11. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Ursula
H azy yellow light filters in through the floor to ceiling windows of the laundromat—the translucent, mustard, plastic roman blinds making deep ochre scores of light across the far wall of gleaming front-load dryers, the scent of detergent thick in the air.
I’m sitting on top of one of the tall metal washers—its coin tray screwed shut, a softly glowing screen blinking with symbols I can’t seem to make out.
Vaguely, I become aware of a body moving toward me—hands gently running over my denim-clad kneecaps, hips eddying into the open space between my open legs so that I can’t get down from my place atop the washer—the quiet whooshing of the water filling its large tub running beneath me.
Ronan, his face already pressed against my neck and out of view, lets his hands creep up the outside of my thighs, the worn cotton of his t-shirt and the skin of his toned arms honey golden in the greasy yellow light from the windows, the overhead lamps with their chipping, celluloid shades.
His fingers find the hem of my sweater and my eyes dart to the door—the sign flipped to ‘CLOSED’.
Ronan lifts my sweater until the soft angora neckline covers my eyes—my arms tangled in the fuzzy softness—a makeshift blindfold.
Eager, greedy—his hands find my breasts—his lips press against my clavicle—then purse around a nipple as he lays my back against the wall, my legs still dangling over the edge of the dryer.
“Ronan,” I sigh contentedly as the washer begins to shudder gently beneath me.
“I need you. Right now,” he rumbles, his hands working the brown leather braid of my belt—unbuttoning my jeans.
I don’t have time to worry about my soft belly—or the gentle pink and lavender traceries of my stretch marks; I can hear Ronan already fumbling with his own belt buckle as my slick pussy pulses—exposed.
I gasp as I feel the pressure of him against me. I moan as he enters me—my breath hitching as his knot presses gently against my slick lips—my throbbing clit.
Just when I think I’m going to completely lose my mind—I’m somewhere else; the honey gold of the Coin-Laundry and Ronan long gone.
I’m standing alone in front of a seemingly endless white wall; crisp, bright light projected at a sofa-sized canvas daubed with paint in different shades of red and orange hanging directly before me.
I pant, surprisingly out of breath.
Did I…? Did I just blank out? Where am I?
The Gallery, my mind supplies—as if it should be obvious. All questions about who’s gallery—where it is, when I got here; it all fizzles into nothingness—the rightness of my being here settles down around me as a pair of arms wreath my waist from behind.
Though I’d usually protest such a thing—my companion’s hands gently run over the soft curve of my stomach—his fingers gliding over the satin of my dress; his hands warm and gentle against me.
“Beautiful,” Lysander’s voice murmurs from just behind me, his lips pressing to the round of my shoulder—then the side of my neck.
“I don’t know…” I tilt my head to the side—to get a different perspective, but also to allow Lysander unfettered access to my throat, the soft curve of my jaw. “I just might not be a modern art person,” I sigh, my voice trailing off as Lysander’s hands slip gingerly across the cool satin draped across the curve of my hips—his hardness pressed against the cleft of my ass as he presses closer against me.
“I wasn’t talking about the painting,” he purrs. Then stars crowd my vision as his hands begin to move slow and languid beneath the loosely draped bodice of my dress.
Before I know it, my face is pressed against the white eggshell paint—my nose practically against the edge of the massive abstract painting—my skirt hiked around my waist, Lysander’s face buried in my hair, as he fucks me against the wall.
Suddenly the room kicks off sideways, my vision spinning and splitting—as if I were looking through an old red plastic view master—clicking the shutter lever down on one scene, the little film disc flipping to the next image as my vision begins to clear.
No longer cheek to cheek with a gallery wall, I am seated before a small round table—crisp white linen draping its modest surface.
In my hand is a small fork—an empty plate still smeared with traces of a glossy purple sauce, stares back at me.
“How was it?” Mavren’s voice rolls, sweet and sonorous across my skin, and I can’t help but shiver.
“Delicious,” I coo, softening under his touch—fingers drifting gently over the nape of my neck, creeping up into the dark mass of my curls.
“Good, good,” Mavren purrs, his hands leaving my neck to grip the back of my chair, lowering himself onto his knees just outside my view.
“Now it’s time for my dessert,” he rumbles, turning my chair to face him—the details of his features just beyond my reach as he disappears beneath the voluminous skirts of my silk georgette gown—his lips and tongue still somehow familiar, even though they feel thousands of miles from our kiss—yet only steps away from ecstasy.
His name is on my lips, a gasping call of need, but before the words can fly free of my mouth—the floor gives way and I begin to fall.
Not the free fall of terror, or the spiraling descent into despair or madness—but the gentle almost floating of dreamed flight; my body, light and soft as a feather.
I land amidst a tumble of pillows and thick quilted blankets; a warm fire flickering in a huge white stone fireplace—George Shearing playing on a nearby turntable.
Pleasure ripples through me—gently lapping at the edges of my consciousness like warm bathwater; a stack of Jazz records fanned out around me and my impromptu nest of pillows and blankets on the floor, as Ash laves hungrily at my slick pussy—my swollen clit caught in the gentle suction of his lips.
Though I can’t tell how long his hair is—or what color; I reach down and run my fingers through it—his head eagerly bobbing between my powerful thighs as he does his best to consume me—body and soul.
The blankets and pillows drop away, and once more I’m falling—weightless; like milk diffusing into coffee as I slip yet another layer deeper into the dream.
I land, a hard polished wood floor against my back—under the soft round of my bare ass as Teddy hovers above me—his face shadowed in near complete darkness; the silver of starlight giving me only the slightest suggestion of his sculpted, muscular frame as he relentlessly pounds me on the floor—his arms threaded through mine—his palms cupping the crown of my head so it doesn’t slam against the unyielding ground as he fucks me—his knot disappearing deep inside.
I cry out—my orgasm shaking me until I threaten to shatter apart into a thousand pieces—never to be collected and reassembled again.
Then all at once, I’m awake and alone in my bed on the Build-A-Pack-blind set—my night shorts plastered to me with slick; the small alarm clock softly playing weather station jazz on my temporary nightstand.
I don’t know if it was anticipation of the heat conversations I’m going to have with my dates today—or just my omega biology finally awakening more fully—but I have never experienced anything like that before.
Sex dreams about an at-the-time-boyfriend or a celebrity crush are one thing. I’ve had those before. A silly, fun little romp that you wake up from with a grin and a little boost to your libido. I don’t even know what any of these guys look like—much less what their designations are—their scents.
Still, it felt so intense—so real.
It looks like a cold shower is in the cards for me before my dates today!