“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes.”
Swiftly, I unbuttoned her jeans. They were tight and she wiggled away from me to pull them down and off. So eager, I loved how quickly she worked. She desperately needed my fingers on her, almost as much as I needed to touch her myself. Almost. I couldn’t imagine she felt as much need as I did. Nearly blinded by it, I pulled her back and settled her on my lap, her creamy, bare thighs now spread wide over me.
I pushed the parka off of her, feasting on her throat, her lips, her breasts. She wore pretty little lacy panties. I vaguely registered that they were the same color as her bra, the cream colored one I’d thrown to the passenger side. It was dark in the cab of the truck, but there was enough illumination from a streetlight out on the road that I could see how sweet she looked. And the damp patch where she’d soaked through her panties.
Holding on to her hips, I tilted her so I could see better. I brought my finger down, right where she’d gotten the silk all wet and slick. She gasped and pushed against my finger.
“Are you wet for me?” I asked her, wanting to hear her say it. I needed to hear those words from her panting mouth.
“Oh,” she sighed, working her pussy against my finger, now just separated by a thin layer of silk. The sensation had to be more intense, now that we didn’t have a layer of jeans between us. It was only going to get better, once I slipped my fingers down inside her panties and stroked her bare and hot right where she needed it. But first she was going to have to tell me how much she needed it. She was so close to the edge, with such an aching, urgent desire throbbing through her, I couldn’t resist fanning the flames even higher.
“I can’t wait to touch you, Violet,” I said, stroking her gently, teasing. I cupped her breast and gave it a lick, a kiss. I couldn’t wait to make her come. But I only had right now, this one time. I needed to make the most of it.
“Before I make you come, Violet, I want to hear it from you. Before I give you what you need, you have to tell me. Do I make you wet?”
“Yes,” she exhaled, desperate, pushing against my fingers. “You make me so wet.”
That was good, but I was a relentless man. In a low whisper, I asked for more. “Tell me, Violet. Do you need me to make you come?”
“Yes, please, Heath,” she begged. “Please make me come.”
That did it. I brought my hand to the side of her lace and pulled. Her panties came apart in my hand. I hadn’t meant to rip them in two, but these things happened. I was a big, rough guy, and they’d been between me and what I needed.
Heaven. Sinking my fingers into her slick pussy, I found it. She seemed to feel the same way. Her nails dug into my shoulders and she cried out as I moved my hand along her, stroking, petting. She met my every move, swaying against me, eyes closed, her fists balled in my shirt.
“Oh!” she cried out as I plunged a finger up inside of her. I didn’t even go deep, not yet, I just wanted to feel her walls, tight and hot, surrounding me. My cock throbbed in response. To be sheathed in that, her yielding, wet need, and she felt so tight. My cock would spread her. She’d need to work to take me in all the way.
I kissed her throat as I worked my finger in and out, slow, and the noises she made nearly did me in. The moans, the cries. She could come quick, I could tell, but I wanted more. I was a selfish man when it came to giving. I brought my other hand to her back.
“Lean back, baby,” I murmured, guiding her. That giant parka was like a portable bed—look, it did come in handy—and she rested back against the steering wheel. Now I could see more, watch her splayed before me, her naked breasts quivering and exposed. I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted to see more than her losing herself in an orgasm. But I wanted to watch it build, see it play out across her features, tremor throughout her whole body.
With a hand at her breast, I circled her soft mound, watching her feel it. With a whimper of frustration, she brought her hand to my forearm, the one down below. She was impatient. I chuckled, liking her like that. But I was in charge.
“Bring your hands to the steering wheel, right behind your head.” I said it gently, coaxing, but I meant it. She was going to have to lean back and take it if she wanted to get to the end of this ride. I wanted to take my time with her, and she’d have to suffer through it. I guided her hands up and back until they framed her perfect face. She panted, her eyes open now, watching me.
I met her gaze, a small smile playing at my lips as I trailed my hands back down along the center of her body. Such a playground, the dip between her breasts, the plane along her stomach, the valley below. Drinking in her every reaction, I slid a finger in her again, grazing along her swollen, sensitive clit. She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes, moaning and turning her head to the side.
“Feel good, Violet?” I couldn’t resist asking as I stroked her. She felt so good under my hands, so small next to my size but so needy I knew she could take me.
“Heath!” she cried out, clutching the steering wheel behind her head, her nipples stiff and exposed as she arched her back. I brought my other hand up to her breasts and squeezed, stroked.
“I could play with you like this all night,” I said, and I meant it. She surrounded me in every possible way, the sight of her, her scent, her pants of need, and touch the most intense of all. The way my fingers glided along, how wet she was for me, how intensely her body responded to and welcomed me.
She whimpered and ground her pussy down on my fingers, showing me what she needed. I could play with her all night, but she needed to come. Desperately.
“You need to come, baby?” I asked her, circling her clit, palming her breast, watching her face.
“Yes!” she cried out, gripping the steering wheel, offering herself to me.
How could I say no to that? With fierce possessiveness, I grasped her pebbled nipple between my large, rough fingers and positioned my other hand at her entrance.
“Come for me, Violet.” I drove two fingers up into her, deep, stretching her farther than I had before, while the large pad of my thumb found her clit. She screamed, pushing into me, her body filled with ecstatic tension as she began to come, her thighs squeezed, her hips bucking. I pinched her nipple, hard, and her mouth opened into a perfect O as she came and came on my fingers, each shudder and wave of orgasm rushing and crashing over her seeming more intense than the last.
Until she began to sink down, her ass resting again against my lap, her hands loosening their grip on the wheel behind her head. Her screams melted into moans and she was able to bring her head straight again, opening her eyes to look at me dazed and heavy-lidded. She looked amazed, like I might actually be Superman here in the middle of Vermont. A crazy part of me wanted to be exactly that for her.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured as I took her into my arms, holding her to me as the last sighs tremored through her body. She was more than beautiful, and if I could come up with a new word, I would, but for now I just held her, held her close in the darkness, feeling her heart beat against mine.
CHAPTER 5
Violet
I just had the most blindingly, earth-shatteringly intense orgasm. In the cab of a pickup truck with a complete stranger. It left a woman wondering What. The. Fuck.
Because the way he held me? The way he looked at me, reverent like he worshipped every inch of me? Only reverent wasn’t exactly right because his eyes were so heated, so carnal and wicked I knew he wanted to do much more than simply admire. He wanted to do all sorts of things to me and oh did I want that, too. I wanted it so badly it made my teeth ache. Even as the final ebbs and tides of the orgasm to end all orgasms throbbed throughout my body, I could still feel the heat. The mere size of him, his powerful arms encircling me, making me feel like nothing bad would ever happen to me again in life. He had me. He’d protect me, cherish and treasure me.
But that was insane, all of this was.
“That was…um…” I brought a hand to his chest. Double-edged sword, that. I’d meant to push
away, but now I could feel his heart beating, how fast it pounded, how aroused he’d become bringing me pleasure. That was a pretty great trait in a man. It made me think of some of the L.A. boys I’d been with, the way I’d catch them watching themselves in the mirror while they were supposedly making love to me. Hard to make love to someone else when what you loved most was your own image.
“Are you all right?” he murmured into my ear in the darkness of his truck. So solicitous to my needs. I had a long, long list of needs I’d like to share with him. But somehow I felt like I wouldn’t even have to, he’d discover them, draw them out, fulfilling needs even I didn’t know I had.
But, wait, what was happening? Was I sitting there mostly naked in the lap of a stranger pulled over on the side of a woodland road in the middle of nowhere?
“Where are we?” I asked, finally managing to push away from him. It felt like leaving the hearth of a roaring fire to head into the barren cold. But that was melodramatic, and I didn’t do melodrama. I did what needed to be done. I found my panties.
Torn clean in half. I held up the scrap of lace that used to be my underwear.
“I should say I’m sorry about that.” He spoke in such a deep, rumbling voice, just the sound of it made me breathless. “But I’m not sorry.” I had to close my eyes for a second. He wasn’t sorry that he’d been so wild he’d ripped my panties right off of me, torn them in two in his demanding need to get to me. It nearly made me swoon. But I’d done enough swooning for one night. Now, I needed to get on my jeans.
Finding them by my feet, I turned them right side out, blushing at the evidence of my own eagerness. I must have set a record for getting out of those jeans. They were tight, too, and I didn’t exactly have a lot of room in the cab of this truck. But motivation could work wonders. It took about three times as long to work myself back into them. I wasn’t as excited about this flip side.
He watched me, then handed me my shirt. Such a gentleman. Only he wasn’t a gentleman. What we’d done didn’t make itself into any etiquette book anywhere. It didn’t make its way into any Fame! location scouting handbooks, either.
Damn it. I shouldn’t have done that with him, let him touch me like that. I was supposed to spend at least the next few weeks in this town checking out the setting, making inroads with local power brokers, scouting for talent and possibly paving the way to film a show there. And now I’d let the local hottie finger-fuck me in his truck. Holy hell. Word would probably be all around town by tomorrow morning. So much for maintaining a relatively low-profile while I cased out the situation. I might as well hang a neon sign around my neck “Slutty L.A. Chick.” She’ll let any mountain man she meets at a bar get her off!
“I should go.” I put my hand on the door.
“Let me get you closer.” He started the engine and pulled us up 50 feet. Then he got out, crunched around and opened my door for me. He wasn’t asking me to stay. He wasn’t even asking for my number. But he was opening the door for me and in my post-orgasmic endorphin-flooded brain that felt nice. I needed to get a grip, which I did on him as I exited the cab of the truck and held onto his giant arm as we walked up to the front door.
Gary was home. He had the key to my condo waiting for me. And if he was surprised that I’d gotten an escort from Heath, he didn’t show it.
“Let me give you a lift over to the condo,” he offered, shrugging into his jacket. I did notice that my parka far outsized anything I’d seen a local wearing. But I was a lot colder than them. My L.A. blood ran thin.
“I’ve got some luggage.” I gestured toward Heath’s truck.
“I’ll follow you guys.” Hands dug into his jacket pockets, Heath turned back to his truck. Without me. I watched his back for a second, wishing momentarily that I was with him heading back to his beat-up pickup. But I shook that off. This was nothing more than temporary insanity. Maybe I’d caught a local fever from a mosquito bite. Or there’d been something in that hard cider, some pheromones. Only I’d been wild for him since the second I saw him.
“This way.” Gary cleared his throat, politely reminding me that we were standing outside in the snow late at night. I followed him to his truck and we drove all of two minutes to a nondescript two-story building. I had no idea how our network’s travel people had found the place. I was used to being put up in chic boutique hotels, the hottest spots to see and be seen. Maybe this was Watson, Vermont’s equivalent.
The whole transaction was over in five minutes. Gary opened the door and showed me around a tidy little place that at least looked recently updated. Heath brought my bags up and into the entryway. My luggage was so heavy it had made the people at United grimace and charge me extra weight fees. Heath carried them like they were postage stamps. Both men said goodnight at the same time, and I thanked them both. The only difference was one of them had given me a mind-numbingly intense orgasm a few minutes earlier. Thanks for that.
“Good meeting you, Violet.” Heath reached out and took my hand in his. I guess it was just a hand shake, but at the feel of my hand enveloped in his warm, rough palm, the broad manliness of it, I felt a tingle run down my spine all over again. His eyes were so dark and intense. There seemed to be so much behind that gaze. I couldn’t help but wonder about him, who he was, what was his story.
But that would have to unfold for the viewers of the reality series I was pushing. Because tonight Heath turned and left, no digits in his cell phone, no offer to show me around town tomorrow. Like what we’d just done in the cab of his truck was no big deal, already forgotten.
Only it hadn’t felt like that. It had felt like so much more, like he’d been as caught up as me, as overwhelmed and bewildered at our connection. The way he’d buried his face in my hair and breathed me in. The way he’d whispered my name, as if discovering a rare treasure.
It gave me a lot to think about. Good thing I had four large suitcases filled with stuff that needed to be unpacked. It would keep me busy and hopefully provide enough distraction that eventually I’d fall asleep.
§
The next day I didn’t wake up until after noon. I was still on California time. The skies were dreary and dark and the curtains were drawn. Plus, I’d been through a lot the night before. The harrowing drive. The blistering orgasm. These things required sleep the next day.
Yawning, stretching like a cat, I took a moment before getting out of bed. I loved going out on location, but I hadn’t done it too often. Most of the shows I’d worked on were filmed either in L.A. or NYC and I felt like both cities were home. But traveling somewhere new, it took you out of your daily routine. You could sleep in, explore, try some new food you’d never had before, step outside of yourself.
I liked going to farmer’s markets in new places. Not so much because I liked to cook—cooking was on the long list of things I’d never had time to attempt but had the desire to try one day—but because it was such great people-watching. You learned a lot about a place from the people who came to farmer’s markets. Of course, there would be some crunchy granola types in Birkenstocks and dreadlocks. There would always be hipsters, and moms with kids in one of two modes—eager or whining. And then there’d be the older, more dedicated foodies scrutinizing their eggplants as if selecting a diamond. I could flit around, choosing some fruit and a locally brewed organic coffee, and soak in the local culture to my heart’s content.
Watson supposedly had a thriving farmer’s market. It opened in May. With any luck, we’d be up and filming by then, capturing the local action just as the birds and bees got busy.
Speaking of. I felt my face flush and I brought my hands to my warm cheeks. What had happened last night? I didn’t know what I felt most shocked about. There was a long list of shocking things vying for my attention. First, there was the fact that I’d climbed into a rusty old pickup truck with a random, strange mountain guy. Bad idea number one. Then, how about the fact that I’d climbed onto his lap and basically tried to hump him through his clothes like a wild maniac in he
at? And then there was the big O.
What an orgasm. Mmm. I felt all warm and tingly at the memory and I couldn’t help it, I knew I should feel scandalized and appalled at myself, but wasn’t an orgasm like that a gift? In my experience—and I had had some experience—those kinds of orgasms didn’t happen every day. They might not ever happen at all to some pour souls. But last night I’d had one, the toe-curling, mind-evacuating, full-throttle kind of orgasm you read about in books, the kind that made you whimper and pant until you got what you wanted and then you screamed, your head thrown back, your mouth open in complete ecstasy.
That kind of an orgasm.
With a deep exhale, trying to dispel my thoughts, I rolled to the side and grabbed my phone. I read a text from Sam letting me know he would be getting on the road once he nursed his hangover for another hour. A slew of emails from work. An email from my mom, hoping I’d arrived safely and asking me to call her today to let her know.
Mom. Sundays were busy days for her. She owned and operated her own hair salon. I’d grown up surrounded by the hustle and bustle of hair driers and gossip, the rhythm and promise of beauty in a bottle. And with my mom, she really delivered. She knew how to work wonders, making fairy magic happen for weddings and prom nights and then every day magic for little old ladies coming in to chat and get their hair fluffed just so. I loved all of it, from the dull, dreary entrances to the smiling farewells as they exited the salon with a spring in their step and a twinkle in their eye.
I kept waiting to have that feeling from my work. I was an assistant producer, so shouldn’t I feel as if I’d produced something? Done something tangible? Created something that made people’s lives better even for a moment?
So far, I mostly felt like I was an extra in the movie The Devil Wears Prada, working in an office where skinny bitches—male and female—did their best to claw each other’s eyes out. And most of the shows we produced were a lot like a bikini mud wrestling contest, a whole lot of bad behavior with the occasional boob flash.
Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) Page 5