I liked Sunday more than the others, and not solely because it was our day. On Sundays, he didn’t shave. Combined with the fact that he often didn’t shave on Saturdays, the forty-eight hours of beard growth – when it happened – made him look rugged and sexy in a totally different way.
This was one of those days.
“Are you going to sleep all day?” he asked.
I didn’t want to sleep all day. I wanted to have him crawl in bed and have his way with me. After his workout, however, he needed to eat.
“No. I’ll take a shower.”
“I’ll make breakfast.”
“Okay.”
With reluctance, I got out of the bed and took a shower. Upon walking into the bedroom when I was finished, I noticed the bed wasn’t made, and I took pause. He always made the bed the instant I got out of it.
“March?”
“Right here,” he said from behind the wad of covers.
“You scared me. I thought you were going to make breakfast.”
After brushing the covers to the side, he laid his cheek against his palm and looked me over. “I decided I wanted to roll around naked with you first.”
“Roll around?” I asked, my tone playfully sarcastic.
He searched every inch of me with his eyes. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’ll roll around with you,” I said. “But just for a minute. You need to eat.”
Making out with Marc was like making out beneath the bleachers at a football game as a teen. Whenever we kissed, I felt anxious, guilty, important, and wanted.
All at once.
He gripped the hem of his shirt and stretched it up to his neck, exposing his chiseled abs in the process. While I gawked at his muscular physique, he pulled it over his head with one hand and then tossed it aside.
“Hop up here,” he said.
I sauntered toward the edge of the bed. “Let’s make out.”
Now that he was wearing nothing but his tight boxer briefs, I knew making out – and walking away – was going to be difficult. Nonetheless, I hopped in bed beside him.
“I want to make out with your pussy,” he said.
“What’s that consist of?”
He kissed me. As our lips parted, he pressed his hands against my shoulders. “Lay down, and I’ll show you.”
I had an idea, but I preferred to act as if I didn’t. Marc knew how to suck a clit and he liked to remind me of it. I fell onto my back and spread my legs slightly in anticipation of what I hoped was the next step.
He positioned himself between my thighs and rested the heels of his palms against my hips. My mind raced, but my body remained motionless beneath him.
He lifted his head. “Don’t come,” he whispered.
Wait. What?
“Wha–”
“Don’t. Come.”
“Okay,” I murmured.
He sucked my nub between his lips and flicked it with the tip of his precise tongue. I arched my back and swallowed my excitement, hoping the pleasure I suppressed would give him reason to continue endlessly.
I fought against the carnal urge to reach climax as he tongue-fucked me for what seemed like an eternity. The process continued until my muscles ached and I wanted to beg him to allow me to release against his mouth.
Yet. Short of my labored breathing and muffled moans, I stayed silent.
He inserted a finger.
I sucked a breath between my teeth.
He added another.
I craned my neck to get a look. For an instant, our eyes met. In response, he curled the tips of his fingers against my g-spot, paralyzing me for an instant.
He lowered his head between my legs and wedged my swollen clit between his tongue and teeth.
I flattened my hands against the bed and clenched the comforter in my fists. I had no idea how long he intended to torture me. If it was much longer, I feared I’d simply die beneath him.
Not a bad way to go, I decided.
The sucking and licking continued. I managed to lay still and quake as if I were having a seizure, but somehow managed to refrain from reaching climax. For half an hour, he brought me to the brink, and then paused. When my breathing once again became shallow, his tongue would begin to flick against my sensitive nub. The experience of heightened climactic pleasure was one I’d never forget, nor did I want to.
At one point, he began to finger fuck me feverishly while he ate my pussy like it was his last meal.
It soon proved to be all too much.
My breathing became choppy.
He moaned against my sensitive flesh as he continued to devour me from the inside out. A tingling rang through me from my toes to the tips of my fingers, taking with it my ability to refrain.
I called out his name, warning him my restraint was lost.
His moaning continued.
I released the bedding from my clutch. My hands soon found his head. I dragged my fingers through his hair and then pressed my palms against his scalp. With his head held taut in my hands, I thrust my hips against his face, knowing any second it was all going to end.
“March…” I cried, unable to say anything more.
The tingling became more pronounced. Unlike anything I’d ever experienced, it rushed through me like a fever. Each breath that followed hissed through my clenched teeth. I released his head and fisted the bedding.
My muscles tensed, and then released. As the orgasm escaped me, my entire body trembled as if I were being shocked.
Like a bolt of lightning, it shot through me, taking with it my ability to think, reason, and refrain.
Instead of decreasing in intensity, it carried me with it to a crowning moment where all reality escaped me, only to be replaced by an erotic bliss unlike anything I knew to exist.
I collapsed onto the snow-white bedding. A much less capable person than my former self, I stared blankly in amazement as he lifted his head from between my legs. Although I wanted to, I didn’t speak. At that moment, I couldn’t.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Our eyes met.
I lifted my hand and waved with my fingers.
He did the same. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Ready for breakfast?”
“In a…in a minute. My legs feel funny.”
I recovered for a moment, saying nothing, but feeling everything. March was what I’d believed men were incapable of being, and so much more. Pleased that he’d found me, and elated that he desired me enough to keep me, I hoped what we had would never fade.
He leaned over me, bringing with him the scent of my pleasure. A kiss followed. Tasting myself on his tongue caused me to return the kiss madly. In seconds, we were wrapped in each other’s arms and embraced in a soul-stirring kiss.
His chest pressed to mine as he guided himself between my legs. As he penetrated me, he broke the embrace of our kiss. He lifted his weight from me, and pressed his flattened palms against the bed at my sides.
I gazed into his eyes. They provided reassurance of everything I wanted to know, but feared asking; leaving me no need to question his devotion or his feelings.
Slowly and methodically, he rowed his hips fore and aft. Each in stroke teased my overly sensitive clit, causing me to cringe with anticipation.
The only parts of our bodies that touched were being used to provide sexual pleasure. The absence of distractions allowed my focus to become pinpointed on nothing but the feeling of having him please me.
Through his eyes, I could see that he was doing the same.
Silently, we made love. In a deliberate yet predictable pace, he slid in and out of my wet folds, bringing me closer to climax with each stroke. Our eyes remained locked the entire time, and through them we said all that needed to be said.
There were no announcements, no scratching or clawing, and no dirty talk. Only two people who were exactly where they belonged, doing exactly what it was they yearned to do.
Pleasing each other.
His cock swelled, and gave warning of its impending release. I saw it in his eyes first. I studied them as his pace increased slightly. His jaw tightened, as did the intensity of his gaze.
As my orgasm came, my inner walls tightened, clenching his shaft in the process. I sank my teeth into my lower lip. His back arched. Another stroke. And then, another. His breath came out in bursts. My mouth opened wide.
He broke my gaze for an instant. His head tilted toward the ceiling.
The pleasure shot from him in powerful bursts. The sensation pushed me over the edge and into a blissful climax. Unlike the day’s previous orgasm, and distinctly different than anything I’d yet to experience, it came from deep within.
He met my gaze. A long breath escaped him. Both exhausted, our muscles gave way at the same time, and he came to rest at my side.
He rolled onto his back and quickly turned to face me. Our eyes met. He grinned. I smiled in return. Everything about him was beautiful. Realizing it only required keeping my eyes open.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-Two
Marc
We exited the highway and rolled to a stop at the traffic light on the frontage road. The heat from the engine radiated between my legs as the sound from the exhaust barked through tailpipes in low, powerful bursts.
“I love riding back here,” Taryn shouted over the exhaust’s tone.
“That’s good, because I love having you back there.”
“The weather is gorgeous,” she said. “Perfect for riding.”
“The weather’s always gorgeous,” I said mockingly.
The light turned green. I accelerated through it, welcoming the rush of wind as our speed increased. Riding was an escape for me, and it didn’t matter if I was traveling at 30 miles an hour or 80, the relief I received was the same.
I began riding when I was in the military, using my time on the road as therapy. Without it, I suspect I’d have become another statistic. With it, however, I could ease my mind of the demons that had come to possess me.
In time, the demons faded, but my desire to ride never did. I now looked at it as maintenance for my soul.
I turned into the parking lot. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“I’m sure.”
I circled the lot and came to a stop in a stall beside the door. The early morning rush was long since over, and the parking lot was half empty. I shut off the engine and swept the kickstand down.
After removing my helmet, I turned around. “How’d you like the PCH between here and San Clemente?”
“It was gorgeous.”
Highway 5, between Oceanside and San Clemente was labeled the Pacific Coast Highway, or the PCH. While traveling on it, for a good portion of the ride, the ocean was visible. On an early Sunday morning, the ride was breathtaking.
I lifted my leg over the seat and hung my helmet on the handlebars. “I love that stretch of highway. North of LA, it just gets more scenic.”
She got off the motorcycle, and carefully placed her helmet on the seat. “Can we do that one sometime?”
“We’ve got the rest of our lives, Tee. We can do that stretch, and a hell of a lot more.”
She looked the bike over, and then smiled. “I’d rather ride on this than take a car, any day.”
I looked at the black paint and glistening chrome and smiled. “Same here.”
She glanced at the front door and smiled. “Shall we?”
We stepped inside and waked to the register. Unlike our first visit, I didn’t order for her. As soon as she made eye contact with the cashier, she gave her order.
“Iced Caramel Macchiato, strong on the caramel.”
“Size?”
“The big guy.”
He looked at me. “And you?”
“Grande coffee, black. Whatever you’ve got in bold.”
He rang up the purchase, and we waited together at the pick-up station.
“I can’t believe you have me drinking coffee.”
“It’s not exactly coffee, but it’s close.”
“Three months ago, the thought of it made me hurl,” she said.
The day marked our eight-week anniversary. It was hard to believe a little more than twelve weeks had passed since we’d officially met, but it had somehow rushed past us. It seemed Taryn provided me a similar escape as the motorcycle, but being in her presence was all that was required to reap the benefits.
“Coffee is the icing on life’s cake,” the barista said as he placed the drinks on the shelf. “Here you go.”
“I’m a newcomer,” Taryn said. “This is all I can handle for now.”
“Living life without coffee is like eating cake without frosting. You’ll know what I’m talking about when the time comes.”
“I can’t wait,” she said, her tone coated with sarcasm.
I offered an apologetic wag of my eyebrows, and we turned away.
We walked outside and sat at an empty table. While we sat and talked about the scenery of the morning’s ride, the mid-morning sun crept to the center of the sky.
“I like talking to you,” she said. “It’s fun.”
I gave her a look. “Fun?”
“Yeah. It’s fun. I like that you listen when I talk.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “I value what you’ve got to say.”
She cinched her ponytail to her scalp and then shook her head. “Well, I like it.”
In the distance, a low rumble could be heard. Undoubtedly a group of bikers doing what most did with their Sundays in Southern California – enjoying a day on the road. Unlike most states, California gave very little reason not to ride. The weather was always cooperative, the scenery was second to none, and there were plenty of people to ride with if one so desired.
The drone from the motorcycle’s exhaust increased, and soon had the intensity of a rolling thunder.
Taryn craned her neck and peered off in the distance. “Is that motorcycles?”
“A lot of them,” I said.
“Holy crap.”
“Sunday in Southern California. Nothing better to do.”
She shifted her eyes to meet mine. “Do you ever have to, you know, mess with those guys?”
“Who?”
“The biker gangs. Like the Sons of Anarchy guys?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t had a need to. Not all the Motorcycle Clubs are the same. Some are more in need of regulation that others.”
“Not the clubs,” she said. “The gangs. The mean ones.”
I chuckled. “I know what you’re talking about. They call themselves clubs.”
“Oh.”
The rumble thickened the air. Two by two, the bikers entered the lot on our left. Wearing their colors, and a stern look, they filtered into the lot until it was filled.
It was none other than Navarro and roughly a dozen of his men.
“Oh, my God,” Taryn said. “Should we go?”
I shook my head. “We’ll be fine.”
Taryn’s eyes darted toward them, and then shot to me. “Did you see that one? He’s like eight feet tall.”
I didn’t need to look. Certain she was talking about the Sergeant-at-Arms, Pee Bee, I simply grinned. “I saw him.”
“What would a guy do against someone like that?” she whispered.
“Give him the respect he deserves,” I said. “These guys are all about respect.”
“If you’re nice to them, that’s all that matters?”
I took a sip of my tepid coffee. “They don’t want their asses kissed. They just want to be treated with respect.”
She alternated glances between them and me. “Why would anyone do anything different?”
“You’d be surprised.”
The half-Irish half-Hispanic former Golden Gloves boxer, Cholo, held the door as each of them passed through. After a quick check of the lot, he walk
ed in behind them. The outdoor patio area was empty, short of us, and I was pretty sure they weren’t going to sit inside.
We could have got up and left, but I wasn’t about to do something as cowardly as depart while they were inside. I hadn’t made eye contact with Navarro, but I suspected he saw us. We were seated thirty feet from the door, in a wide-open area.
Pee Bee came out first, with P-Nut at his side. While he listened to P-Nut tell a story, he walked around us, nodding as he passed by.
Taryn swallowed heavily and then looked at me. She was undoubtedly nervous with them seated behind her.
I extended my arm over the top of the table, and turned my hand up. She placed hers in my palm, and I closed my fingers around it.
In small groups, the men came outside, until all of them were gathered around us. Some stood while others sat. A few that I didn’t recognize walked to their motorcycles and looked them over.
After ten or fifteen minutes of listening to them talk, I decided we’d paid our respects, and mentally prepared to leave.
Navarro sauntered toward my motorcycle, knelt, and looked it over. He turned toward me. “This your scoot?”
“Sure is.”
He gave a shallow nod of acknowledgement. “Heritage is always a good choice. Best of both worlds. Me? I prefer a hardtail. Not too friendly for the misses, though.”
I chuckled. “I suppose not.”
Wearing well-worn jeans and boots, he appeared to have nothing on under his kutte. His bare arms were covered in tattoos, and where they weren’t tattooed, they were tanned brown from the time he spent on the road.
He stood and walked in our direction. As he approached, I noticed a recent wound on his left upper arm. I’d seen enough of them to recognize it as a bullet wound, and I suspected he got it while rescuing the teenage girls.
He stopped at the edge of our table. He glanced at Taryn, and then at me. He extended his hand. “Nick Navarro,” he said. “I’m the president of this rag-tag bunch of misfits.”
I shook his hand. “Looks like a pretty well-organized bunch to me. Name’s Marc. Marc Watson. Pleasure to meet you.” I tilted my head toward Taryn. “That’s Taryn.”
He released my hand, wiped his palm on the thigh of his jeans, and reached toward Taryn. “Pleasure.”
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 138