10. Nero
10
NERO
“N ero!”
Miranda’s amazing tits bounce as I drive into her hard. Her thighs glisten with as much sweat as evidence of her multiple arousals as her ankles lock around my lower back, endeavoring to slow my pounds.
I don’t give in. I fuck her hard and impatiently, needing to ensure not an ounce of the shame she felt last night while pondering the comments our X-rated video may have attracted will trickle through her veins when we go our separate ways this morning.
None of the comments I saw were bad. I would have driven straight to the commenter’s house and ripped their eyes out of their sockets if they were negative. But a woman with a beaten ego needs more than a worded confirmation.
She needs to feel desired and be desired.
She needs to be fucked with a hunger only a man wanting to place his woman on a pedestal can instigate.
Last night, both in the shower and on the floor next to the bed we destroyed, we explored with a tenderness I’ve never held an interest in but will now crave.
This morning’s romp is on the other end of the spectrum.
I’m driving her to the brink of insanity one impatient yet calculated pump at a time.
And Miranda can’t get enough.
She claws at my back and screams my name as her tight cunt ripples around my unsheathed shaft. She feels so fucking good, bare and slick.
The need to come is clawing at me, thrumming through my veins as rampantly as Miranda’s taste flooded my tongue when I woke her by consuming her pussy for breakfast.
I spread her wide with my shoulders before I parted a pussy that tastes as sweet as honey with my fingers.
Pre-cum leaked from my cock when I marveled at the feast in front of me.
I toyed with her clit until the word I was desperately seeking slipped from her O-formed mouth.
“Please.”
Then I went to town on her pussy. I rubbed at her clit with my thumb while I pushed my tongue deep inside her.
Her pussy quivered around my tongue as it does my cock now when she’s swamped by a blinding orgasm for the second time this morning.
The pressure of her tight squeezes on my cock is exquisite. I want to come, to follow her down the blistering side alley of sex and euphoria, but I hold back the urge, needing more.
More tension.
More connection.
More her .
My butterfly is soaring so high that her wings will never be clipped, but I can’t let go just yet. There’s still so much to do, so many mistakes to right, and at least a dozen more orgasms she was depraved of by a weasel with a corn kernel for a cock.
Miranda’s body tenses as her back arches. Her climax is draining but also giving. It sparks fresh hope in her eyes and clears away the last smidge of unease hours of foreplay, touching, and fucking couldn’t remove.
We didn’t solely spend our night twisted beneath sheets. We also talked. I kept my replies basic, not wanting to scare her, but she knows that I’m in distribution and entertainment. She’s just unaware that I distribute drugs across the globe and that most entertainment in Vegas includes strippers and prostitutes.
In all honesty, I don’t think she will be bothered, but Nikolai’s business plan isn’t mine to share. I’m paid a hefty sum to assist in the running of his multiple billion-dollar businesses, and I would rather be a dead man than a tattler.
When Miranda returns from the clouds of lust her climax surged her to, I thrust hard, putting my weight behind my pumps.
As her pussy ripples around me, she moans my name again while signs of an imminent orgasm resurface.
“Fuck, printsessa . You’re going to make up for those years of a dry spell in days at this rate.”
I cuss again, inwardly this time, frustrated that she makes me so unhinged that I’m unknowingly sharing guarded secrets.
It was the same last night. Usually, I shut down any “get to know me” conversations within seconds of them jumping from the gate. I struggle doing that with Miranda. I want her to know me. The real me.
And the proof is undeniable when I say, “Take me. Let me in. I want you to feel me every time you shift an inch today.”
The worried expression on her face softens before she does as asked. The already generous sweep of her thighs widens more as the movements of my hips slow. We’re still fucking, desperately , but it isn’t the dirty, hard romp I instigated when I woke her. It is more intimate, with a lot of eye contact and hungry, yearn-filled kisses.
I break our embrace when a vise-like grip pulls my balls in close to my body before I reach down between us.
Miranda’s breaths are as hot as the slickness coating my shaft when I roll her clit with my thumb. Her nails claw at the sheets before she bundles them into her palm.
“You’re so deep.”
The need in her voice and the way she looks up at me while I pound into her are my undoing.
An endless moan pours out of me as beads of cum shoot from my cock.
Miranda joins me.
She writhes against me, open and defenseless as the annoying bellow of an alarm clock shrieks from her purse dumped in the corner of the room.
* * *
“I’m so sorry.” As Miranda moves around her home, gathering her things, she continues offering up apologies I don’t deserve. “I hate to eat and run, but this client has done amazing things for the creative side of my business, and I really don’t want to disappoint her.”
Her smile at the start of her sentence ensures I know she isn’t mentioning the food we shared yesterday.
She’s talking about when she was on her knees, inside the shower, swallowing my cock like she was born to do it.
“Are you sure you’re okay to wait with her?” Her eyes stray to Tempy like she knows she won’t need to see my reply to understand it. “She usually goes potty straight after breakfast. Then she will be out cold for the rest of the day.”
I wait for her to gather her keys and spin to face me, before replying, “We’ll be fine. Go.”
Her sexy fucked-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life eyes lower to my mouth for the quickest second before she awkwardly waves. After patting Tempy’s head while whispering that she will be home soon, she heads for the exit.
I’d be disappointed about no goodbye kiss if I were a man who did lovey-dovey shit. I’ll give a compliment when a compliment is due, like last night when the head of my cock tickled Miranda’s tonsils, but the fawning, lovemaking, and I-love-yous after one date do my head in.
I much prefer the look on Miranda’s face when she stumbles out the door, her strides almost bowlegged. And how the defeated, sad look her eyes have rarely been without the past several months has all but vanished. I like the snippet of pain that hardens her features when she slips into the driver’s seat of her car, and how it shifts to lust in half a nanosecond.
And I really like the way her nostrils burst when she smells me on her skin.
Her happiness means there’s no one for me to bury today.
Will I feel the same when I work through the issues that have been bugging me since last night? Probably not. But the fact I’ve held back for so long shows growth.
I watch Miranda reverse out of her driveway and drive away, before twisting to face Tempy. She has devoured the funky-smelling breakfast Miranda placed out for her before she ran around her kitchen, bundling up the baked goods she made yesterday for me to take with me. She’s finished and looks on the cusp of exhaustion.
“Potty first,” I demand, my words cracking out of my mouth like a whip. “Then you can sleep.”
Miranda and I won’t be so lucky. I’ve got a shit ton of work to do before I arrive at Clark’s, and Miranda’s schedule exposes her calendar is just as brimming.
I smirk at Tempy when she does her business on the singed remains of Roy’s belongings.
With a possessive scratch on the manicured lawn, she prances away like even her shit is too good for him, matching my sentiments to a T.
Dogs know good people.
Roy isn’t one of them.
“Upstairs or downstairs?” I ask after recalling Miranda’s announcement that Tempy’s age means she can’t climb the stairs, but that it hasn’t stopped her love of the sunshine that streams through the doors of the upstairs balcony.
I scoop Tempy into my arms and begin climbing the stairs when she yaps and twirls, confident she’ll tear my nuts off if I’ve mistaken her answer.
She licks my face during the climb, stealing some of Miranda’s scent, before leaping out of my arms. She lands on a doggie daybed on the edge of the balcony.
“You good?” I ask when she circles the fluffy white micro mattress for almost thirty seconds, searching for the perfect spot.
I scratch her ear when she barks before she snuggles in deep, and then I leave as promised.
My trip “home” doesn’t take long. In eight lengthy strides, I exit Miranda’s property and enter the front door of my current abode.
I hear Eight in the kitchen, helping himself to the minimal supplies I had delivered last week, but I don’t stop to greet him. I head straight to the basement with one thing on my mind, and one thing only.
A snivel hits my ears when I enter the damp confines. The basement hasn’t been converted, so unlike the seemingly spring-ish day outside, it is cold and damp, the perfect flu aggravator.
A cold isn’t the cause of the sniveling, though.
It is the whine of a man in fear for his life.
Good.
He’s only alive because I still have a use for him.
I drag over a chair, the wooden legs sawing like the strenuous effort of the lungs of the man watching my every move. His left eye is almost swollen shut, his lips are cracked and bleeding, and the stains on his pants have me grateful I’ve not yet had the floors done.
Piss is impossible to get out of pricy wooden floorboards.
Blood is much easier.
With one of the chair’s legs balancing on two exposed toes, I take a seat.
The man bound to a rickety chair cries out, his eyes bulging as his long toe and middle toe collapse under the brunt of my weight.
His sobs make him incoherent. Since I need to hear his pathetic excuse in person, I pull out the bloody handkerchief I stuffed into his mouth before leaning in close.
I’m an inch from his bloodied and bruised face when I ask, “What is this I hear about you wanting her house and her dog?”