by L. B. Dunbar
He quickly withdraws from me, fumbles to help me with my leggings, and tucks himself away. Hopping to his feet, he reaches down for my hands and tugs me to stand. I pull his jacket with me, and he shakes it out before draping it over his arm.
“We should probably head back,” he admits, whistling for Wally to rouse from his afternoon siesta. Wally yawns, stretches, and stands, taking his time to saunter ahead of us down the path leading to the inn. We follow in awkward silence. We haven’t gone far before Garrett reaches for my hand and stops me.
“Look, about that. What I said. I—”
My finger covers his lips to stop him. Please don’t say you didn’t mean it. He didn’t declare he loved me. He only said I loved him. He isn’t wrong, but we don’t need to discuss it. I don’t need to turn the tables and put him on the spot. Instead, I say, “Garrett, kiss me.”
He leans forward and takes my mouth, tender and sweet. His fingers loosely touch my jaw as he kisses me like he always does. The kiss tells me nothing has changed between us. We are still wildly attracted to each other. That’s all we need right now.
Slowly, he pulls back, taking my lower lip with his before releasing me. His forehead comes to mine, and once again, he says, “What are you doing to me?”
“Well, I can think of a few things, but we’ve already done them.”
He chuckles as he looks down at me. “Oh, I have a few more tricks.”
“Sounds like a treat for me,” I tease, and he laughs a little harder. His arm slips over my shoulder and mine goes around his waist, and although we walk back with fewer words, I still feel good about where we are right now.
+ + +
As I only have the one dress, we go more casual on our second night at the vineyard. We spent the afternoon napping, Garrett curled around me, and I feel rested for the first time in a long time. In the evening, we head to the bar where we order another sampling of wine and dance while soft music plays. Close. Tight. Together.
Tipsy, we return to the room where Garrett stops me beside the bed.
“I want to play,” he says, his voice turning darker, seductive, and rough as a finger trails down my arm. My back remains to him as he flattens his palms and trails them back up my arms.
“Okay,” I whisper, trembling with excitement and possibility. “A leash?” I tease, my voice cracking. Would I consider such a thing? I think that’s too much for me.
“I promise I won’t go that far.” He chuckles as he purrs near my ear. “Just let me lead.”
Nodding in response, I turn to face him. He kisses me slowly, taking his time to outline my lips, memorize my mouth, and circle my tongue. His hands wander as he removes my sweater and then lowers my jeans. I’d already kicked off my booties, and Garrett directs me, “Put on the red heels.”
I do as he says and stand before him in black underwear and a matching bra. Nothing lacy or fancy but still black. His eyes remain on mine as he tugs off his dress shirt along with the T-shirt underneath.
“Walk to the chair,” he commands, watching me with the eyes of a hungry predator. I do as he asks, taking my time, but my fingers twitch. Having his eyes on me like this and knowing he’s watching me move make me nervous. The sway of my hips. The tightness of my backside. The flip of my hair over my shoulder. My skin is hyperaware he’s going to touch me soon, and my sex clenches with anticipation. “Sit.”
I spin and fold down into the low-armed bedroom chair. Garrett slips off his pants but leaves on his boxers for the moment. He sits on the small footrest before me and strokes my upper thighs.
“Ever been tied up?”
“No,” I choke.
“How about blindfolded?”
“No.” My voice softens.
“Ever consider either?” His fingers skitter down my skin to my knees. I shrug. “It’s me, sweetheart. You can tell me.” If Garrett wants me to spell out my fantasies, I don’t think I can.
“Being tied up involves a certain level of trust.” My eyes shift from his. It’s not that I don’t trust him. I do. But do I trust this process? I’d be so vulnerable to him, and I already feel exposed. “I’d want to touch you too much,” I clarify, hoping to soothe the concern on his brow. The corner of Garrett’s mouth curls. “But I’m curious about being blindfolded. It seems the experience would be heightened without sight.”
“What experience?”
“You touching me.” My voice drops, rumbling in my throat. I want those hands higher on my thighs. I want his mouth on mine. I want to feel him everywhere.
Garrett’s lips turn into a full-blown mischievous grin. He abruptly stands and returns with his tie from the night before.
“Trust me,” he says, lifting one brow before placing the silky material over my eyes. I nod as I swallow. His fingers coast down the side of my neck, and my skin pebbles, oversensitive to his touch. I hear him shuffle and then the sound of the ice bucket. Cubes of ice fall inside a glass.
“Garrett,” I mutter. His presence fills the space before me like the uncanny sense of him when he stands behind me. A cold cube coats my lips until he presses it between them. Instinctively, I suck.
“You have the best fucking mouth,” he mutters. “Just watching you makes my dick jump, reminding me of when you took me with it.” Ah, yes, my overeager blowjob on Thanksgiving.
He removes the ice from my mouth and slides it down my chin and along my neck until he reaches my breast. My breaths accelerate. My heart races. He outlines the exposed cleavage above my bra, skating up one hill and then quickly sliding down the slope to curl up the other.
“It’s cold,” I say until his mouth covers the swells, licking the cool path he drew. The warmth of his tongue over the cold trail peaks my nipples. I’m sensitive to the scrap of silk over them, the drag of his tongue on my skin, and the tickle of his fingers skittering up my side. He slips a palm behind my back and unclasps my bra, drawing it down my arms. Without my eyes, I feel naked and raw, wanting to cover my chest because I know he’s observing me. The chilled cube circles one nipple, bringing it to a firm nub, and I yelp, arching into the cold instead of away. Something rumbles from his throat. Approval? Then he moves to the other but hesitates. He doesn’t cross the nipple, and my chest heaves. What is he waiting for? I wonder until his mouth covers the firm nub, sucking at it with a suddenly cool tongue.
“Gah.” I squirm under a mess of chills and heat. I reach for his head and hold him to my breast.
He pulls back abruptly. “I don’t want to tie you up, but I will if you don’t keep your hands to yourself. Grip the armrests. Let me lead.” I nod, slowly swallowing, and curl my fingers over the short arms of the chair. He returns to my breast, nipping at the sensitive tip, and my hips buck. My legs are already spread to accommodate him between them, but they spread wider, hoping to find friction.
“Stunner,” he mutters into the swell of my left breast. “Do you want me?”
“Yes,” I exhale, breathless and panting. Another ice cube clinks in the glass, and a new cube draws down the center of my stomach. My belly quivers with the icy touch until he dips lower, pressing the cube to my core over my underwear.
“You’re so hot down here, it’s melting.”
Oh yes, I’m burning up for him. He removes the cube, and his fingers find the edge of my underwear. Somehow, the tip of the ice hits my nipple again. Does he have it in his mouth as he undresses me? I lean slightly, inhaling the scent of him. His hair. Definitely holding the cube in his mouth.
I lift my hips to allow him to remove the last of my clothing. The red heels remain on my feet. I feel sexy and seductive—bare, raw, and ready. I’m convinced I’ve never been so turned on in my life, so vulnerable but willing.
A cool breath blows across my warm clit, and my fingers tighten on the armrest.
“Did you go through my drawer when you stayed at my house?”
It’s a strange question, considering our position, but I also know what he’s asking me.
“I did,” I whi
sper. The vibrator. The metal balls. The clamps.
“I should punish you for being a nosy neighbor,” he teases, and suddenly, the cube of ice swipes up my sex. I whimper at the cold against my hot center. “But I’m curious which item you imagined me using on you.”
I gasp.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters with a chuckle. “Which one?”
I don’t answer him. I hadn’t imagined the toys in my fantasy. I only wanted him. His skin on mine.
“I should have brought one with me,” he murmurs, “but I have other ways to play with you.” A new cube comes between his fingers and slips inside me. I cry out, and he lifts my leg, hitching it over the low armrest.
“Place your hands above your head. Hold the back of the chair.” I do as he says, my breasts thrusting forward, accentuated for him. He tugs my other leg over the opposite arm, and I realize my breasts are the least of his focus.
“You are so fucking stunning, Dolores,” he says, his voice the roughest I’ve ever heard from him. He returns the ice cube to my slit, and my head thrashes with the sensation of melting cubes, dripping, coating my core. Then the warmth of his tongue covers me, and I jolt. One hand reaches for him.
“Uh-uh-uh. Obey the Wizard, Dorothy,” he teases, catching my wrist. I return my hand to the back of the chair, clutching at it like my life depends on it. Like my heart does. His mouth returns to my core where he laps and licks, bringing me close to the brink but then stopping short. He pulls back, and I want to scream. Instead, I whimper in disappointment.
A thick finger enters me, and I hear his breathing shift. Is he watching what he does to me? Another finger joins the first, and my hips rock against the drag of his digits. In and out. Slicing into my center. Carving a niche in my heart. He owns me at this moment, and I’d give him everything—all of me—as long as he doesn’t stop touching me.
“You respond so easily to me,” he groans, and the tension builds again, creeping, crawling. My toes twitch, and then he removes his fingers.
Son of a bitch.
I hear shuffling once again and sense him standing before me. “Lean forward,” he demands. “Grip the armrests if you need to, but don’t touch me.” I lower my arms and rest my hands just above my spread thighs. I lean forward until something touches my lips. Smooth. Tight. Skin.
He doesn’t need to ask. I open for him, and he enters my willing mouth. My tongue swirls, and my cheeks hollow as I suck him deep. He sets the pace, slowly rocking forward, and desire rips through me. I need the release. I reach for myself, knowing I’m exposed to him in this contorted position. My fingers find a mix of cool flesh and wet heat. I stroke until he notices. He draws back from my mouth, a pop sound following the release. However, my mouth follows the retreat, salivating for more of him. I might have growled, gnashing my teeth. I want him.
“You little cheater,” he hisses. The ottoman drags across the carpet as if he had shoved it away from him. His hands swat at mine, and I return them over my head, gripping the back of the chair. His hands grasp my inner thighs, holding me open and on display. The only sound between us is ragged breathing and tense anticipation. I’m ready to beg him to take me when the moist tip of his dick slides through my weeping folds. My head thrashes on the back on the chair while the smooth skin drags over my sensitive spot.
“Dolores,” he growls. “Let me in.” His voice rings with more than he says. “I’ll pull out. Just a little…Just once.” He can’t complete his thought as he separates me and slides through the tender folds once again. I’m coating him—skin on skin—and I can’t remember the last time I was with a man without a barrier.
“Trust me,” he begs.
“When was the last time you were like that with a woman?” I have to ask. He freezes, the hard length of him resting against my entrance.
“A long, long time ago, Dolores.” My lips twist as he hesitates, hovers. “Please don’t bring anyone else into this right now. It’s never been like this for me, Dolores. I want you.”
There’s something in his voice. The plea. The honesty. The raw truth that I might be different. My leg curls around his hip, and I nudge him with the heel of my ruby red shoe.
Welcome home, Tin Man, I whisper internally as he takes the hint and presses his tip to my entrance.
“Fuck,” he growls almost unintelligibly as he slowly slips into me and halts. His fingertips dig into my thighs. Bruises might occur, but I don’t care. He can mark me. He already has. My heart will be scarred forever after this.
He drags me to the edge of the short cushion and lifts one leg to his shoulder. I’m so full, so open to him, and completely at his mercy. Open-mouthed kisses trail down my ankle and calf. Then he lowers the leg to the armrest. One hand remains near the opposite leg. He rolls his hips, adjusting himself inside me.
My God that felt good.
“Dolores,” he calls out like a prayer. “Hold on, sweetheart.” He shifts his body so both hands are braced on the chair, and he lifts to delve into me deeper, harder, faster. I curl under him, legs spread wide, fingers clutching the back of the chair. He’s hitting something inside me I didn’t know existed, and the orgasm will surely rip me in two. It races from my toes and rushes down my chest, barreling toward the center to crash and explode in the most decadent release I’ve ever experienced. My knees close on his hips as my back arches, and I scream.
“Dolores,” he pants, our bodies jostling with each intense thrust. I can’t help myself. My voice dominates me as I warn, “Don’t you dare leave me.”
Red heels connect around the back of his thighs, trapping him from pulling back.
“I’ll. Pull. Out. But…” His stuttering voice breaks—a sign he’s on the edge.
I don’t speak. I don’t want him to come on me. Not Rusty, whispers through my thoughts at the most inopportune time.
“Dolores,” he strains, warning me with a desperate plea before he stills. His back stiffens as he halts his jagged thrusting and commences to pulse inside me, filling me with his hot seed. My heels unlock, sliding over his hips until my body sags. He awkwardly folds down over me, wrapping his arms around my back and dragging me against his chest.
“That wasn’t very responsible,” he mutters into my shoulder before kissing it. Our breathing matches, ragged and spent. His heart beats against my chest, the rapid rhythm keeping time with mine.
“Please don’t say you regret it,” I whisper. The moment of euphoria pulls back from me, receding too quickly. His fingers fumble as he tugs the blindfold to my forehead. Sharp light brown eyes sparkle like candlelight at me.
“I regret absolutely nothing I’ve done with you, Dolores. My only regret might be that I can’t do this every day of my life with you.”
My heart crashes. So intense. He’s lost in the moment, I think, as am I. I kick off my ruby red shoes and take his lips, deciding to stay in Oz just a little bit longer.
20
Condom sense
[Garrett]
Please don’t say you regret it.
Is she kidding me? There’s nothing I regret less in my life than entering her as I did.
Was it responsible? No.
Was it incredible? Yes.
I haven’t felt something like this in…I don’t even know. Can I remember as far back as the late eighties, being a reckless teen, and sleeping with my high school sweetheart in the back seat of my mom’s sedan…nope. Besides the fact I’m a man, compared to my teenage body and hormones of thirtysomething years ago, so to my dick, this is unique, indescribable, and truly special.
It’s the same for other parts of me.
Tap, tap goes something in my chest.
We collapse on the bed after a quick shower of suds and scrubbing but nothing further. I need a few minutes to recover, so Dolores curls into my side. It’s nice—this cuddling thing—or maybe it’s just her. I have this sense she isn’t pretending with me. She doesn’t have a hidden agenda. She doesn’t want to know the bottom line of my bank a
ccount. She doesn’t care about any of my things. So while she strokes her fingertips over my chest, combing through the fine hairs making a vee between my pecs, I close my eyes and just breathe her in.
At some point, we drift off to sleep, but I awake to another fulfilling fantasy of her mouth on me, savoring and salivating over my rock-hard erection. God, her mouth. It’s heaven.
What is she doing to me?
I’ve asked myself this question a thousand times in the past few weeks. Is it really that she’s doing something to me, or am I just opening up to her? It’s been strange being here, bringing up the memory of asking Kate to marry me. The look on Dolores’s face when she finally asked me why here and why her. I can’t explain myself. I trust her. I trust her to be honest and not to leave me.
It’s a deep-rooted fear. One steeped in little boy leftovers from a father who dumped us, and the foolish heart of a young man throwing it all on the line for a woman not free to accept my offer. Somewhere inside me wants to cling to Dolores while another part of me tells me not to hold too tight. She doesn’t need another person to take care of in her life. She’s told me about her mother, her grandmother, the diner, and all the things she does for others.
Who does things for her?
I haven’t asked because the answer’s in her eyes. She’s alone, like me.
Is she lonely?
I wouldn’t say I was, but now that I’ve spent so much time with her—the nightly dinners, the dance lessons, a weekend away—Dolores will be someone I miss greatly if she leaves. Loneliness is the haunting emotion I’d feel if she went away.
I like her. A lot.
Do I love her?
I was joking when I said it earlier. You know you love me. A slip of the tongue, so to speak, but the question is, could she love me? Could I love again, love her specifically? My hollow heart beats. Not so hollow anymore, methinks.
I sit up and tug her from my slick length.
“I wasn’t finished,” she murmurs, drowsy still, maybe drunk on me. God, I want her to be.