Chapter 17 Turbo-gasm
turbo-gasm
Liam
On second thought, nuts were a bad idea, but they served a purpose. Apparently, they also served the purpose of pissing my soon-to-be wife right the hell off.
After getting two keys cut, I whisked the sullen woman to the bulk bins and had her try on different styles of nuts.
“Surely you can’t mean for me to have a hunk of metal from The Home Depot.” Her words were venom on the air.
“You said I could choose.” I quirked an eye and watched the sadness slide off her face as she stood ramrod straight.
“Well, William,” she drawled out both syllables in a way even a Southerner would be impressed. “I’ll take the hex one instead of the one with wings. We’ll make that one into a ring for your cock.” With that barb, she turned on a heel, stomped past checkout and out the store.
I waited until she was out of earshot to roar with laughter and to remind my penis that it will never have to worry about that kind of cock ring. I like to play, but pain isn’t my kink.
I was back at the truck after checkout, opening her door, mostly just to keep her anger up. Spicy Lorien is way more fun than broody Lorien.
After finishing her back door, I put up a motion-activated light in her backyard and worked into the night on the door to her garage. She didn’t say another word.
Now, I’m in my bed, thinking of what it would be like to have her look up at me with those bright eyes shining, black hair disheveled and falling around her face, sucking my cock deep into her mouth. I thrust up into my palm, pulling tighter than normal, my other hand cupped around my balls.
I moan her name as I come, shooting ropes of my orgasm onto my belly and letting it run over my fingers.
Surely the no sex rule doesn’t mean with myself, right?
Lorien
I could swear someone called my name. Though it must’ve been a dream.
Sleep has been fitful enough without my dreams annoying me too. I reach into my nightstand, grab my trusty companion and set the vibration to soft and lazy. I don’t want a turbo-gasm. I’m not looking for sixty seconds to pleasure.
I want that yearning to build slow and low in my belly, the kind that threatens to crawl up my insides and claw out of my mouth with pleasure.
The one that makes me soft, open a bit more, the slide against the bundle of nerves before the glide inside to an even greater one.
I want the swell of the tidal wave crashing over me only to suck me into the depths, hoping I can still breathe when I surface from wave after wave of carnal bliss.
Soft and lazy eventually becomes faster, more aggressive, an insistent finger pressed firmly onto my clit when what my body screams for is less not more.
Until I topple, sucked under by the flood of pleasure surging through me.
“Yes. God, yes.”
I lie there, feeling my heart pound at the race we just ran and won. My breathing finally catches up. And much to my chagrin, I feel an emotion swelling that I’ve known all too well since I landed in this townhouse. Fear.
Isolation.
Uncertainty.
I’ll see my family in a couple of weeks.
How am I supposed to keep a straight face when they ask how I am?
Oh, I’m fabulous, thanks for asking. I’m on the verge of life-altering discoveries that my company doesn’t want to make.
I was almost raped or murdered, maybe worse, or maybe merely kidnapped.
Merely being the best-case scenario. I’m marrying—or married to, by that point, who knows?
—a man who, along with me, is being sued, and we’re committing fraud in order to effectively fight lawsuits, plural, against us.
Have I mentioned I’ve stolen corporate intellectual property? Good times.
It’s too much. And I’m too alone in all of it. My sister would tell me to smoke a bowl and chill. Nothing is worth this kind of emotion.
My parents would worry, come to Denver, camp out in my living room, and have the authorities on speed dial.
And Strider? My protector. He would be pissed and go all big brother on me. He’d insist I move home, my job and home be damned, and stay safely, firmly ensconced while managing the customer service team at Electric Peoria.
Tears start to fall and I have to wonder, is it worse or better that Liam’s siblings want to get to know me?
Is it worse or better that they treat me like family in a way my own cannot?
Is it worse or better that for some unknown reason, with absolutely no reasonable basis, I trust that mountain of man with my life?
I fall asleep after I’ve cried myself out.
Nothing’s changed, but I’m far less emotional, or at least melancholy, when I wake.
My parents, and Strider and Sam for that matter, will never know the depths to which I’ve stooped. Not the scary, not the ethically questionable, or the morally bankrupt.
It doesn’t really matter, does it? It needs to be done.
Andersons do the right thing because there’s intrinsic value in having done it.
I’m intentionally putting the fraud and the thieving on the back burner.
It wouldn’t take much to have me convinced that stealing that data isn’t actually the right thing anyway.
Right thing by Platt BioPharma? Maybe not.
Right thing by humanity? Definitely.
A chime on my phone surprises me.
Liam: Dinner tonight at Cian and Sariah’s if you’re available. 6:00 p.m.
Liam: Are you allergic to anything?
Grrr. Rum balls!
How do I explain the annoyance of that man swiping my phone, programming himself in, and setting a distinctive alert? Let me count the ways.
No. He saved me. He’s not throwing it in my face. He’s not insulting me. He’s not belittling me.
He’s asking me… on a date?
Does it count when it’s at his brother and sister-in-law’s house? Should I bake something to take with us? That’s probably only polite, come to think of it.
Sliding out of bed, I pad to the kitchen and flip through the pantry. I have everything I need for one of my favorite Amish recipes, Sand Tarts, and begin prepping. They’ll be done and cooled in time to package and take.
Not that I’ve agreed… Nor do I plan to respond right away.
The man can wait. He’s the kind of guy who gets what he wants—I can tell.
And I don’t feel like making it easy on him.
The man literally took me through the hardware section of The Home Depot and smirked as he had me try on nuts.
For that, he could’ve gone even cheaper—why not a washer?
They’re a dime a dozen. Or one of those rubber O-rings.
Maybe that’s what I’ll get him. He can look down and be reminded of plumbing parts. Ha!
I’ve creamed together the butter and sugar and am about to add the eggs when that chime dings again. The man sets my teeth on edge.
Liam: Oh, and no need to bring anything. Pick you up at 5:45?
Quite presumptive of the man to assume I would bring anything and also presumptive to believe I would show up empty-handed to a family dinner.
My mom—though she wasn’t a homemaker like her own mother—loves to bake and cook. She’s a wonderful entertainer and passed her skills down to us. She said we needed to have the skills it took to take care of ourselves.
Strider too. While he’s never gotten married, he could give my grandma and my mom a run for their money with some of the more complex recipes.
His is the only soufflé that never falls…
So unfair. Then again, he had more sick days out of school and had more time with her in the kitchen. That’s unfair in a whole different way.
I chill the dough and head into the bathroom for a long soak and a shave.
Another ding sets my teeth on edge, but I know just what to do. Finding my phone, I find my oldest and most extensive Madonna playlist and hit go, and turn the volume up, and switch my phone onto do not disturb.
Take that, Liam Murphy.