by A. J. Sand
After a few songs they were back at the pool table, and no one seemed to notice that Erica wasn’t touching any of the drinks Samantha kept bringing over, but she was having a fine time downing them herself. And each time she drank one, Erica felt ridiculous for thinking that Samantha would tamper with her drink, but until Jeremy had, she would’ve said the same thing about him. And because of that, for better or worse, the paranoia would never go away.
“Now?” Erica asked Samantha as she positioned herself to make one of the trick shots she was learning from her. Bryson was talking to Billy, but he kept a mischievous grin on Erica as she bent over the pool table, one heel raised against her bottom and an arm outstretched along the pool cue. Perv, she mouthed to Bryson.
You like it, he mouthed back before tipping his beer to his lips. She did.
“It’s your turn on the bull, baby,” Bryson said when he walked over to her, and there was something about him standing behind her that turned her on; maybe it was the anticipation of whatever pleasurable touches were to come. The kind that made her insides liquefy, knees buckle and her head spin. But best of all, made her feel safe and loved. He trapped her against the pool table, his pelvis pressing against her butt just enough to be alluring, just enough to awaken and tease her nerve endings so that her skin prickled all over again. His lips collided with her ear. “What was the wager again?” he asked. Her reaction to his voice, his body, his presence, was something like the thrill from the first drop on a roller coaster: stomach clenching and chest fluttering.
“Three minutes.” Erica spun and leaned against the pool table. “You never told me what you wanted if you win, though,” she reminded him with a poke of her finger to his chest.
“Uh…I’d rather tell you after I win.”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to wait for mine, too, then!”
“Easy. All the beignets in New Orleans.”
“No.” Erica glared at him. “Three minutes,” she said as she sauntered over to the mechanical bull. After inspecting her ticket, the man who ran it let her into the small pen while firing off a script of safety instructions at her and hoisting her onto the saddle. From this vantage point, it was clear that every male eye was aimed in her direction. Heh…I wonder why? she thought.
Bryson wandered over to the edge of the pen where some other spectators were gathered. He shot a challenging look at her and tapped his wrist where his watch was. Erica squealed when the bull came to life beneath her with two rough jerks and she gripped the leather reins tighter. Beneath a canopy of drunken cheers, she was swung around rapidly in two full rotations before the movements shifted to rocking. The bull bucked forward and the momentum forced her body to sway in a wave. She felt ridiculous, but from the way the crowd was suddenly cheering louder, apparently it was far more erotic than erratic.
After a peek at the digital timer on the wall across from her, Erica kept her eyes on Bryson as best she could no matter how much the ride pitched her about. Like a real bull, it gyrated and lurched in attempt to throw her off but, of course, all the while making her look as sexy as possible, she assumed, with all the involuntary body and hair whipping.
Bryson’s eyes stretched with his beer freezing midair and never actually making it to his mouth. The way he stared made her squeeze her thighs tighter around the mount.
Erica used one of her arms like a lasso, and the bull controller tried to toss her off. When she tilted, the noises from the crowd reached a crescendo, but she hauled herself back atop. Then a thought hit her as Bryson cheered her on. She wanted to be competitive, but she wanted him to win this more. It was silly for something like this to matter, but she knew she’d love seeing the triumphant smile on his face more than any satisfaction she’d feel from winning. So at just under two minutes and forty seconds, she inconspicuously released the reins and an abrupt jolt sent her flying to the soft mat below. A uniform groan of disappointment emitted all around her over the music, but she grinned up at Bryson.
“Looks like you win,” she said.
“Looks like you let me.”
“Whaaaaat? Nooooo…” she said, exaggerating an innocent expression as she exited the pen and joined him on the other side. A few guys clapped for her, but the attention proved transitory once another girl had ascended the bull. “All right. What do I owe you?”
“You’ll see…” he said with a wink. “You ready to get out of here?”
Erica nodded and slipped her hand into his as he led her toward the French Quarter Cowboy exit, but Billy and Samantha sliced into their path. Bryson and Erica exchanged amused looks of anticipation.
“Are you guys leaving already?” Samantha purred. “We were thinking about leaving, too… Our hotel isn’t too far, and the party is going to be a lot more fun over there.” What she was insinuating was clear enough that she didn’t need to trace her fingers down Erica’s arm, but she did anyway.
“We sort of have another party to get to…” Bryson said.
“We’re down with that,” Samantha countered.
“No… it’s already a really huge, huge party…” Erica said. “Maybe next time.” They escaped to the menagerie of activities going on along Bourbon Street, which was in the exact same state as it had been before, but with far more trash scattered along the road. Bryson hugged Erica against his side as they blended into one of the many lazy streams of drunken partyers still roaming with no direction in mind. And with Bryson’s arm draped over her shoulders and hers around his torso, she really didn’t care where they went. But they were only able to walk a block or two before a sudden burst of rain swept over the place, and Erica had never seen anything like it. Obviously, it rained in Los Angeles every once in a while, but she had never before seen rain actually travel across a space. It cleared the street like a nuclear bomb had gone off, forcing people to scatter for shelter beneath the balconies or in the bars. She and Bryson lunged for a space against the exterior of a blues club, which was currently tempting the occupancy limits as rain-fleeing people pushed to get in. But the music blasting out of it was really good; it was a male singer with a gravelly voice accompanied by an energetic assortment of guitars, saxophones, a harmonica and drums, and female backup singers.
“So, you said you’d dance with me anywhere, right?” Bryson asked when he caught her swaying to the rhythm. “According to you, I won tonight, so I’m claiming my prize, Erica Anne. You have to dance with me right here.”
Oh shit. Erica’s expression was midway between amusement and absolute terror. “Uh… There was a huge asterisk next to that statement. And I wasn’t thinking straight. You tricked me with a singer and a sunset!”
Come on! Right next to this titty bar.” He whipped his thumb at the building across the side street. “Titty” was an understatement for what they were doing over there.
“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Bryson Jeffrey Ellis,” Erica said, cracking up with laughter, but she slid her arms up around his neck. “Dancing with me was really all you wanted from the bet?”
“No, I didn’t really care about the bet.” Bryson shook his head as he gripped her hips. “I wanted the same thing I’ve wanted for a while now…for us to have a day like we did today.” He pulled her off the wall and held her against him. And with the backdrop of a rained out Bourbon Street, loud drunks and a woman’s sultry voice pouring into a microphone, Bryson moved her slowly in a circle in a small space on the sidewalk. If people were staring, Erica could honestly say she didn’t mind. As chaotic as things had been lately, these bits of peace were worth it, no matter when they came.
He was right about today. It was exactly what she had wanted, too. Nothing else. And she was feeling selfish again, knowing that if they kept this up, they wouldn’t stop like last time. She lifted Bryson’s head from where it was nestled on her shoulder, and before he could speak whatever questions were undoubtedly waiting behind his puzzled expression, she leaned in until her mouth brushed against his bottom lip. Bryson didn�
�t reciprocate immediately; he only cradled her face and stared. The expression he wore was pained, and taking hold of either of his wrists, she almost apologized, but the lines slowly smoothed out of his face. He still hadn’t spoken, and she wasn’t sure she could, actually. The longer he stared right into her eyes, the slower time seemed to pass, until she was sure she had lost her grip on the concept wholly.
A flutter developed in her toes and rocketed up her body as Bryson tilted her head back just slightly. She released a sharp gasp in the agonizing seconds it took for him to ease his mouth down to hers. She fell back against the wall of the building, and Bryson linked their hands down at their sides as his lips worked hers apart, his tongue flicking along her bottom lip. With his mouth sealed to hers, her tongue searched out his, his breaths filling her to the point where she wasn’t sure if she even needed her own. His kisses had long changed her brain chemistry, had long made it unfeasible that she would ever be able to fall out of love with him. That he would irrevocably lie buried in every invisible part of her where no other man would ever reach.
She wound his shirt in her fist and pulled him to her until there was no space between their bodies. Bryson sucked in a heavy breath before he groaned, and taking her hand, he led her away from Bourbon to one of the deserted side streets. She was back against the exterior of a building and shielded beneath another wraparound balcony. His mouth fell to her neck as one of his legs split hers into a V, and Bryson’s hips circled against hers, setting off a constant, excruciatingly wonderful pulse where their bodies touched. Her moans were masked under the sound of the rain but probably deafening in his ear. She flexed her hips, wanting more, wanting to give in to the call of her building arousal. As his lips skimmed up her neck, Bryson hooked his thumb over the edge of her jeans for a second, right where the button was.
Then bracing his hands on the wall at either side of her head, he said, “If you want me, just say the word. Say it and I’m yours.”
Back to Black – Chapter 10
“Yes. Please, yes,” Erica whimpered as she stepped out of her jeans and ripped her top off once they were in the hotel room. Kneeled, Bryson pressed her hips back against the door, melting his lips into the space between her navel and the waistband of her panties. She shivered as the material slid down her thighs before he lifted one of them to his shoulder. Bryson eased a finger into her as he tapped her clit with the tip of his tongue over and over.
“Oh, shit.” Her pelvis jerked forward. The sensitivity was beautiful torture, and her supporting knee folded. She wanted to cherish this, but heat was already building in her belly, the tinkles already covering her skin; Bryson could pull her toward a climax so easily.
“Right there, baby?” He pushed her hips back against the door, a finger still pressing in and out of her body.
She nodded lazily. “Righ—” Erica gripped Bryson’s hair as his tongue plunged in again without warning. He held her raised thigh in place with one hand and pinned her hip with the other. Each progressive lick induced moan after moan until her breaths were ragged, her body in the shadow of an orgasm. It was welcomed anguish. Yes. Oh, God, yes. Her mind said what her lips couldn’t anymore.
Erica rocked her head against the door so hard it shocked her, but desire anesthetized any feeling that wasn’t it. Her nails, not fingers, sank into the skin of his neck, and Bryson deflected the pain by whipping his tongue faster. It was too much and not enough. A sweet wickedness. She slid past her hold on control, easily stolen away into delirium. She pulled his head back. Then pushed it again. Again and again. She was losing it. Her back arched off the door, and her hips swung in their pinned position. He was relentless in making her buck wildly against the wood. Shivers jolted her legs; the heel of the raised one was digging into his back. Erica was splintering down her center, collapsing on the inside. Electricity pulsated straight up from her loins, tweaking every nerve ending she had. Erica surrendered to the merciless pleasure of his mouth and came until her leg gave out.
She slid down the door in front of Bryson, his pleased expression trailing her body all the way; he was delighting in the afterglow of her orgasm. His eyes were wild with an appetite for her, and it turned her on more. Made her want more. Tonight was different than when they were last here, last so hungry for each other. The problems were still there, but for some inexplicable reason, tonight was worth the confusion tomorrow.
She helped him pull his shirt over his head, and when he stripped her out of her bra, he carried her to the bed. Bryson was out of his jeans in a flash, but he moved around the room, switching on every light, and Erica was touched by the notion that he wanted to really see her. And, damn, it made her feel sexy, especially when she was naked and glistening with the sweat he caused. And the sight of him—boxer briefs off, and so hard and ready for her—scaling the bed toward her, wrapped her skin in goose bumps. Her brain fired off the warning signal that it really was time to take a breath again. But the familiar caressing from his hands that covered her body immediately settled her nerves and exchanged the anxiety for the joy of anticipation. There were fingers grazing her thighs, so near where she truly desired them. And his mouth set delicate kisses on parts cherished innumerable times before: her neck, her stomach, her ear, her breasts, her thighs, and her collarbone. He knew exactly where to linger, where to lick, and the thrill of never quite knowing where his lips would land next ignited her inside out until she was shaking, nearly unable to wait much longer.
“Hi, my Erica Anne,” he lilted, his face directly over hers, and a hand cupping one of her breasts. He was so beautiful. Maybe even more than before.
“Hi, Bryce.” She smiled, as she stroked the side of his face. The greeting seemed fitting since they were in the middle of a reintroduction of sorts. Erica raked her fingers through his hair. And right then, she felt so cherished, so perfect. She’d longed for this.
“I didn’t want to be presumptuous. I don’t have any condoms.”
“You don’t need any,” she reassured him and caught the sign of appreciation on his face. She was still his. There was nothing more to it. She ran her hands up both his arms when he gripped the backs of her thighs and positioned himself between her knees. Sweat trickled down his abs, his body radiating with such heat that it made her wet all over again. She clenched compulsively when she felt the pressure of him pushing into her, going as deep as their hips would allow. Senses heightened, she had felt every single inch that filled her, caught the involuntary movement of his muscles as he reacted to being in her body.
“Damn, I’ve missed how you feel,” he whispered. And she missed how he made her feel. She whimpered as he pulled all the way out of her, like he needed to relive it. Bryson took another slow, deep plunge, groaning the entire way. He lowered his chest to hers, the sounds of their pants intermingling, before he dropped a frenzied kiss to her lips. Bryson’s tongue swirled around her mouth, and his teeth skated over her lips.
With her heels on his back and his groans in her ear, he thrust against her over and over, slow and controlled—savoring—and it was unequal to the power behind the way his mouth was moving. They kissed until her lips were parched, almost sore, and then he pushed up to hover over her, keeping his steady rhythm of rocking into her. Bryson linked one of their hands above her head, their sweaty palms too slick to keep a firm grip. She moaned softly, feeling the familiar tightness that teased of a climax somewhere deep in her stomach as he stroked her clit. Her nails burrowed deep into his bicep. He kept a concentrated, trance-like gaze fastened to her; it was so bold, so uninhibited, like nothing else was worth looking at. And she drowned in that stare, wasted away into euphoria. It left her insatiable. It left her confounded by how he could make every part of her being, the emotional and the physical, yearn for him like this. Just the thought dragged her to the crest of her pleasure. His back rounded, muscles undulating everywhere, as his mouth fell to her chest. He took one nipple between his lips—kissing, sucking, licking—and kneaded the flesh of the other.
She grabbed his hamstrings on either side and he drove harder into her. Her thighs twitched at his sides, and excitement twirled up her spine as he increased his motion in response to her louder moans. Erica bucked beneath his weight, calling out for more, coming before she could get a grip on herself. But she didn’t fight it; she let swell after swell of her climax sweep her away to unearthly heights.
Bryson flattened his body against hers again, lifting her hips a little as he cupped her butt. She felt shivers deep in her stomach from his thrusts. He groaned in ceaseless succession when she dragged her fingers down his back, her touch charting the contoured sections of muscles. He was close to finishing and loud enough to wake the neighbors on both sides, and neither of them cared. At her shoulders, the sheets grew taut in his fists as Bryson’s orgasm stiffened his body, and he pumped into her for a few more seconds before he stilled. As he heaved one last heavy breath against her ear, she heard him say, “I love you.”
Erica couldn’t suppress her giggles past Bryson’s third kiss to the base of her neck. It tickled, but he had serious morning wood, too, like he always did. She finally let out a huge laugh, turning to smack him playfully. “I was sleeping!”
“You were not! You never win this game,” he said with a triumphant smile as he captured her wrists and kissed both her hands. “Why do you bother?”
But Erica was already losing interest in the fight when she spotted all of the vases of beautiful white lilies and purple irises everywhere.
“Whoa, what are these for?” she said, running over to pick up one of the bouquets.
Behind her, he wheeled a food cart to the center of the room. “It’s your last day in New Orleans. So, we’re reliving your trip. The lilies and irises represent the fleur de lis, the most well known symbol of New Orleans, as you know.” He handed her black souvenir streets signs for the popular Bourbon and Canal streets, an empty shot glass and her empty souvenir hand grenade. “We only have OJ, though, because it is ten AM, sadly. And now, we’re having breakfast at the French Market.” He uncovered a large platter with an assortment of sliced fresh fruits, a traditional egg and pancake breakfast, and then another of stacked beignets. He showed her a mug of coffee that said, “I went to New Orleans and all I got were these beads on my boobs.” And a pair of three-dimensional breasts jutted out of the mug with Mardi Gras beads painted on them. He set their trays on the bed across from each other.