Indulge

by Liv Morris

  So, unlike anything I’d ever dreamed myself capable of, I do it. I snake a hand down, between our seeking, wanting bodies and yank my panties over, giving him the opening he so desperately wants, that I just as desperately need. And the second I do, he connects himself to me in one hard thrust.

  “Ahhh,” I cry out, my back arching off the floor in the most exquisite mix of pleasure and pain, legs clenching tighter around him and toes curling.

  “My baby,” he croons, his open mouth inching up the column of my neck, tasting and nipping along the way, finding my ear where he likes to whisper all his dirty thoughts. “So fucking good. Every. Single. Time.”

  I lose the self where I am only Laney, now the perfect version where Dane and I are the same entity. The physical sensation is amazing, like my body and his are one in the same. My insides ripple in time with his feral heartbeat, his hums of satisfaction timed to my shallow pants. He always knows just what I need; how hard, how fast, where to touch me, when to touch me there; he’s an attentive, unselfish, anticipatory lover. The emotional connection that I crave just as much as the physicality is as strong as ever. I’ve never felt, could never feel, closer to another soul, my partner, the person to walk this life with me, than when Dane and I make love.

  He moves over me, in me, stroking the spot inside me that makes my breath catch and my mouth open in a silent scream. His head falls back, eyes closed and a trickle of sweat gracefully make its descent down his slickened skin to get lost in the light thatch of hair on his chest. “You feel so perfect,” he grunts out.

  His ass clenches under my hands with each plunge into the deepest part of me and I can do nothing but stare up at him, strikingly beautiful in all his animalistic nature.

  “You close, baby? Need to come, want you with me,” his moans, his low grumble a plea. “Too good, need to,” he pants again, opening his eyes now to gauge my reaction.

  His hands move under me again, gripping my ass like a vice and tilting my pelvis up, where he knows he’ll hit right where I need him to, then begins to circle his thumb on my clit, the combination exactly what it takes to set me off like a Roman candle.

  The howl that leaves me bounces off the walls of the empty room, no objects to absorb the sound, increasing the volume to embarrassing—as if I cared.

  “Uh huh,” he goads me, rubbing harder, twisting his hips at the end of each slide in. “That’s it, fuck yes, baby, squeeze me. Who makes you come?”

  I can’t answer, delirious as my body bounces in time to his maddening thrusts.

  “Baby,” his strained yell breaking through my trance, “who makes you come?” He asks again and again, each word coordinating with a pound that grazes my cervix, or maybe my throat, his lip curled and teeth bared.

  The muscles in his arms flex with each move, the pulse in his throat begging me to raise up and lick it, but I’m pinned here at his mercy. “You,” I somehow answer, intoxicated with the feel of him, the scent of our mingled sweat and passion. “Only you, babe.”

  “Damn right,” he moans, satisfied with my reply. He lays flush against me now, giving me all his weight, which I welcome.

  There’s something about the heaviness of the man you love on top of you.

  “Need you there, baby,” he says again, his thumb mercilessly swirling on my clit, begging me to catch him in release. “Now, Laney, again, for me.”

  It takes but a minute; he knows to keep his thumb fast and right there if he wants me to join him. This time as I explode around him, shamelessly screaming his name as he too lets go, twitching inside me.

  I do this to him, me—my love, my body—undoes this god. This territorial, bossy, controlling…and phenomenal man that is all mine.

  “Love you,” he says in between slowing pants, trying to catch his breath.

  “Love you,” I hum, caught up in bliss, rubbing up and down his now damp back.

  I love this part.

  Obstinate, stubborn woman—good thing I’ve figured out the one language she’ll always listen to: Dane Dick. She speaks it fluently, actually, and I have great success with what I call Triple D, aka Dane Dick Diversion. I only call it that in my own head, of course; if she heard the title, she’d rip off the weapon of coercion and choke me with it. Who would have thought she had a side to her that could only be drawn out by me? She’s a lil’ freak when she wants to be, and the first time I let go, showing her the innermost Dane, the one that likes to control…the lustful sparkle in her eye and coy twitch to her lip told me it was okay to be me, that she liked it. Score 1 for Dane.

  So occasionally I use Triple D for my own purposes. Sue me. I don’t think Laney really minds, anyway. And now, with her sated and purring beside me, we can discuss her awful decorating ideas. And if she continues to argue, well, I’m more than happy to distract her again.

  Inside Laney is the tight, warm haven where I’d spend every waking minute if I could. It’s only then that she completely lets go, trusting me to take her away from everything else; the place she goes when I’m buried in her is made of total contentment, somewhere she’s safe, cared for, loved, and she has no other worries in the world.

  The minute I slip from her, though, my challenging little hellcat is back with a vengeance, testing me…her mind, mouth and spirit reminding me why I am so in love with her.

  But softball yellow walls? Not happening.

  She’s still lying on her back, eyes closed and small smile on her lips when I stroll back in from cleaning up.

  “Why you smiling, gorgeous?”

  “I’m happy,” she answers, not opening her eyes or making any attempt to move.

  “Then I did my job.” I lower myself and crawl over her, burying my face in the sweetness of her neck. She smells of me, of us—the best scent in the world—Dane on Laney. “I love you, Disney,” I whisper in her ear.

  I tell her as often as I can without feeling like a sap. Hell, I’d tattoo it across my forehead if she asked me to. She needs to know that even though one look at her turns me into an animal and I’d like to fuck her paralyzed, she means everything to me on every other level as well. If I could never make love to her again, I’d still want all that makes Laney, “Laney” to fill my days.

  “I love you too,” her brown eyes now open and look adoringly into mine, her mouth turning up in a smirk, “and I’m still painting the room like I want.”

  Infuriating woman. I wasn’t kidding before, sometimes I really think she tries my patience on purpose because she’s actually as insatiable as I am. “If you want more of this,” I bite her chin and roll my hardening dick against her, “all you have to do is ask. You don’t have to ugly up the place.”

  “Get off me you, you—ugh!” She slaps my chest and bucks her hips wildly, trying to toss me off her. All it does is excite me more. “I’ll paint this whole damn place chartreuse if I want!”

  Oh, she’s getting mad now, cheeks bright pink and fire in her eyes, which are narrowed to slits and zoned in on me. A-fucking-dorable.

  “You think so, huh? Care to make a friendly little wager?”

  I’m not sure why I even ask. Laney couldn’t turn down a bet if her life depended on it. I can’t wait until her 21st birthday—we are most definitely spending it in Vegas.

  “Absolutely!” She purses her lip and waits in challenge. “Name it!”

  Honestly, I’ve been waiting for the ideal time for the chance to give her something I’d gotten for her weeks ago. Her betting addiction is playing right into my hands. “How about we both design one bedroom and let the Crew judge. Winner takes all?”

  “I refuse to negotiate with you sitting on me!” She squirms underneath me, trying to escape. “Dismount, you beast!”

  I throw my head back in hearty laughter, she cracks me up, but I do move off her as soon as I’m gathered.

  “Sheesh,” she sits up, frazzled, straightening her hair and clothes, “you’re such a brute!” She shoots me a playful glare.

  “Now that you’re off me,”
I tease with a straight face, “let’s talk terms. We’ll each take a room, same budget, same amount of time. The Crew votes when we’re finished. Sound good?”

  “No help though,” she points at me and wags her finger, “you can’t hire people to come in and do it for you. We have to do all the work ourselves.”

  “Deal.” I offer her my hand to shake on it.

  “Not so fast! What do we win?”

  “What do you want?” I counter, waggling my eyebrows at her.

  She rolls her eyes at my suggestiveness and twiddles her fingers in contemplation. “Hmmm… Hmmm…” She’s really straining, trying to come up with a doozy. “You have to take me on a date that costs $50 or less.” She grins. “Something sincere that comes from your heart, not your money.”

  “I can do that.” I close in on her now, wrapping my arms around her waist. “And if I win, you have to accept what’s in the envelope I give you.”

  “Huh?” She peers up at me sweetly.

  “If I win, I’m going to hand you an envelope. You have to promise to accept whatever’s in it.”

  “It. Can’t. Be. Money.” She pokes my chest with each word.

  “Okay.” I kiss her nose.

  “Or the deed to anything.”

  “Okay.” I chuckle and kiss her chin.

  “Or the key to a car.”

  “Would you stop?” I squeeze her tighter, smothering her whole face in kisses now. “It’s nothing like that. I get it, no money, just me.”

  “Okay then.” She burrows deeper against me, pacified and snuggly. “It’s on.”

  “Um, excuse me, can I help you?” I ask the very sweaty, very in need of a belt man currently behind my duplex, flashing his ass crack like a pole dancer.

  “Hi there, you must be Laney.” He sticks his cigar butt in his mouth and offers out his hand. “I’m Hank Procter from Hank’s Handyman.”

  I hesitantly shake his hand and smile slowly. “How do you know my name and what are you doing here?”

  “Dane hired me. I’m here to build your deck.” Of course he did.

  “A deck? Do you have some plans for me to look at, maybe a business card?” I have no idea if you draw up plans for a deck, but it felt right asking. If someone’s building anything on my precious little bungalow, I want to know ahead of time, approve it, and give my thoughts! I’m not trying to be a brat or ungrateful, but this is my first “place” and I’m super excited. I want to help make the big decisions, like I’m really a part of it and it’s really mine. Is that so much to ask?

  “Of course.” He smiles warily, perhaps reading the aggravation on my face. “Let me just run to the van and get the drawing and a card for you. Be right back,” he says as he hurries around the corner.

  Great, I scared Hank.

  I whip out my cell phone, pushing the buttons with much more force than necessary. My foot taps as it rings, my annoyance growing with each second I’m not afforded the opportunity to unload. “Baby,” he answers, voice warm.

  “Don’t you ‘baby’ me, Michael Dane Kendrick.” If he could see me, he’d know my foot is still tapping incessantly and the hand not holding the phone is propped angrily on my hip. “Would you like to tell me about your friend Hank and why he’s in my backyard?”

  Is that laughter I hear on the other end of this phone? It has to be a bad connection—he wouldn’t dare! What am I thinking? Of course he’d dare. Well, enough is enough, I want some say!

  “Are you laughing at me?” I growl.

  “Why yes, yes I am.”

  “Ughhhhh!” I yell, not moving the phone away from my mouth, sorta hoping I pierced his eardrum. “Dane, why didn’t you tell me? We could have designed the deck together.”

  “Laney, there’s no height to work with, and limited yard space, so it’s not a real intricate deck to design. It’s not a big deal, babe, just somewhere to sit.”

  I’m sure he has a point, and I should be grateful, and I can still plan stuff like the plants, the chairs, candles, maybe string some lights. But while it’s “just a deck” this time, what will it be next time? Too bad he’s not here right now. I have a secret tactic that, according to my stats, has a 99.4% success rate. I call it Pussy Persuasion, but never out loud. Plans this surefire and brilliant must be kept on the DL, and while it sounds funny in my head, it’s kinda crass out loud. Anyway, seeing as how he’s not here, I should probably just give in and quit fighting him in the interest of saving my energy for battles I might actually win.

  I sigh into the phone, exasperated. “Fine, thank you for the deck.”

  “For you,” his gritty voice replies.

  Just like that, in those two words he uses to tell me what takes others sonnets to convey, I’m reminded that he does do it for me—from a good place, the place within him that loves me, wants to make me happy, yearns to take care of me and make my life easier, happier and completely tangled up in him. See? It takes me all that to analyze what he eloquently summarizes with “for you.”

  Anger dissipated, I try a different approach, one that can be accomplished over the phone—the sweet and vulnerable girl voice. “Can you just try to understand that I’m really excited to have my own place for the first time, and I want to be involved in things? I love the idea of a deck, but I kinda feel left out. Okay, babe?”

  “I hear you, baby. I didn’t even think of it like that. We’ll discuss things from now on, promise,” he says sincerely, not at all trying to simply pacify me.

  “Thank you. Now, I bought some paint for the room I’m doing. Do I have time to get started on that or do we have plans?” I ask, my tone warmer.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire—”

  “We have to do it ourselves, remember? That was part of the bet,” I interrupt him. “I mean, if you want to send someone in to paint your room, be my guest. Just let me know when our date is,” I tease him.

  “No, no, I remember now. I’ll paint mine, you go ahead and start painting yours. Go wild, baby, I have several conference calls and a late meeting. I’ll call or text you an ETA when I have an idea when I’ll be done.”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you then. Love you.”

  “I love you, Laney Jo,” he answers, somewhat solemnly, “but I’m still winning the bet.”

  “Puhleeese.” I giggle before hanging up.

  Despite jamming to “Stereo Hearts” by GCH while I paint like the natural Picasso that I am, I hear my phone ding and jump off my stepstool, wiping my sweaty brow, to check it.

  Bennett: Where r u?

  Laney: At the duplex painting. U?

  Bennett: Lol, next door. That must be your music, thought it was guy out back. Almost done?

  Laney: I could be. Y r we still texting? Walk over here.

  I chuckle to myself, setting down my phone and walking over to turn off the music.

  “Yoo hoo!” she calls out.

  “Hey, girl, back here!”

  “Heyyyy,” she lets out a long whistle, “looking good in here. I love the purple!” She claps her hands and bounces in place. “Isn’t it fun, fixing up your own personal dollhouse?”

  “Yeah.” I laugh, pulling in her in for a quick hug. She’s like walking sunshine, you just can’t help but wanna hug her. “But it’s not purple,” I waggle my finger at her, wanting to clear up this terrible misconception, “it’s called Champagne Elegance and it’s a silkier version of -lilac.” I perfectly mimic the way-too-excited-to-sell-paint-for-a-living saleswoman who basically chastised me where I stood for using “ugly, mundane words” like purple, yellow and—gasp—red.

  “Don’t tell Dane you got a sneak peek. You’re one of the judges and shouldn’t know which room I did, okay? You were never here.” I use my best mobster voice, brushing my knuckles under my chin like a boss. “And not to sway your vote, but the fridge came today and there’s a bottle of wine in it that I’d love to share with you, Votie Voterson.”

  “Yay! Tate’s working and our furniture,” she looks pointedly
around at my barren space, “is already in. Let’s do girls’ night at my place! Can we?” Her face is hopeful. “I miss my Laney time.” She pooches out her bottom lip and gives me irresistible puppy dog eyes.

  “I can hang ‘til Dane’s done at work. Can I shower there?”

  “Of course you can.” She wrinkles her nose and lets her eyes drift in the area of my pits. “Please do.” She giggles. “I’ll grab the wine, just head over when you’ve wrapped up here.”

  I nod, heading to the sink to rinse my paintbrushes. As I watch the swirls of muted purple spin around and disappear down the drain, I lift my chin and smile. This bet with Dane is gonna be like taking candy from a baby. He’s been too busy to even start on his room, and I’ve been working like a dog, almost done with the second coat of paint in mine. The curtains are on the rod and new switch plates and outlet covers have been purchased, both ready to go up as soon as the paint’s dry. I’d decided against the softball theme and am going with a tranquil space, different hues of light purples, sage greens and lots of candles. It’s gonna be great!

  Finished up with the rinsing, I do a quick walk-through, flipping off the lights and locking the door behind me. I turn to walk the whole ten steps to Bennett’s, letting out a screamed “Oh!” as I catch myself with one hand on the bricks, looking down to see what I’ve tripped over. Looking right back up at me is one very miserable, very pregnant dog. Bassett hound? Beagle? I don’t know, but she’s definitely in no mood to move, belly dragging the ground.

  “Are you lost, sweetie?” I bend down, gently petting her head. “Huh? You have a collar, somebody must be missing you.”

  “Charlie!” The yell is followed by a sharp whistle. “Charlie, come ‘ere, girl!” rings through the evening air.

  Charlie? This dog is most definitely female.

  “Over here!” I yell.

  “Oh, hi,” says a man whose good looks even the enclosing darkness can’t hide. “Charlie,” he too squats down closer to the hound, “girl, how’d you get out? You can’t have those puppies on a stranger’s porch.” He chuckles lightly, giving Charlie a scratch behind the ears, her tail wagging slightly.