by Tara West
My last coherent thought before he sucks my swollen bud is this is by far the best damn licking of my life.
His tongue makes love to me so tenderly while swirling across my sex, stopping to gently nip my bud with his teeth. I feel his finger probing my center, first one and then two, thrusting into me.
My mind becomes a haze and I scream his name as he makes me ride that fragile line between ecstasy and torture.
That spiral of pleasure reaches the pinnacle, and the orgasm that grips me is so powerful, I fear I may die from it.
Andrés rides out each wave that consumes me by tonguing me with more pressure and pushing his fingers all the way to my thrumming center.
I don’t know how many orgasms I have, but by the time the tremors slow to a languid pulse, I feel so incredibly sated, I have to fight against the fatigue that consumes me.
Andrés slowly slides his fingers out of me and then kisses my abdomen and my breasts. He grips my leg and pulls it up with him. My body complies, even though I feel about as limp as a rag doll.
As he stretches across me, kissing my chin and lips and gently probing my entrance with his swollen head, I have another idea. I want to show Andrés how deeply I love him by pleasuring him with my mouth as he did for me. I reach between us and grab his erection.
“Wait,” I breathe against his cheek.
He releases me and I slide down while pushing him onto his back. He gladly complies as I kiss down his hard abdomen and across the length of his swollen shaft. He answers with a groan, and I can feel his tremors beneath my tongue as I lap up the moisture pooling at the tip of his cock. And then I take him in my mouth, sucking him as I slide down the length of his shaft. He is too big to swallow, but I take in what I can, one slow inch at a time, until the cock head is pressing the back of my throat. I cup his balls with my hand, gently massaging moisture into the heavy sacks while I slowly move my mouth up and down, constricting my wet lips around him like a hand in a glove.
He’s alternating between calling my name and swearing in Spanish while flexing his hips beneath me and pumping into my mouth.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he cries out.
But I don’t want to stop. I want to keep showing Andrés how deeply I love him.
Somehow he manages to lift me off him. The air whooshes from my lungs as he flips me onto my back and climbs on top of me. He wastes no time sliding deep inside, growling into my ear as he fucks me with deep, hard thrusts. I don’t have time to prepare for the orgasm that overpowers me as his large head jars my swollen center. I feel him swell and then burst. He cries out, his hips spasm against my pelvis as his head throbs deep inside me. He cups my cheek and kisses me passionately, our tongues melding together in a frenzy as he continues to assault me with deep thrusts. His pulsating head triggers another climax, this one grips me almost painfully, and I am at the orgasm’s mercy.
We pant into each other’s mouths, chests heaving for several erratic heartbeats, before he finally pulls me to him and rolls us over. We cling to each other for a long time after, kissing, stroking, teasing. Andrés has given me so much, yet I can’t seem to get enough, and we make love well into the night.
Chapter Ten
Christina
I step out of the shower after scrubbing today’s paint and grease off, and check my phone for missed messages. Nothing from Andrés.
All day.
I know he’s been busy with work, but I was still hoping for something. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d send me several texts a day. I’ve gotten one this whole week, and that was after work when he asked what I wanted for dinner. But it’s only three-thirty, and he doesn’t get off work for another few hours. I got to clock out early because I finished my project ahead of schedule. I should probably use this extra time to study psychology, right?
Ha, ha! I’m so funny!
No. I’ve got another thing in mind. I’m thinking about hitting Victoria’s Secret for something sweet and sexy to wear for Andrés tonight.
And just as I’m thinking bad thoughts, very bad thoughts like pleasuring him more with my mouth, I get a text from Pencil Dick.
Ugh. I never thought I’d have to deal with Jackson after the breakup, and now it’s like bad breath deja vu all over again.
My heart skips a beat when I read the text. He’s got Tyler and he wants me to join them. I haven’t seen Ty in over a week, and I have to admit, I’ve been having serious baby withdrawals. I remember the day of Mrs. Peterson’s funeral, feeling so lucky to have Andrés there to hold me, but something was missing, and it took me all day to realize what it was. I wanted so badly to hold Ty in my arms. I crave that baby like a drug.
Not healthy, I know.
He’s not my kid. I know that, too.
Both of his parents are assholes. I think this endears Ty to me even more. Poor baby. I know what it’s like to have parents who are dicks.
Jackson sends me another text. They are at the restaurant inside the country club. My mother’s country club. Do I want to risk the chance of seeing The Spitting Cobra? I know she goes there far too often. After all, she’s got a busy agenda trolling for rich men and backstabbing her friends.
I look down at my phone, poised to decline his invitation, which makes me sad because I really miss Ty.
As if he’s reading my mind, he sends me one more message. Your mom already went home.
Oh, well, I suppose my argument for not wanting to meet Jackson at the club is invalid, but I should refuse him. Andrés might be mad at me if I go.
Maybe I could get some cuddle time with Tyler and leave. I could seriously do this in fifteen minutes. I think about Andrés’s confession last night, how he thinks I’m going to break up with him soon because I want to spend time with Tyler, yet I don’t want my own kids.
I know I’ve hurt Andrés, but at this point I don’t know how to fix it. All I know is I really want to see that baby. I fire off a text that I’ll be over in a half hour. I can visit Ty for a while and be home in time to make dinner.
Andrés doesn’t have to know I went.
Wait a minute? Did I just think that?
Would I really try to hide this from Andrés? I’m not cheating on him. Why should I have to lie to him about visiting the godson I’ve literally loved since his birth? I was in the room when he was born. I was Karri’s birthing partner. I held Ty before she did.
The more I think about needing Andrés’s permission to see Ty, the more pissed off I get. He has no right to come between me and Ty, and he’ll have to understand that.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
* * *
I can’t believe how healthy Ty looks in just over a week. Most of the color has returned to his cheeks, and his blue-green eyes sparkle with excitement as he bounces around in his high chair and hands me French fries.
“Teeny,” he says over and over, flashing that cherubic grin.
I lean forward and bat my lashes. “Mmmmmm,” I say while pretending to chew his mushed-up fry. I hand it back to him. “Here, you try.”
He pops the fry in his mouth, grinning as he grinds the potato between tiny teeth.
I look around at the fancy white linen table-cloths, crystal drinking glasses, and polished silverware, and think this is an odd place to take a baby. My parents only allowed me to come to their club on special occasions.
Violin music filters in from the opposite end of the room as we look out over the green through expansive bay windows. The menu prices are outrageous, but I’m not eating, anyway. I’d rather order a pizza than sit down to a meal with Jackson.
Jackson has already informed me this is the only restaurant where Ty is allowed to eat. Apparently, Jackson’s dad went through the country club’s kitchen and threatened every chef with dire consequences if any of them fed the baby the wrong food. Jackson has apologized several times for asking me to meet him at my mom’s favorite hangout. He must notice how tense I am, always looking over my shoulder in case The Cobra slither
s into the room.
Nora Richards, one of my mother’s annoying, socialite friends, strolls into the restaurant with an exaggerated swagger. I’ve seen her down enough wine to know what that swagger means. She’s somehow managed to make her drunk walk look posh.
Sort of.
She reminds me of a washed up runway model with hip dysplasia. A few quick glances at the other diners snickering behind her back, and I guess they’re not falling for her swagger, either.
I cringe when she spots me and quickens her pace, coming straight toward our table. Ugh, now she looks like a speed-walking, washed up model in need of hip transplants.
“Christina, darling! How have you been?” The older woman stops a good three feet away and blows air kisses in my direction while waving around the red wine in her hand with an air of superiority. She’s oblivious as the liquid sloshes onto her expensive leather shoes. “I haven’t seen you here in ages.” She smiles as she sweeps her hand up the back of her brassy red up-do.
I know it must be difficult for her to maintain that smile for so long when she looks as if those collagen balloons on her face are about to burst.
“I’ve been busy, Nora.” I say, keeping my tone firm with the slightest undertone of annoyance.
“Wonderful,” she exclaims, and as her eyes widen, her tightly stitched face looking ready to bust at the seams. “It’s just….” She turns and looks over her shoulder before edging toward me, the look of concern on her marred brow so forced, it’s comical. “Your mother has been so hush hush about what you’ve been up to,” she says in a not-so-subtle whisper.
Jackson groans from across the table. Tyler squeals, “Eeew!” for some reason. Why do I suspect he’s eeewing at this woman? No doubt Nora frightens him. She’s wearing enough makeup to rival a rodeo clown, and I swear I could bounce a quarter off her glossy, tight cheekbones.
“Just working and going to school,” I say, trying my best to sound indifferent. Maybe she’ll get the hint and leave.
She looks at Jackson and waves a withered hand in his direction. “It’s so nice to see you two together again.”
When I see him break into a huge, goofy grin, I scowl. Why had I ever fallen in love with that smile? It’s so large and obnoxious, he looks like the Cheshire cat on steroids.
I narrow my gaze at the woman. “We’re not together,” I say through hardened features. “It’s just dinner.”
“Oh, of course. Don’t worry.” She flashes a look which I can only describe as mock sincerity before leaning closer. She winks so hard, I think she may bust a stitch. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Ha! Not likely, I think. Her Twitter feed will probably blow up with “Christina is back together with Jackson” posts.
Just what I need to make my day complete. I’m only glad Andrés and the country club socialites move in two totally different circles.
“Nora!”
I’m pretty sure those few French fries I ate fall to the bottom of my stomach like a lead ball at the familiar nails-on-chalkboard grating screech of The Spitting Cobra, aka, my evil estranged mother.
My mouth falls open, and I look past Nora to see the woman barreling toward us. She’s all smiles, keeping her gaze centered on her friend. She doesn’t bother looking in my direction, but I know she sees me.
I know.
This is all part of her game to make me feel beneath her notice, insignificant. It’s like childhood all over again.
“I’m sorry,” I can hear Jackson whispering to me from across the table. “I thought she left.”
He thought she left?
I’m so angry with him for putting me in this situation, I don’t bother looking at him as I slowly rise on unsteady legs and kiss Ty on the forehead. My lips linger on his baby soft skin. So sweet, innocent, and loving—such a bitter contrast to the woman who raised me.
“Bye, bye, sweetie,” I say as I stroke his cheek and turn to leave.
The Spitting Cobra is standing next to her drunk friend, looking at me with a venomous glare. I repress the urge to shiver as an icy chill sweeps up my spine. It seems she’s had more work done. I didn’t think it was possible, but her waist is smaller and her breasts are bigger. Her face is more plastic-looking than Nora’s, pulled so tight it must pain her to open her eyes. And those lips, so full and fat, they threaten to collapse in a collagen-induced avalanche.
“Hello, Christina,” she says to me, no hint of affection in her cold-as-ice tone, although I shouldn’t have expected any. That woman is like the north wind, the Anti-Christ, and The Plague all rolled into one.
I turn up my chin and give her a haughty acknowledgement of my own. “Mother,” I sneer.
She sweeps her hand toward our table. “Well, don’t you three make a happy little family?”
“We’re not a family,” I growl, squeezing my hands so tight, fingernails break skin.
“Oh?” She arches one thin brow. “It looks that way to me. You remind me of our family when you were a baby.” She heaves an exaggerated sigh while planting one hand on her hip. “You were so sweet then.”
My gaze tunnels on my mother, white hot rage pounding a wild staccato in my ears. It takes all my effort to keep from slapping that smug look off her face. “That was before I knew what a selfish bitch you were,” I hiss.
Nora gasps and takes a step back, and I think I hear Jackson swear behind me.
Mother’s eyes widen and her mouth drops. I tilt up my chin and flash a triumphant grin. It’s not often I catch the snake by surprise. She’s not used to me standing up for myself.
But my triumph is short-lived. In the blink of an eye, she rips Nora’s wine glass out of her hand and splashes the liquid all over my shirt. Stunned, I gape at her in disbelief.
Tyler’s screams pull me back to reality. Wine is dripping down his hair and into his mouth.
Jackson swears and wipes Tyler frantically with a cloth napkin.
“Tyler?” he cries. “Are you okay?” Then he turns to my mother with a thunderous expression. “You got wine on my son!” He pounds his fist on the table so hard, I jump back.
Then it hits me. Oh, no, Tyler’s disease. “Will wine make him sick?” I ask Jackson as I grab another napkin off the table and wipe the mess off Tyler’s hands.
“I don’t know.” Jackson’s tone is frantic. “It’s not like we give him wine, anyway.”
“I-I was aiming for Christina,” The Cobra sputters behind me.
“What’s going on here?” A man I recognize as the restaurant manager comes to our table. He’s got a tapered black goatee, an obvious toupee, and a fake French accent, but he’s always been nice to me in the past.
“This woman threw wine at us.” Jackson waves his fist at my mother. “She got it all over my son. I hope there’s no gluten in it. He’s got Celiac Disease.” Jackson picks up Tyler and cradles him in his arms, giving my mother the death stare.
By this time, all eyes in the restaurant are on us, and the only sound in the room is the clanking of silver hitting a plate. Even Tyler has stopped crying.
The manager turns to the busboy. “Go get the chef,” he says. Then he scowls at my mother. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
His fake French accent is so thick, I feel like I’m drowning in it. He obviously gets the point across, because my mother’s paper-thin cheeks turn a bright shade of red.
She stomps a stiletto. “I’ve been a member of this country club for twenty years!”
The manager speaks into his headset. “We’ve got a situation in the restaurant.” He eyes her with disdain. “We’re going to need Security.”
“Security?” She stumbles back and splays a hand over her chest, looking as if he’s just slapped her across the face. “How dare you! Do you know who I am?”
“You’re a washed-up whore.”
It takes me a moment to realize I’m the one who spoke those words. My face flushes as collective murmurs and gasps spread across the restaurant like wildfire.
And then, much to my amazement, a woman about my mother’s age stands up at her table and starts clapping. Soon, other women and then many men join her. They are applauding me because I called my mother a whore? Omigod. For the first time, I realize her selfish behavior has affected others than me.
My mother’s heavily painted eyes are wide and glossy. Hands balled into fists, she takes a step toward me, but the fake French manager blocks her path.
“You are going to regret this,” she says over his shoulder.
The other diners are still clapping. Some are booing and hissing as she turns and storms out of the room.
* * *
After the chef reassures us the wine is gluten free, and after I clean myself and Tyler as best as I can, I decide it is time to leave. My visit with the baby has been interesting, to say the least. I almost regret accepting Jackson’s offer, but some sinister, vindictive part of me, is so glad my mother was humiliated at her country club.
This place has been her second home, especially after my father died. I’m pretty sure she’s slept with half the male members here, which explains why so many women applauded me when I called her a whore. I’m fairly certain she will find a way to retaliate, but for the moment, it was worth it. It was definitely worth it.
Jackson seems to think his dad will pull some strings and get my mother kicked out of the club once he hears what she did to Tyler. That would be a huge blow to my mother. Where else would she go to backstab her friends and sleep with their husbands?
Jackson insists on walking me to my car, which is annoying. With everyone in the club watching us leave, we really do look like a family. Ty, I wouldn’t mind claiming, but not Jackson.
Still, it gives me one more chance to hold Ty. He fits so perfectly on my hip, giggling as I bounce him next to my car.
Jackson is looking at me like he’s got something to say, which is my cue to get the hell out of there.
“I’ve got to get home,” I say. “Andrés is making dinner.”