by S. E. Hall
Her soft sigh is my answer.
Bags delivered, bellboy paid… I’ve waited long enough for her to anxiously tinker about the room in silence. You’ve seen one vacation suite, you’ve seen ’em all, and nothing here warrants her prolonged, pseudo fascination. I’ll never understand the vast range of emotions swirling through her right now. There’s a lot about to happen, it’s affecting me too, but obviously, not to the same degree. Laney is, in fact, and to my delight, a woman… so yeah, we don’t think the same way. But one thing I understand better than anyone, even my gorgeous Disney herself, is how to steer her mind elsewhere.
“Come here.” I beckon her with respectful, but unyielding, emphasis as I kick off my shoes and socks.
“Huh?” She stalls with a transparent whisper over her shoulder.
“Come to me, Laney.” I unbutton my shirt, but leave it on, for her to remove how she sees fit. The warning peel of my zipper echoes through the room and her shoulders draw up in anticipation, a muted gasp ghosting past her lips.
Stubborn, she remains at the window, back to me as she stares out at the tropical scenery I suspect she wishes to escape to, searching for answers to questions unvoiced, worries trying to steal her away from me.
It won’t be allowed.
And she knows it.
Laney is mine; my love, my life, my solace... and I don’t share. With anything, even things unseen. If she’s not “here” with me, then I have two choices: join her wherever it is she’s gone, or bring her back. And because I know her better than I know myself, I don’t have to wonder which option is the right one. She wants to be in the now for this momentous trip, occasion. She needs me to overpower anything encumbering that.
My girl sets the most thrilling of traps. Wordlessly depending on me to walk right into them—which I will continue to do as long as I have legs and life with which to walk.
I destroy the gap between us, pressing my body to her back, hands kneading her shoulders. “Whose baby are you?” I ask upon the satiny skin where her neck and shoulder merge, specifically for my mouth. “Tell me.”
“Yours.” She expels her nerves in a ragged exhale, letting her weight collapse back against me. “Always yours.”
“Turn around and make me believe it,” I demand in calm absoluteness.
No one else ever saw it, caught on, and no one ever will, now; my intuitive discovery, our secret… but Laney is a very strong-willed woman, who only bends to the will of a man with equal or more strength, enough so to coerce, seduce, out the soft, sweet girl inside her. And the foresight to recognize when such force will be welcomed versus when she’ll strike in protest like a viper.
That ever grateful man is me.
“Dane.” She spins, a tinge of annoyance in her tone. “We don’t have time for this. I’m fine, let’s—”
“Fuck until you’re a recognizable version of my Laney again? Good idea, baby.” I wink and grip her ass, hard, in both hands. “Up,” I insist, catching her as she instantly, instinctually, complies. “Legs around me,” my voice now huskier as I carry her toward the bed, her already hot center warming me through my jeans.
At the edge of the California King, I set her on her feet. “Want you naked. Slow and sassy, take your time. But eyes on me. Think only of me; what you’re giving me, to take. Any. Way. I. Want.”
The rise and fall of her chest triples in time, a wanting flush creeping up her neck as that little tongue pokes out to wet both lips.
“You want it, don’t you?” I rub myself through my pants, eyes fixed on her own laden pair. She nods, unbuttoning her shirt with a taunting lack of urgency. “How bad? Tell me.”
“Very,” she breathes out. “I need you, Dane.” She shrugs off her top and tosses it aside, cupping her breasts through the sheer lace.
“Lay down,” I growl, out of patience.
Conquered by the Caveman
Staring up at him from my position flat on my back (of course I listened to his growly demand), my man of few words speaks volumes as he towers over me, causing my breathing to hasten. His amber eyes smolder, pupils so dilated the black threatens to overtake the brown, and a small tick triggers in the tense line of his jaw. He’s in hunter mode and I’m his prey, quivering from the inside out, waiting for him to pounce.
“I don’t like it when you leave me. Have I ever let you shut me out?” He arches a dark brow in rhetorical challenge, yet I still shake my head. “That hasn’t changed,” he grunts, curling his fingers around my ankles and tugging me forward till I’m all but hanging off the bed. “I think my baby,” he lifts one of my legs, kissing up the inside of my calf, “needs reminded,” higher still, “that it’s my job, my pleasure, to take care of her.”
“I’m right here,” I manage to eke out breathlessly.
“No, you’re not. But you will be.” His simple statement’s filled with a confidence he’s more than earned, time and time again, and of course, joined by a saucy wink that makes me melt. Every. Single. Time.
There was a time that I’d have laughed in the face of anyone who even thought about suggesting that I’d one day go weak-kneed and pliant under a man’s upper-handedness.
Now I’d laugh at myself, a true fool, if I so much as debated, for as little as a split second, of attempting to resist the patented brand of bossy that only Dane Kendrick can deal out.
And bending, literally and figuratively, to his will? It never feels like “caving” or “giving in”… it feels like reflex. Natural.
I want to make him happy, as happy as he makes me. And in no way to I ever want to discourage his domineering ways. Sure, sometimes he makes things more difficult than they have to be, but more often than not, those ways of his make me feel safe and cherished. And I definitely don’t want to complain in the daylight only to have him misunderstand and dial it down in the bedroom.
His large, but nimble, hands make easy work of unfastening my pants and latching onto both the denim and lace waistbands. “Lift,” he demands and bares me from the waist down with one quick tug. The way his gaze bores into me, it’s so penetrative that it feels like a physical touch. And the tongue I know to be unworldly talented gliding over his bottom lip, has me panting, dying for him to glide it over me instead. A bullet of greedy need zings through me, before he’s even begun the really wicked things I know are coming, that virile, potent command of his I ache for.
I watch with growing hunger as he sheds his shirt, revealing his beautiful torso; tan, taut shoulders, a light smattering of dark hair on his chest, fine lines tapering down to an abdomen so defined and lickable, it should be illegal. I will never tire of Dane’s body, a thing of true beauty that he “owns” with humble arrogance. My own private playground.
He may think he’s the king of territorialism, but that sculpted, mouthwatering physique he’s workin’ with belongs. To. Me. And I can have it any time I want, because that package (yeah, that one too), comes with an insatiable appetite that craves me just as much as I crave him.
My unsteady breathing grows louder than I can control and he leers down at me, silently telling me with the cocky glimmer in his eyes that he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “Now she’s coming around,” he taunts in sly pride as he pushes his pants and black boxer briefs over his hips and down to the floor. “You want me, baby?”
I nod, scooting back like a horny lil’ crab and position myself lengthwise on the bed to give him plenty of room to conquer me.
He joins me on the bed in a predatory crawl, hovering over me now, and rids me of my bra in a dizzying flurry of precision. “I didn’t quite hear you.” His breath fans over my face as he runs his nose along the length of mine. “Was that a yes?”
Certain things, Dane has to hear me actually say.
So much so, he’ll hold back with infuriating self-control until he goads the words from me. Sometimes I’m simply too delirious with want to answer, but often, I deny him on purpose—because he gets unthinkably harder and more aggressive with every affirmat
ion I do finally give aloud. And when I give in and he unleashes all that pent-up deprivation on me, it’s ungodly euphoric.
“Say it, baby. Tell me how bad you want it,” his voice strained and authoritative.
Oh, yeah, there’s the voraciousness in his eyes. He’s ready.
“You know I want you, always. I love you, Dane.” I reach up to run one hand through his thick, brown hair, and wrap the other around his neck, pulling his mouth down to mine.
He groans into our kiss, using his hips wedged between my legs to push them farther apart. His hard length jerks between us and seeks out my core where he slides through my wetness, pressing down harder with each pass over my clit, prodding just a hint deeper with every swipe near my entrance. The veins and head are now so engorged, I can feel them bump along me deliciously.
“Dane,” I moan, sucking on his bottom lip, digging my fingers into the slickening skin of his neck. “Love me. Now.”
He lifts off me, pushing my knees up to meet my chest then leans forward again to pin them there with his weight. No wiggle room allowed. Using only one of his hands to trap both of mine over my head roughly, the other begins its slow tease. One fingertip circles around first the left, then the right nipple of my heaving breasts, his smile devilish as the peaks harden and seem to reach up and out for him.
“I know my Disney,” he growls. “Her mind, soul, and especially,” he aligns with my wet and oh-so-ready center, “her body. You’re gonna take it all for me at once, aren’t ya baby? You want my cock deep and fast?”
“God, yes,” I moan.
With a long, hoarse exhale, he shoves all the way inside me, invading me physically and emotionally. It’s rough, but beautiful. He murmurs his approval as a soft whimper escapes me, and instantly, every single thing or thought that isn’t “us” disappears. My mind is now void of all but the feel of his rigid width thrusting in and out of me, his firm grip on my wrists and his warm mouth sucking my breasts, across my collarbone and up my neck.
“I’ve got you,” he assures in my ear, low and raspy. “Always. Anything. I’ve,” thrust, “got,” a torturous rotation of his hips, swirling his length inside me to stroke adoration along each and every spot, “you. Squeeze around my dick baby. You know how I like it.”
I love his vulgar mouth, I could probably come from his words alone.
I flex my inner muscles, constrict and release, over and over, fighting my lids that want to close in ecstasy to take in the sight of him loving me. Looking up at him, like this, his head back, mouth open, an endless grumble working its way up from deep within his chest… it’s my favorite view in the whole world. A light sheen of exertion glitters on his skin, the heady scent of Dane and male desire fogging my brain. “Fuck yes baby, just like that. So damn good, hot, and mine,” he roars, dropping his sweat coated body back down to hood mine. His chest hairs abrade my nipples deliciously and his pelvis now flush, rubs my clit with each plunge inside me, begging for my climax.
“Dane, oh, please.” I buck and writhe beneath him, never able to get close enough, and fight his hold on my wrists. He releases them and my hands fly to his shoulders where I cling for leverage, craving the full impact of his drives inside me. “Harder, harder, babe. I need it.”
The headboard bangs against the wall as he slams into me with abandon, burying his face in my neck, licking the sweat from my skin. “Laney, God, I love you.” He sneaks his thumb between us with no falter in his rhythm or force, working my clit expertly. “Come baby, wanna feel your sweet pussy beg for it. Damn close, finish me Laney.”
So dirty he talks—but I can always also hear the purity—only for me, in our time alone, he sends me soaring. With a single, endless keen, I contract around him, but at the same time relax; the contradictive, euphoric combination of exploding for the love of my life. He fills me with thick, wet warmth in several short, shallow thrusts, then collapses half on top, half to the side of me, and nuzzles his face in the crook of my neck once more.
It’s been his “go to” spot for as long as I can remember.
Once he’s caught his breath, he murmurs with a kiss to my neck, “Anything you wanna talk about?”
I snicker and pull him closer against me. “Not a thing, Caveman. All better now.”
After our shared, long and gluttonous shower later, we continue taking our time getting ready to go spend time with everyone else. Although, I must admit, I could use the replenishment of a nice dinner. Between my wandering mind, which Dane insisted wander its way right back to him, and the nervous exhilaration of upcoming events… my always insatiable Caveman was feeling extra barbaric on round two.
As if on cue, both our phones chime with an incoming message. That can only mean one thing, group text, hated by more of the Crew than not. I’d wager an internal organ, Whitley is the creator of said text-bomb, whose man loathes this particular form of communication beyond measure.
Sure enough. One glance at my phone and it’s confirmed, my kidneys are safe.
Whitley: I’ve got our table reserved in the restaurant downstairs for 7 p.m. That’s one hour, people! Plenty of time to finish up any “resting.”
Evan: For God’s sake, woman! I’m standing right beside you. Why am I on this group text? And why am I still… never mind.
Gotta love Whitley. She never ceases to provide endless entertainment by ruffling Evan’s feathers, for us to watch and enjoy.
That shit’s funny.
Zach: Me & Ben are ready. See ya down there.
“Dane, will you—” I stall when I turn and find him on the phone in the room, already talking to one of my parents, before I could even finish asking him to do just that.
The simplest of tasks, those little random acts of synchrony that serve as reminders that another soul shares space with your own… mean the most.
My phone vibrates in my hand, startling me from my whimsical musings, and I glance back down the screen.
Sawyer: Me & Em are already down here. She’s shitfaced, dancing on the bar and causing a scene, so hurry up all you slow fuckers. She’s out of control.
Oh, Sawyer, I roll my eyes. Emmett is doing no such thing, and how he never fails to come up with this stuff, remains a mystery. I can only imagine it might get nerve-wracking for sweet Emmett sometimes, but I’m also pretty positive it keeps life spontaneous and interesting. And that counts for so many somethings.
I’m two thumbs ready to text our RSVP when Dane hangs up the phone. “Your parents already ordered room service and wanna sit this one out. Guess the busy day, flight and all, wiped ’em out.”
“Are they okay? Do I need to go check on them?”
He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “Your dad knew you’d say that. He made me promise to tell you.” He deepens his voice and does his best Jeff Walker impersonation. “We’re just a little old, a little tired, Slugger. You go on and have yourself a good time, without worrying.”
“And you—”
“Yes.” He regains his normal voice and simpers, a warm smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe him.”
“Well, okay then.” I shrug and take him at his word, always do, and return my attention to my phone.
Me: We’ll be down in a sec. My parents are sitting out this round.
Whitley: It’s a date! (insert several of those little party popper emojis)
Evan: Great, all settled then. This message is now dead. Everyone delete it and feel free to text mono e mono amongst yourselves going forward.
Sawyer: RT Evan.
Sawyer: My bad, deleting for real now.
Dane exhales through his nose and runs a hand back through his hair, which somehow always makes it look like he styled it all sexy that way on purpose. With a dash of humor in it, he sighs. “Gonna be a long trip.”
He’s absolutely right, but I know for certain he’s also more than aware we have the best group of friends one could ever dare hope for. I wouldn’t change a single thing about a single one of them… and neith
er would he.
We make our way down to the restaurant, hand in hand, to find nothing that surprises me.
Whitley’s standing up, waving her arms wildly as though I’m not staring straight at her and might somehow miss them. Sawyer’s indicating another round for the table to the passing waiter, and not a bit surprising, Emmett is seated beside him, not on the bar and/or seemingly out of control. Zach has one arm slung over the back of Bennett’s chair, body turned into her as she tosses her head back and giggles at something he’s just said.
The whole “too close for comfort” thing comes to mind for a split second, but dismiss even faster because the special, irreplaceable closeness of the Crew is comfort, definitively. Who am I to put parameters on that security?
You know the saying “lightning never strikes twice?” I’m not sure how it ever became a saying, because it’s grossly inaccurate.
In fact, there’s a ton of places that have been struck more than twice in a single storm! (Yes, I looked it up.) For example, on the night of February 5, 2008, a radio tower in Lexington, Kentucky was struck eleven times within twenty minutes.
Hold on to that little gem; it’ll be on Jeopardy one day and you’ll wow all your friends by knowing the answer, in the form of a question of course.
I have a mental list of factoids like that, because, well, it was one of the ways I tried to help Dane make sense of things when we lost Tate.
After the car wreck that almost killed Tate during my freshman year of college, Dane had a lot of trouble processing the sick twist of fate that his brother had survived one near-fatal crash…only to turn around and not survive another one a few years later. He kept saying “what are the odds,” over and over… so I looked up the odds; on the literal, two time wreck victims, and the metaphorical, lightning strikes. It did seem to help, a little.
Two of the most important people in my life, had lost one of the most important in theirs. Of course I still worry about Dane, especially on special dates, holidays… but Dane isn’t alone… like Bennett.