by S. Layne
“You in my shirt is the most tantalizing thing I’ve ever seen.”
I flush under his compliment, dropping my chin.
His finger and thumb pinch my clit, making me yelp.
“What did I say about your eyes?” he says, soothing the ache he created.
“Keep them on you.” My voice is breathy to my own ears. I can barely speak, amazed that I can even think, when he presses two fingers inside me easily.
“So wet for me already.”
I nod, choking down a breathless moan. My head wants to fall back, or down, surrendering to his ministrations. My thighs begin to tremble and it takes every ounce of my focus to keep my gaze on his.
He licks his lips, wetting them. I want to bend down and taste him—lick the seam between his lips, taste his mouth. I want to lick and taste every inch of his skin, from his firm chest down to the light trail of hair that leads below his waistband.
His fingers inside me press against my rigid flesh and a groan escapes my throat.
I collapse over him, my hands gripping the back of the couch. He pulls out his fingers and I mewl from the sudden loss.
His eyes narrow. “Stand up. Concentrate on my touch.”
“I am,” I say, taking the moment to graze my lips across his, smiling. “It’s just hard.”
He glances down at his crotch, and I see his erection pressing against the confines of his boxers. “I know.”
My smile grows. I like it when he jokes. It lightens the lines around his eyes that always seem too intense.
“Now stand up.”
I nod, pushing myself off the couch and returning to my original position. I have one knee on his thigh and one foot on the floor, and maintaining balance is difficult when he shifts his position, sitting up more.
He dips his head, and his mouth trails along my inner thigh. My entire body shivers in response as his tongue and his lips begin tasting my flesh, moving to where his fingers just were.
His other hand curves around my ass and he holds me against him as his tongue darts out and slides along my wet pussy.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, my knees shaking.
He pulls back and meets my haze-filled eyes. I can barely see straight and I’m already so close to the edge. My cunt clenches, needing something inside, filling it.
“You like this?”
I nod. “You’re killing me.”
“There’s a reason the French call an orgasm the little death.” He smirks and his head drops again. His tongue lashes out, licking the outside of my pussy before he draws circles around my clit. His hand at my backside presses me against him. My hips need to shift, take what’s building, but his hands hold me captive to his assault.
It’s fierce and powerful and my hands fall to his head, gripping his hair as he continues to lick and fuck me with his tongue and his fingers. He thrusts them inside me, pulling out slowly and scraping against my inner walls.
“Donovan.”
I’m gasping for breath, my knees are trembling—my orgasm is so close. I can feel it building inside me, crest after crest coming closer together, building higher and higher, when he lets go and pulls me down to his lap.
I straddle him, falling into his chest.
His hand adjusts his boxers and then his erection is free, rubbing against my clit.
“I need you,” I pant, unashamed of my craving for him.
“I need you more.” His voice is fierce, thick with lust and arousal, and something so much more than I can understand in the moment.
His hands move to my hips, and he lifts and pulls me back down, his thick cock instantly filling and stretching me.
“Oh, my God,” I moan, dropping my head back.
I forget the rules and I don’t care.
“Eyes,” he scolds, and his fingers pinch my nipples until my head snaps up.
Sweat beads line my temple. “I can’t.”
His hand curves around to my lower back, forcing me to rock against him. “You can.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but he rocks his hips into me again and his cock presses against nerves inside me that I didn’t even know existed.
It’s too much. The energy between us crackling, the intensity in his eyes, and the way my body falls apart for him.
Everything explodes into a brilliant sparkling light as I keep my eyes focused on his, screaming his name before he covers my mouth with his, swallowing my cries.
My entire body shakes and convulses through the power of the orgasm rushing through my veins.
He continues rocking into me until I’m the one swallowing his pleasured groans. He’s frantic and wild, taking me on his couch, and time stops while I kiss him, my hands scratching at the back of his head through his short, coarse hair. He slams me down onto him, growls my name, and expels himself inside of me.
I rest against him, my face in the crook of his shoulder. I continue breathing in his scent as my racing heart calms to something that feels less like I’m having a heart attack.
The whole time, his warm hands slowly run up and down my back.
I feel his own heartbeat against my chest, thundering wildly, and at least I know I’m not alone in feeling how potent the moment we just spent together is.
It feels all-consuming.
He is all-consuming.
When I can speak without my breath wavering, giving away my vulnerability, I raise up off his lap, feeling the loss as his still half-hard cock slides out of me.
I take a moment and soak him in, peruse his body with sated eyes, and still I flush, that little flutter in my belly returning.
“Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have you on the floor.”
I look away and reach for his earlier discarded dress shirt. “I think I’m good now.”
His low chuckle vibrates against my hand on his chest, which I use for balance. Standing up, I begin tugging on his shirt, sliding my arms through the holes.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me. The mood in the room plummets from ecstasy to something cooler.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
I almost say yes, because at one point in my life he did. Horribly.
But that’s not what he’s asking.
Sliding the last button through its hole, I shake my head. “Like I said, I’m good. But I should probably get to bed.”
He reaches for me, his hand curving around my wrist. “I want you in my bed.”
An excuse comes quick. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not with Jeremiah here. In fact,” I say, waving my free hand in the air, “this was probably a really bad idea. He could have seen us. Or heard us.”
“He sleeps like the dead.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Still, it wasn’t smart.”
I meet his gaze reluctantly, too afraid of what he’ll see in my eyes.
“You’re running,” he says simply.
I lick my lips. “I’m not.”
He leans back and lets go of his hold on me. “There will come a day when you don’t.”
But that day isn’t coming anytime soon. Not when after just one night of sex with him, I already feel the lock on my safe popping open, the door widening, and my heart jumping for joy that Donovan is back in my life.
I don’t argue with him. There’s no point. Donovan’s always been able to read me better than a well-loved and re-read book.
“Goodnight, Donovan.”
He drops his head back to the couch, closes his eyes, and doesn’t say a word.
Sunlight peeks through the curtains the next time my eyes open. I stretch my legs in the bed, my arms toward the headboard, and let out a sleepy groan.
My body aches everywhere.
It feels wonderful. Despite myself, my lips spread into a slow, happy smile as I make my way to my attached bathroom and turn on the shower.
While I wait for the water to heat, I use the restroom and begin brushing my teeth.
My eyes widen as I examine my body in the mir
ror that is slowly steaming over. Two purple circles are there, faint but visible right about my hip bone. As I turn to the right and left, I notice matching circles on both sides of my butt cheeks.
Fingerprints.
He bruised me.
For some ridiculous reason, the edges of my lips lift into a smile. I like having his prints, his marking, on me.
I don’t know if that makes me crazy or not, and I don’t give it another thought as I open the shower door and step in. The hot water burns my skin.
“Yikes!” I gasp, jumping out of the spray. I lean around, twisting the knob to adjust the temperature before I begin washing my hair.
Before I can dwell on my night with Donovan, inspect whether or not I regret it, I finish my shower and get ready for work, hurrying downstairs.
Despite my fears and my reservations, I want to see him before he leaves for the day.
A duo of masculine voices filters through the kitchen as I get closer. The fact that they’re talking at all, and not yelling at one another or ignoring each other, makes my feet slow down.
I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but I can’t stop myself from sliding off my shoes so the click of my heels doesn’t give away my presence.
I stop just outside the doorway to the vast kitchen. It’s a beautiful place, and my fingers are itching to cook up a meal in there sometime. I’ve been surprised that Donovan does all the cooking. I would think he’d have a housekeeper of some sort, or personal chef, but not only has he cooked dinner the last few nights, he seems to enjoy it.
It softens him somehow, seeing him domesticated and comfortable in a kitchen.
“So what is it you want, Jeremiah?” Donovan asks, his voice growing tighter.
I can practically see him bent over the kitchen counter, hands gripping the edges of the gray marble, trying to not become angry.
“I hate that school, and those kids. I just want people like my old friends, who don’t give a crap what kind of house I live in or who my parents are.”
Silence fills the kitchen, and I can practically see both of their looks. Jeremiah, all angsty-scowling teenager. Donovan, controlled, narrowed eyes, debating.
He huffs and finally says, “I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, stop beating the crap out of everyone who pisses you off. Deal?”
Jeremiah mutters something indecipherable and I take that as his agreement.
Slipping my heels back on my feet, I use the quiet moment to make my presence known.
“All right,” Donovan says as I enter the kitchen. “Get your school stuff and we’ll be on our way.”
I see him smile at Jeremiah, who nods in my direction, muttering a “good morning” as he walks to me.
I run my hand down his shoulder and give him a wink.
He rolls his eyes, but I see his lips twitching, fighting a smile.
“That was really nice of you,” I tell Donovan when we’re alone.
He runs his hand over his mouth. “Some shit just needs to change around here.”
I purse my lips, not understanding. When he turns his eyes on me, they soften.
That light green sparkles when he meets my gaze. He reaches out, cups me around the back of my neck with his palm, and pulls me toward him. My forehead collapses against his chest, and his other hand wraps around my waist.
Shivers dance on my skin when his lips brush against my ear. “How are you this morning? I woke up in my bed, alone, wanting you. You have no idea the restraint it took to not sneak into your room.”
“Hmm,” I murmur, my cheeks flushing at the thought of what it would be like to have his body on top of mine be the first thing I see and feel when I open my eyes.
“You like that idea.”
I nod, running my hands up his arms, feeling the soft fabric under my fingertips. I wrap my hands around his biceps and look up.
My sudden arousal is obvious on my face when our eyes meet. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes filled with want…I know exactly what he sees when his gaze roams over my face, and I lean into him.
“Donovan,” I whisper, licking my dry lips. “I do want that.”
His eyes narrow and his chin dips. He brushes his lips against mine—softly, just once—and I inhale a sharp breath.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he pulls back, his eyes hazy. “Better than I remember.”
I’m stunned speechless as his fingers tangle in my hair, messing up my low ponytail.
I don’t care, because when he looks at me like he is, I never want to be anywhere else.
I’m sucked into his eyes and touch and the feel of him against my skin, his taste that hints of coffee and vanilla creamer.
“I have to go to work,” I whisper, still feeling the burn of his lips against mine.
His breath warms my skin as it drifts along my jaw. His teeth nip at my earlobe, and his tongue soothes the slight sting of pain. “I’ll see you later.”
My safely encased heart warms and breaks free. I remember his promises from years past, flashing in my memory like the blink of an eye, and suddenly I want so badly for them to be true again. To have the night we spent together mean as much to him as it meant to me.
In Donovan’s arms, I suddenly want everything he once promised we could have.
He drags his hands down my back, slowly letting go of his hold on me.
I sway on my feet, regaining my balance without his body steadying me.
“Have a good day.” I grin shyly. Although I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because I have finally admitted to myself what I’ve spent the last eight years denying.
It’s amazing how being given a million dollars can instantly ease most of the stress in someone’s life.
Or it could be the scorching sex that Donovan and I are having late at night, after we’re sure Jeremiah is in bed and fast asleep.
My body has never been so satisfied yet still desiring so much more.
I want him. All the time.
Even when I’m at work, or visiting my dad, he’s always forefront in my mind.
Electricity seems to buzz in my veins at a constant pace, my body primed for him whether I’m near him or not.
It’s why, even though I’m sitting at my dad’s bedside, I’m still thinking of Donovan.
His hands and the way they light up my skin.
His eyes and the way they seem to look directly into my soul.
I want so much for his whispered words to be true.
The ones he whispers when his mouth brushes up my thighs, when his fingers press into me, his tongue tasting me.
And when he thrusts into me, my arms restrained above my head, allowing me no purchase to seek my own pleasure, but only to receive whatever he wants to give me, I want nothing more than to get lost in him.
“Miss Merchant.”
A warm, masculine voice snaps me out of my revere and I turn to the doorway, looking over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
My dad’s occupational therapist, Dr. Getting, is a man not much older than I am, with a kind smile. “Your father is not improving much.”
I already know this. I can see it in his cloudy eyes and the way the left side of his face still droops. While his right hand occasionally twitches, he lacks any muscle memory to grip my hand with either one of his.
There is nothing more devastating to me than to see my dad in his bed, unable to communicate. Unable to wrap his arms around me or press his comforting lips to my forehead like he’s done every day since I was born.
Tears swell in the backs of my eyes, but I fight them back.
“What else can be done?” I ask, my hands growing cold. “Is there any other medication we can try?”
I’ll do anything. Try anything. And now I have the funds to make it happen.
As if he’s afraid of making me cry, he hesitates before shaking his head. “Unfortunately, no. We can continue his therapy, trying to help his muscles remember how to move, but at this point, it’s very much a waiting
game. I don’t want you to become disheartened, though. Many patients who have suffered a massive stroke like you’re father don’t begin to improve for a few months.”
I sniff and nod twice. “Thank you for the update.”
His hand taps the doorframe twice. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Once he’s gone, I squeeze my father’s limp, cool hand with both of mine. I lean forward, resting my forehead on top of my hands, and begin praying.
I’ve never prayed harder for a man to regain his health, or for a miracle, than I do for my dad.
Tears line my cheeks, running onto my hands, falling to his, before seeping into the sheet beneath him.
My dad is the best. Even during his overwhelming grief after my mother’s death, a grief that lasted years, he still woke up every morning, hugged and kissed me like he always did, and immediately took to caring for me as if I hadn’t lost anything.
His strength is incredible. His caring heart even larger.
It was because of him—and the fact that I was stuck at his automotive repair shop for hours after school when I was too young to be left alone—that I first started sanding wood from scraps found behind his lot.
One of his part-time workers, Enrique, who was a teenager at the time but learning to work on cars because his family of eight needed his income and my dad was too kind to turn him away, taught me what could come from another person’s junk.
It’s a craft and a hobby that helps ease my mind, helps clear my thoughts from everything else going on in the world. When I’m working on my quotes, which may be cheesy to some, I focus on nothing besides the words I’m carving and painting into wood. I concentrate and see nothing besides the grooves in the boards, losing myself in the entire process.
I have my father and Enrique to thank for that. I have them to thank for almost everything good in my life.
“I miss you,” I sob over tears and squeeze his hands. Sitting up, I swipe tears off my cheeks and rub them into his hand. “I need you back.”
Like always, I receive no response from him—no recognition in his eyes and no movement, even an involuntary twitch in his right hand, that tells me he sees me or hears me.