduction or the physical sync of my body. It’s beyond the taut pressure in my balls, the telltale trembles in my thighs, the harsh ache in my ass. It’s in the flames that take over my blood. The electrical storm that rages through my senses. The connection that zaps into my soul.
The light that races up my cock.
The completion that drenches every corner of my being.
I pour myself into her, letting the quicksilver flow as my vision dances with the diamonds they’re all singing about in the next room. Holy God, even the horizon beyond the windows seems to burst to life, as if all the stars have detonated at once. And even as my orgasm wanes, the room itself seems to shake and roll…
Until I realize that it really is shaking and rolling.
And that the singing has stopped—because it’s been replaced by startled shouts.
“Holy crap!” Emma blurts as soon as I lean over, grab her around the waist, and roll us both away from the huge window. At the same time, in the other room, Lux lets out nonstop shrieks of glee, repeating his favorite expression. Lydia’s yelling the same thing, only with not so much joy. Like Emma, she’s a born-and-raised Southern California girl—and knows to take earthquakes with dead seriousness.
Despite that knowledge, I leap to my feet, ready to sprint down the hall to ensure my son’s safety. I’m yanked back down at once, slammed onto the bed by a forceful gold fireball. “Goddamnit, Emmalina,” I bellow. “Lux is—”
“Not going to be a happy kid if his father is tossed out a seventy-story-high wind
ow because he lost his balance in a high roller,” she volleys. “Especially if said father still has certain body parts swinging in the wind!”
I take advantage of my supine position to zip up with a grimace—though I’m unsure if the expression is the pain of stuffing myself back in at half an erection or the jolt of riding out my first major California shaker. I gawk wider while looking out the window to see the downtown skyline looking more eerie than the day Faline commanded Kane to destroy half of it. And the rolling keeps going on, at least for another thirty seconds. Fuck. It feels more like thirty hours. I’ve heard plenty of people say that before, but the truth is never more vivid than experiencing the phenomenon for oneself.
Finally, Mother Nature’s wild ride comes to a full stop. I reach for Emma, who’s been maintaining a strange, quixotic expression through the whole thing, and clutch her close to me. I’m beyond grateful when she sprawls a hand across the center of my chest. “Jesus on a Quinjet,” I croak. “My heartrate’s at warp speed.”
“So’s mine.” But her drawl conveys the unnerving opposite. “But not because of the earthquake.”
As I debate whether to shoot her a glare or a grin, I abandon both when realizing ’Dia’s string of “holy shits” hasn’t stopped in the living room. Weirder still, Foley has joined her. All right, so he’s muttering something more along the lines of “fuck me five ways,” but I’m more concerned about the total shock in his tone.
“What…on…” Emma, clearly discerning the same thing, uses my chest as leverage to push up and then off the bed. She rushes across the room and jerks open the door—as I straighten on the bed like a vampire being hauled out of his coffin at noon. The sight before me is just as surreal—and stupefying.
It’s my son. Flying through the portal that Emma’s just opened.
Not figuratively.
He’s…flying.
At least six feet off the floor—though that figure changes if he decides to do a backflip or a belly roll. He seems to be fond of both already, judging by the gleeful laughs with which he keeps praising himself for the moves.
“Okay.” Emma follows Lux’s aeronautics by turning and shuffling back into the bedroom. “What’s it called when the heartrate goes past warp speed?”