"But … how do you … are you sure?" I asked, my excitement impossible to hold back. When I had told Jess in the hospital that a family was the one thing I regretted not having in my life, the thing that going to prison would ensure that I never got to experience, I wasn’t lying exactly, but it wasn’t something I had thought that much about either. But now … now I was so happy I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be the person I was back then. I couldn’t even identify with that guy anymore.
I felt like I had been born into a new life somehow, that it really was possible to leave the person I was behind and start over. And now that I had Jess with me and we would have a family on our little island I realized that my life finally had meaning.
"Well, I’ve missed my last two periods, so I’m pretty sure," she said with a smile. "It could have been any time we made love that first week on the yacht, but I like to think it was that very first time in the shower. The first time you were inside me and we were really together," she said as her hand wandered down further into my pubic hair and onto the shaft of my hardening cock.
"Are you happy, Brody?" her sexy voice whispered into my ear.
"More that you will ever know, Jess," I said as I rolled her onto her back and pressed my lips into hers. My tongue found its way into her mouth and my overwhelming desire for her brought incredibly sexy moans from deep inside of her. I got on top of her, forcing her legs apart with my knees, then I devoured her beautiful brown skin with my mouth as I kissed my way down her neck and to her full breasts.
I gripped one in each hand and massaged and caressed them, biting and sucking the nipples, then moved my tongue around each breast in a circular pattern until they were both sliding through my hands. The noises she made with every touch made my cock harder and harder but I wanted to make this last. I wanted to make her body feel everything that was inside me, all of the love that I had for her and the baby that was growing inside her belly.
I moved my mouth down the beautiful curves of her stomach and hips, licking the incredibly sensitive skin where her pelvic bone jutted out and the crease that led to her thigh. The minute my face got down to that hidden space her scent enveloped me, making me feel light headed like I couldn’t think clearly.
That’s the effect this woman had on me. Just one look from her sent me on a mission to get her anything she wanted, but one smell of her pussy and I could barely form an intelligible sentence. I could live the rest of my life with my face between her legs, but then we wouldn’t get much of anything else done. I just had to look forward to this time when she was opened up to me and everything she had was mine.
I buried my face in her soft, dark hair, then used my fingers to part her puffy outer lips. She was always such a beautiful sight to see, the way parts of her pussy opened out like flower petals, but then other parts were hidden, just waiting for me to explore.
I licked one long stroke from the base of her pussy all the way up to the top of her clit and I felt her entire body squirm as I gripped her gorgeous ass with my hands. I could feel her push herself into me, but I was going to tease her for a while. I wasn't going to let her rush anything today. I was going to get what I wanted. And that was to make her come harder than she ever had in her life.
I slowly started circling her clit with a feather light touch of my tongue, then I looked up and watched her moan and squirm while gripping her own heaving breasts. But soon I buried my mouth in between her soft lips and worked her clit with my tongue and lips and chin. I pushed my tongue inside her, but I knew that she wanted more, so I slid two fingers into her vagina and found her favorite spot.
The second my fingers pressed against the spongy mound just inside her opening she let out a deliciously deep moan and spread her legs a little bit wider. I continued to lick and suck on her clit, but I was also thrusting into her with my fingers, massaging the spot inside her that would bring her over the ultimate edge.
I could feel her body tightening up, her legs going rigid and her breath coming in gasps, as I took her clit in my mouth and sucked while feeling the build up inside her that needed to be released. Her hips lifted off the bed and her hands gripped my head, pushing my face into her while she bucked and gyrated, moaning my name over and over.
Just then a warm gush of liquid came flooding out of her and as I continued to thrust into her with my fingers she slowly lowered back down to the bed, relaxing all her muscles and releasing her grip on my head. I licked up as much of her incredibly sweet, salty nectar as I could find, then kissed my way back up her stomach, past her breasts and finally kissing those full, sexy lips on her face.
"Fuck me, Brody. I need you inside me now," she said as she looked into my eyes. It didn’t take long for me to find my way inside her and when I did she let out a scream of ecstasy like I had never heard from her before.
She threw her head back and wrapped her legs around me and grabbed my ass and forced me inside her deeper and deeper. I felt like I was being swallowed whole and sucked into her, like my cock had no say in any of it. I felt her muscles squeeze around me, like they were massaging me from inside her, just waiting to milk out everything I had.
My thrusts started out slow, but sped up faster and faster until she was screaming and sobbing my name, her nails digging into my shoulders and her legs like a vice around my waist. I felt myself go over the edge and when I did I grabbed her hips and held her onto my length while I thrust deep inside of her and I came while I listened to her sexy voice telling me that she loved me.
Sweat was pouring down my body and I was gasping for breath as I rolled off of her, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her beauty. Her eyes were closed and she was finally catching her breath but she looked so peaceful and serene as she recovered from what we had just experienced together.
It was an amazing feeling that I could give this to her, that I was capable of providing her with something, bringing her to a place that she couldn’t even get to alone. We could both only get here when we were together.
It made me feel like I was the king of the world and I had to laugh when I realized that I kind of was. I was now the king of Jess Island, and I never wanted it to be any other way.
The End
***
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***
Adrenaline Rush
By Kate Pavelle
CHAPTER 1
MY BEST friend Vicki and I sat at the Barking Shark, celebrating Friday. Every week, like clockwork, we perched on the tall barstools at a round tables in a dark corner, eating bar food for dinner and drinking beer. Squeezed into the narrow skirt of my blue suit and keeping stray food bits off my ivory blouse, I toyed with the end of my honey-blond French braid as I listened to her latest tale of woe.
"Rinaldi’s a fucking asshole." Vicki lifted the beer bottle and sipped, marking the top of the bottle with her red lipstick. "He's a fucking asshole,” she repeated, shaking her head in disbelief as she patted her lips with a napkin. Her dark eyes flashed in the cozy and dim light of the bar. “Of all the bosses I've ever had, he's the rudest, nastiest, loudest sonovabitch I've ever fucking worked for. And take this: he wants everything yesterday."
I watched my best friend belch, covering her mouth delicately in discrete affectation. Her fingers, graceful and strong, hovered over a bowl full of complimentary nuts and pretzels right afterward. She stirred the contents with a long, red nail until she found a cashew, picked it out with precision and ate it, crushing the nut between her teeth in an act of determined, stubborn catharsis. Her face was flushed, her scowl accentuated by her severely plucked, angular eyeb
rows. I’ve always envied her waist-long, crimson hair that threatened to escape her ponytail, barely disguising a realistic tattoo of a life-size banana spider on the nape of her neck.
"Sorry, girlfriend," I chirped, waving for another round of Belgian Lambic. "At least you have interesting work to do. You work with major accounts. Your work matters a bit more than just putting advertisements together."
I sighed. Two years out of college, and I still cultivated the air of girlish sweetness and innocence, even though my sense of purpose was still a bit fuzzy around the edges. My outward manner and appearance, which some described as ‘angelic’, didn’t always correspond with my private endeavors. And my private endeavors were much aided by my fairly athletic body, which didn’t top 5'8" unless I choose to wear heels. I am a creature of the night, or at the very least, sunscreen. My redeeming virtue in life is my appreciation and knowledge of good beer.
Aside from these important personal facts, I'd also like to share that my job is meaningless. After all, nobody gives a damn about advertising unless a video goes viral on YouTube. The product of my hard work becomes trash as soon as it's removed from the mailbox. Billboards get tuned out, flashy magazine ads are cut up for children's school projects. My job is worse than watching moss grow.
Maybe that's why I enjoy breaking into people's houses so much. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't want you to think I'm just some ordinary burglar and thief. I have a strict code of conduct and I adhere to it on every job:
Never take sentimental items.
Steal only from the rich.
Don't get caught.
I guess the last rule would be the most important one, and I'm pretty darn good at what I do since I've been burgling for almost ten years and haven’t been caught yet. It all started in high school with my dog-walking job. I was given the keys and unsupervised access to many a house in our neighborhood. Taking the dogs out to do their business and burn off excess energy using a tennis ball and a racket gave me unmitigated pleasure, along with the much-needed extra cash. I’d been so good, so painfully responsible – until that one time I forgot to bring my client’s key. I heard the dog whining by the door, her bladder full to bursting – going back home would have taken at least half an hour. Fortunately, though, I’d been in the throes of reading Lawrence Block’s mysteries. Since his protagonist is a burglar who moonlights as a soft-spoken bookseller during the day, I was no stranger to the idea of picking a lock. I had been, in fact, practicing at home, and my dog-walking predicament seemed like a natural opportunity to try out my new, hard-won skills. If Bernie Rhoddenbarr could do it, well…
For tools, I’d chosen the awl from my Swiss army knife and two hairpins that used to hold my braid in a twist. It took me ten long, focused minutes to make the simple lock click open for me. My muscles trembled from exhaustion, but the thrill of victory sent chemical happiness coursing through my veins. It had occurred to me that, indeed, I didn’t need a dog with a full bladder on the other side to get in. I was as curious as a cat, and this formative experience allowed me to discover that there was no better way to get that awesome, adrenaline high than casing a place of residence, learning when it would be empty, and finding an illicit way of entry. Sometimes, I just need to pick the lock to the front door. In other cases, more inventive means of breaching the fortress were necessary.
My second firm rule: No cat-burglar stuff. Cat-burglars are people who break into homes while people are still there, preferably asleep. That's not only creepy, it's dangerous. It's a good way to get your chest ventilated with a pistol the resident inherited from his grandfather and still keeps around for sentimental reasons.
"…so he'll be out of the office next week, yay!" Vicki squinted at me. "Hey Evelyn. Are you listenin'? Rinaldi's going on a vacation for a week so he'll be off my back."
Vacation. A successful stockbroker's going on a vacation.
Hmmm…
I knew I shouldn't have even formulated the thought, but there it was: suddenly I was possessed with an overwhelming urge to break into Mr. Rinaldi's chateau. Of course, that would break another rule: don't steal from people you might know, even if only through other people.
"Maybe he's just grumpy from his commute," my mouth said, seemingly detached from my body.
"Nah," Vicki said, tossing her head to get her long her out of her eyes. "He walks to work. He lives right on the corner of 57th and Espada Way. I had to deliver some work papers one day when he made me stay late, that jerk."
Now, I knew better than to pursue this train of thought, but I have always had this curious fascination with knowing how other people work. Nothing gives me more insight into a person’s psyche than having a chance to walk through their private domain, to breathe the air they have breathed and to rifle through their personal possessions. Just by looking through his drawers, I would be able to tell why Mr. Rinaldi was the asshole he is. His taste in books and clothing would be, most certainly, very different in private than in public, and much like my beloved literary protagonist, I also always feel that extra frisson of excitement run through my body when I find the difference between my victim's private self and the public persona they put on for our benefit.
Finding out how stranger’s live is a good substitute for family life, which I don’t have anymore. My father won’t talk to me because I used to date his arch-enemy’s son. My mother died on the operating table - under his arch-enemy’s scalpel - and my brother and sister are currently off in college. I’m on my own, an adult child of a dysfunctional family. Peeking into the lives of strangers fills me with a sense of temporary satisfaction. It’s as though I belonged again.
No, I should stop.
Stop now. Go back. Take a trip out of town.
"What's his place like?" My mouth asked as though of its own accord while I sat in my body, aghast, along for the ride.
MY TWISTED sense of curiosity led me to spy on my new target within the day I’d found out about his impending absence. Having kept an eye on his third-floor apartment over the weekend, I was gratified to see a tall and elegant man – he was sexy, but he was also the bane of my best friend's existence – walk out the front door with an overnight bag in his hand. I shifted from foot to foot, thinking about having to use the bathroom right about the time my stomach began to squeak for lunch. Just about then he got into his taxi, and left.
When somebody gets into a taxi with a piece of luggage, it generally means they'll be gone for a while, but relying on this truism is unwise. It’s always prudent to call before breaking in. And, once you approach the residence, it's imperative to ring the doorbell. This prevents the burglar's contact with dogs, house sitters, spouses, and the local police department.
Rafael Rinaldi lived in a late-nineteenth century apartment building whose facade was lush with all the neo-classical embellishments you'd expect in this part of town. It was five stories high, wide parapets connected the adjacent windows along each floor. Its façade was covered with a vining Art Nouveau floral motif. Its front door was flanked by columns, suggesting the importance of its residents. In my professional career as a burglar, I have learned to assess the inner characteristics of buildings by examining their external architectural elements. Just looking from across the street, for instance, I could already see the ceilings would be tall. That could be both good and bad – it meant a longer rappel off the roof and a possible lack of an elevator. It could also indicate a resident population flush with cash and collections of easy-to-fence, small objects d’art they would never realize were missing. I'd take just enough to feel Vicki was properly avenged – and my profit would contribute extra funds to our girls-only spa vacation.
THAT SUNDAY afternoon, nervous yet excited, I called the number for Mr. Rinaldi-asshole's residence. Nobody picked up. If you want to break into a place, your best bet is to do it during the day and while wearing a service uniform. People remember uniforms, not faces. Looking like a computer repair tech with a messenger bag full of tools lent verisimili
tude to my disguise. The plan was to walk up the door and knock. If anybody opened, I'd just pretend I’d gotten out on the wrong floor.
My hair was braided and pinned so’s to tame the golden locks and tendrils and hide them under a dark, microfiber scull cap. The repairman hat I wore over it had a sewn-in half-wig with short, dark hair attached around the perimeter. My blue-striped shirt sported an embroidered nametag and my blue chinos looked both androgynous and forgettable.
"WTF Service."
Shod in black, crepe-soled shoes for a quiet approach and a fast getaway, I sauntered through the door and into the echoing foyer with its tall ceiling and slippery marble floors. I tried to look tired. Three in the afternoon, Saturday, and to all uninitiated observers, I was stuck working.
The building's doorman sat behind a chest-high, marble counter with a dark granite desktop and a tall, brass urn with a fern plant on the corner. The plant almost hid his portable TV, which he used to follow a baseball game.
"Hey. What's the score?" I asked, pitching my voice a bit deeper than usual.
He uncoiled his long body, carded his stringy, black hair back with his fingers and spared me a glance. "Three-two, bottom of the sixth, bases loaded."
"Oh man," I let out an exasperated moan. "I coulda been at that game. Had to give the tickets away."
"No shit?" The doorman, "Mr. Kirby", turned toward me.
"Yeah. Then a client called. Wants to have a virus removed off his system and new RAM installed. Can't get a thing done now. Poor jackass." I blew out some hot air. "Sucks working Saturdays, but a man’s gotta do what a man's gotta do."
"Yeah." Kirby's eyes flicked back toward the game. "Strikeout! Shit!"
"Wow, damn. That coulda been sweet. Three more innings, though."
Kirby glanced my way. "They shouldn't have benched Gonzalez. Here, you sign in here. Where're you goin'?"
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 12