by Selena Kitt
I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I felt him move between my legs. The soft, wet head of his cock slotted against my entrance, as though it were made for me, and then, slowly, he entered me.
It was bliss.
I cried out as he did it, my body curling and twisting, and I had to force myself to hold still, to relax and take the full girth and length of him. Three times he had to pause and pull back before gently pushing forward again, filling me up slowly, letting me become adjusted to his invasion. I wanted him to fuck me fast and hard, but I also didn't want this moment to end. I wanted him to enter me for the first time forever. I felt him inside me, and nothing else was real. In, out. In further, out. In, out, slow, steady, until at last I finally felt his pelvis run up against my soaked pussy lips and he was buried inside me.
For a long moment, we stayed that way, trembling with the sensation of each other. I was full to the brim, his thick, long cock brushing against something inside me I'd never felt before. It felt strange, but also delicious. I didn't want to move, because I knew if I moved we would fuck, and I knew that when we started, we would eventually stop.
But I wanted him inside me always. I wanted this feeling, this fullness. I needed it. I hadn't known I'd needed it until this moment.
At last I moaned and twisted, impaled on his body, my hands reaching up to my hair, tangling in it as I tried to comprehend the fullness of him.
"Ah, Sadie," he whispered. "I love to see you writhe and thrash. Let me make you scream."
"Yes," I begged back.
It was a surprise this time, when he flicked my nipple with his finger, but the pain and pleasure speared through me and I shrieked, my hips thrusting into him, and then he pulled out and pushed in, and we were fucking like animals.
His hips pounded into mine, small grunts escaping the back of his throat as he fucked me, and I was helpless under his assault. I moaned and writhed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the clay, the towels slipping and sliding under me. I reached back and tried to dig in, feeling the clay give way under my grip as he plunged his cock deep inside me. Each time he bottomed out inside me the tip of his cock brushed over that sweet little spot that I hadn't even known existed and I shrieked. My head tossed as his fingers dug into my hips, my back arched. Beneath me the clay became more volatile, moving and slippery, like mud.
Then, reaching down, Malcolm began to rip away the towels, exposing the warm clay to the air, and I reached out and dug my fingers into it, feeling it cake beneath my fingernails as I held on for dear life while his thrusts became wild and uncontrolled.
"Fuck, Sadie," he grunted. "You feel too good."
I wanted to tell him there was no such thing, but I felt the same way. He was too good, frighteningly so. Humans weren't meant to feel this way, I thought, the part of me that hid under all my brashness, my crudities, my artistic flairs whispering its insecurities in my ear. Something this good can't last. Something this wonderful is not meant for you.
I bit my lip as Malcolm abruptly pulled out, and I felt the loss of him inside me so sharply I almost screamed No, but I didn't. He didn't want me speaking. I wanted to give him what he wanted. Everything he did to me was exactly what I needed, even though I hadn't known what it was.
Tugging on my hips, he pulled me from the block of clay and removed the last of the towels before assisting me back onto it, on my hands and knees. His hands were large and warm on my skin, and as he took up his position behind me I braced myself. The clay moved under me. It resisted, but it moved.
Oh, I thought.
His cock found my pussy and slid inside again, an easy entrance this time. His hips picked up a quick, sharp pace, and I cried out, my limbs suddenly trembling with the effort of staying upright on the slick clay. Streaks of red earth traced paths over my skin when I slipped and fell, scraping my elbows and arms over the clay, but Malcolm didn't let up. Within minutes we had worn a groove into the sculpture with the force of our fucking and my arms and hands were caked with clay.
Sliding out again, he helped me down. My pussy pounded with my heartbeat and I felt the sweet beginnings of a powerful orgasm building in my belly. God, he was beautiful, I realized as I stood and watched him climb onto the clay himself, settling down on his back, his cock, slick with the juices of my cunt, jutting proudly in the air. He looked like one of those Greek statues, well balanced, perfectly proportioned, ready to leap into battle, throw a javelin, triumph over Persians or whatever, I didn't care and I could barely think as he extended one hand toward me, his beautiful dark eyes smiling, burning into my skin, his fingers awaiting my own.
I put my hand in his, and he helped me up onto the clay, bracing me as I swung a leg over his hips and stared down at him, stunning and mysterious, flawless and obscured. He was a work of art, too, I realized. Very much so. We were two very different kinds of art, mating and making a third. A sacred coupling, a symbolic procreation. My heart hurt for some reason, thinking of the clay beneath us as the product of our union. Had he thought through those implications, or was he only pursuing me in his own roundabout way, unsure how to deal with the things I inspired in him, putting a layer between us as he tried to connect with me?
His hands gripped my hips and guided me over his cock. Slowly I slid down onto his erection, panting and trembling as he filled me again. When at last we were flush with each other, he reached up and smoothed his hands over my ribs, trailing his fingertips up my spine. He lingered on the ink in my flesh, sending shivers out over my body, but he didn't seem to be startled by the scars I had hidden well with my designs, and he certainly didn't remark upon them. He was a gentleman like that.
Streaks of red clay traced across both of us now, and I felt tiny balls of it rolling between his skin and mine where he touched me. The smell of wet, sweet earth and fucking surrounded us.
I licked my lips, waiting for him to instruct me.
"Sadie," he said at last. "Ride me until you come."
He didn't have to tell me twice. Bracing myself on his shoulders, I angled my pussy over his cock and began to ride him. Under me, he arched and thrust in time, a perfect partner in our dance. His legs rose up, pushed down, and beneath us the clay began to give way, molding around us as we fucked.
His hands were everywhere on me as I rode him, squeezing my ass, cupping my breasts, scratching down my arms until abruptly he took over again, turning me under him, but by now the clay beneath us had been fucked away into a new form, and we twisted and braced against it, our hands scrabbling for purchase as I moaned and he plunged into me over and over, driving me relentlessly toward the release I needed. I didn't know what to do, my toes curling, my body winding up into a ball of pure need. His cock in my cunt pounded out a raw, primal rhythm, but his body as it arched over me, thrust into me, was poetic, classical. His muscles quivered under his skin and I ran my hands over them, feeling them bunch and pull, shift and slip. My core tightened, drew in, and I bore down on him, straining and reaching for my orgasm as the wet clay slipped and slid beneath my back. I groaned, pushing back, clinging, aching.
"Come, Sadie," Malcolm whispered to me. "Come and take me with you."
I cried out, my eyes flying open. I saw everything so clearly—his sweat-sheened face, his hard, pumping body, the play of light and shadow on the ceiling, the bright streaks of earthy red slathered over our skin like war paint. The sea wind rattled against the windows, his flesh slapped against mine, his breath grunted in his throat as he fucked me, and his eyes...
His eyes were dark and vulnerable and so achingly needy that I had to look away. When I did, he bent his head to my throat, opened his lips against the flesh there, and sucked my pulse into his mouth.
I came.
I felt as though my body sucked him inside, bearing down so hard I was afraid I would hurt him, but instead of pain he grunted in surprise and pleasure, and then his hips stuttered in their rhythm, bucking wild, and deep inside my core gushed hot spurts of his seed, pushing into me, his seal, his bra
nd, his mark, his signature on me, making me his. I came silently as he pumped into me, my mouth an open sob of pleasure, and this time instead of breaking apart I felt as though he were putting me back together, his arms and legs curling around me as we orgasmed together, and together we slid down the mound of clay and he strove to wrap me up inside his body, even as my legs hugged his waist. His face was still buried in my throat, his breathing ragged and harsh on my skin, and I reveled in the feel of it dragging over my flesh.
At last he pulled away, but he only pulled back far enough to rest his forehead against mine. We still breathed in time with each other, our hearts in sync, and I closed my eyes, still trembling around his softening cock.
"Sadie..." His voice startled me in the quiet room, and I opened my eyes again to see him looking at me. Leaning in, he kissed me, lightly, then pulled away again. "Thank you," he said.
"Oh," I told him. "Don't mention it. Any time."
He threw his head back and laughed at that before pulling me close again and covering me in kisses, and I wrapped my arms tight around him and reveled in it.
* * * *
We were a mess, covered in red clay and sweat and pussy juice and cum. Malcolm led me to the bathroom next to the studio room, and together we took a long, luxurious shower. He soaped me up, his hands smoothing over my skin as he gently cleaned me, and the water ran dark with clay as it sloughed from our skin. His fingers found my sore pussy lips and soothed them gently, stoking the fire inside me that burned for him until it was blazing once again.
I couldn't get enough of him. I hungered, dark and deep, for him to fill me up. I certainly didn't love him. I'd only known him for four days. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to fall in love with him. I hadn't fallen in love with anyone in years. And Malcolm... he was so promising. I almost believed he might love me back.
At the very least, however, he made my body sing, and I made him laugh. It was enough for now. When at last he turned the water off, his cock was hard as a diamond again, and he led me out of the bathroom, dried me in a towel as though I were a child, then scooped me up and carried me into the master bedroom. It was white walls and splashes of blue and dark wood floor, but I really couldn't be bothered to note it all as he tossed me down onto the down-filled comforter and slid my legs open, his eager mouth descending on my quivering pussy until I begged him to fuck me, which he did. The chill of the winter outside had crept in through the windows of the bedroom, and together we snuggled down and screwed, our muffled moans a soft duet beneath the covers.
I don't know how many times I came, or how many times he came, only that eventually I fell asleep, cradled against him, my thighs slick with our coupling. The last thing I thought of was how much I wanted to bang him on the terrace outside of the living room, and then I passed out.
* * * *
Sex is a powerful drug. I slept hard and soundly until the sky was darkening with the coming evening, and when I awoke I found myself reaching for my bedside table again. This time, however, I remembered where I was and turned over.
Malcolm was still wiped out. He slept like a baby, deep and serene, and when I realized I was watching him sleep I had to shake myself out of it. What was I, some mooning teenager? Slipping out of bed, I peeked in the closet and found a huge fluffy white robe. Wrapping it around myself, I padded back down the hallway to the main part of the house. I didn't look at our work of art. I wanted to imagine it a little while longer.
Stepping into the dining room, I winced as my stomach rumbled. I hadn't had anything to eat in... forever, it seemed. I moved to the refrigerator and opened it, but was disappointed to find only a few fine bottles of white wine.
Well, I thought, it's probably after five, right? I drew one out, located a corkscrew in the drawers, and opened it. The tang of alcohol tickled my nose and made my mouth water. I smiled as I pulled down a glass from one of the cabinets. I was pretty sure Europe was all about the wine, so when in Dubrovnik, do as... well, whatever. I was going to be in big trouble with just wine in my stomach, but I couldn't really bring myself to care. I poured a glass and moved to the windows, staring out at the quiet city and the iron-gray winter sea. I sipped wine, then gulped it. I've never been known for my moderation. I poured another glass and started on that one.
A ringing bell caught my attention. A phone.
Frowning, I turned around, scanning the room before I spied a pile of luggage—Jesus, was all that ours?—with Malcolm's jacket folded neatly across it. The sound was coming from it. Already tipsy as hell I tottered across the living room and spent precious seconds hunting through Malcolm's pockets before I located his phone just as the person on the other end of the line hung up.
Damn, I thought. But then the phone lit up again almost immediately, the ringtone loud in the quiet of the penthouse. In bold letters on the screen, the name Don Cardall shone out. It meant nothing to me.
I wavered and after a few rings the call went to voicemail. I had no problem with that, as I wasn't ever a fan of people answering my own phone--safely tucked away in my purse at the base of the tower of luggage, thank god--but when the home screen popped up I saw that Malcolm had seventy-eight missed calls.
Seventy. Eight.
Holy shit, I thought. This might be kind of important.
For a second I stood in the living room, trying to decide what to do. On the one hand, I wasn't Malcolm's personal secretary or anything like that, and we'd only known each other for a few days. I should, technically, go wake him up so he could field whatever emergency had popped up back home. On the other hand, I really wanted to stay here and just fuck the next few days away. Maybe drink some good liquor, eat some good food. Bone some more. Especially on that terrace... Perhaps I should just answer and see who was calling and what sort of fire Malcolm had to put out before bothering him. He looked exhausted. I didn't really want to disturb the first good sleep I was betting he'd had since we met. I didn't think he'd slept on the plane, and since he'd been forgetting to eat I didn't exactly trust him to take care of himself in my absence. I took another gulp of wine and pondered, and then the decision was made for me when the phone lit up again. Don Cardall once more. He was very persistent. I was willing to bet he was at least half of those missed calls.
Oh, I thought, very well. I hit answer.
"Malcolm Ward's phone," I said, very cool and sophisticated. "May I ask who's calling?"
"Fuck you, this is a fucking emergency!" Don Cardall spat at the other end of the line. "Where the fuck is Mr. Ward?"
Chapter Nine
One and a half glasses of wine on a very empty stomach did not make me the most delicate of people. "He's in a sex coma," I snapped, all my good sex vibes falling away and my typical crankiness reasserting itself. "Who is this?"
"No, you tell me who the hell you are and you put Mr. Ward on the phone right goddamn now."
Damn, this dude was rude to someone he'd never met. “I'm Sadie MacElroy,” I said. Then, because I thought I could perhaps parlay it into some sort of social currency: “Mrs. Anton Waters' personal assistant."
At the other end of the line, Don was quiet for a moment, clearly reassessing the situation. Yes! I thought. Finally that stupid job came in handy for something other than boring shit like keeping food on the table and a roof over my head.
"I apologize, Miss MacElroy," Don finally said, his voice now stiff and formal, "but I am Mr. Ward's secretary. I hope you will understand that this is an emergency and put Mr. Ward on the line."
Ah. The secretary to whom Malcolm had given over the reins of the company. I could sympathize. I really could. It was always a frantic day when something big had gone down and you couldn't contact your boss. I know this because it happened frequently when Felicia and Anton decided to go on a sex retreat, although now that I came to think of it I was obviously not any better, seeing as how I had skipped work--and town--to screw some virtual stranger's brains out. And I didn't even have the excuse of being in a relationship with him.
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Still. I didn't really want to wake Malcolm up. It was probably midnight in New York now. I'd been missing from my job for a whole day at this point. I probably had a million messages, too. Ugh.
I wavered for another moment, and then gave in. "All right, just a second," I said. "I'll go see if I can wake him up."
"Thank you," Don said. I hit the hold button and tottered back to the bedroom. That wine was really hitting me hard.
Malcolm lay on the bed in the same position I'd left him in. I hated to wake him up. But this was probably really important. I hoped he hadn't skipped out on some kind of life or death deal to bone me in Croatia. I mean, that's flattering and all, but I understand priorities, too. Reaching out, I put my hand on Malcolm's shoulder.
"Malcolm?" I whispered.
He slept on.
I gave him a little shake.
He continued to sleep. He was out.
"Malcolm," I said a little louder, but he might as well have been a lump of clay for all the response I got from him. I shook him harder, then moved over to my side of the bed and began to jump up and down on it. "Wake up!" I commanded him.
He snorted, stirred, then turned over and slipped back down into dreamland.
Jesus. He was completely exhausted. I turned the phone back on.
"I'm sorry," I said. "He is completely passed out."
"Shake him!"
"I did. I even jumped on the bed and kind of yelled at him. He won't wake up."
In New York, I could hear Don pondering this as he felt the icy hand of termination creeping up on him. "Did you check to see if he's breathing?"
All right, forget the rudeness. No one treats me like an idiot. "Oh gosh, no," I said, "I'm just a dumb girl and I can't tell the difference between a living body and corpse. Asshole."
"Fine," he snapped. "You tell him I called the second he wakes up. This is an emergency, and he needs to be in New York as soon as possible. Wait, where is he, anyway?"