15. Greta
GRETA
Somewhere in my teens, I heard a joke about needing a Y-shaped coffin after dying via sex overload.
I always tried to picture it, even though I knew it was a bit of silliness.
A woman lying on satin, a spray of flowers on her chest, and her legs permanently splayed so that the bottom of the coffin was bigger than the top.
I might be getting there.
The rest of the weekend is a blur of drinking, playing pool at the clubhouse, and Iron Jack’s black sheets.
There is no position he’s not familiar with. Behind me, beside me, above, below, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, standing, against a wall, in a bath, in a shower.
It’s the MC version of the Kama Sutra.
On Monday morning, I hear the sounds of the rest of the club stomping around, headed to construction sites, making breakfast.
I roll over to where Iron Jack watches me, sitting up against the black cushioned headboard.
“Push those sheets down so I can take a good, long look at you,” he says.
He’s been like this the whole weekend, demanding a view, or a touch, or a taste. He’s insatiable, and I’ve risen to the occasion in ways I didn’t think possible.
I shimmy the silky sheets down to my waist.
He reaches out to trace the edges of one nipple, then the other. “More.”
I kick at the sheets until all of me is bared to his gaze. Heat pools between my legs as he takes me in like I’m a statue of a goddess in a museum.
Except this one he touches, then follows the trail with his mouth.
The rough stubble of his cheeks and jaw adds texture and roughness to the journey. He pauses at my belly button, dipping his tongue in. “I’m going to start your day right,” he says. His face disappears between my thighs.
My head drops back. I’m off the deep end with him. I don’t want anything but his hands, his mouth, his body inside mine.
I’ve got it bad. I’ve never lusted like this for anybody.
His licks are long and feverish, and I grasp at the edges of the pillow and hang on.
I’ve never had sex like this, not ever, and it’s heady and addictive. In rational moments, I wonder what I’m going to do when I go home. I don’t think I have a toy in my arsenal that will do a damn thing to quench what will most certainly be a dire situation.
I let the thinking part of me go, and just feel. Iron Jack goes after me like a man with a mission. My back arches, and he reaches up to clasp a breast.
Shiiiiiiit. I’m losing my mind. The pleasure comes in waves from his mouth, hot against me, alternating between sucking and his tongue finding the exact spots to plunder.
The intensity rises. It won’t give up until I do.
I have no idea how he does this. I once watched a video where a sex therapist explained that an orgasm could go on for half an hour, an hour, or longer.
I had scoffed at it, and Jude, who’d been beside me on the bed while I listened, had laughed. “What a crock,” he’d said.
But Iron Jack was doing it. Again and again.
I ride the swells of it, images easing in and out of my inner vision. Flower fields, mountainsides, breeze-blown grass. I’m in some sanctuary, a life within my life. He takes me there.
Emotion wells up. I need a break. Some time to assess what I’ve been going through since the wedding. I reach down and grip Iron Jack’s shoulders. “Enter me. Bare back. I want to feel you.”
I assume this will speed things up, and I can escape to shower alone and think.
But I’m wrong. Iron Jack looms over me, sliding his cock inside me, a risk I’m taking now because one, he’s been in my mouth a dozen times already, and two, I have excellent health insurance.
Plus, I want it. I want to feel him.
He’s even slicker and smoother without the sheath. This is heaven. He braces on his arms, watching me as he glides in and out, taking his time.
I get a break from the nonstop waves, something slower, more manageable. We lock eyes, and I see him so clearly. The chaotic blond hair, creased from sleep. His eyebrows are heavy and thick, his eyes hooded and intense.
I reach up and run a thumb along his lower lip. God, but he is a beautiful man.
His chest and belly angle down to where our bodies collide, a plane of muscle and sinew. His abs shift with every move out, then in. It’s poetry in body movement, like a ballet dancer, or a gymnast.
Just when I get comfortable, he shifts position and comes at me at a slightly different angle, scooping himself in and up.
And there we go, he’s managing me again, sending the buzz zipping through me, and soon, the waves are forming. How does he know exactly what to do?
My arms drop to my sides as I surrender to him, pleasure raining down like shooting stars. The emotion returns, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. How has any woman walked away from him after this? He must have forced them to go.
His arm slides behind my back to lift me closer to him. His mouth greedily takes possession of a breast. I’m limp in his hold, too caught in the moment, too lost.
His pace increases, and I’m not sure I can take anymore. But somehow, I spiral into another level, the pretty scenes dissolving into the blackness of an endless void. I’m not even a person anymore but a dot in the sky, thrumming with the universe, untethered to the earth.
I’m pure light and pleasure and the glow of being alive. I want to stay in this space forever, vibrating with life. I understand everything, how we’re all connected, the sun and moon and every living thing.
Then I hear a voice in the distance, calling a name.
“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.” It’s me, and this recognition drops me right back into my body.
I clutch at Jack, and I’m filled with light, and I think maybe I love him, and the places we go, and I wonder what love is, if maybe there are more facets to it than I’ve understood before.
Iron Jack goes still, letting our bodies complete the cycle, pulsing together of their own accord. I feel the rush of him inside me, warm and wet. That is life, I think, coming for me, racing through my body.
He collapses beside me, pulling me to face him, still inside me, still pulsing. We thread together like the weave of a blanket, tight and perfectly formed.
“Jack?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Did you always expect to be president of the Wild Hair?”
He tucks my head against his shoulder. “When I was little, I did. I remember when The Lion King came out, you know, the first animated one.”
“How old were you?”
“First grade, something like that.”
“And what did it tell you about when you would become king?”
He grins at me. “That scene where Simba’s father says all this will be yours? I used to climb up on the clubhouse roof and say those lines, like Dad was saying them to me. So back then, I thought I’d take his place.”
“And that changed?”
“It’s not necessarily a tradition. A club isn’t like a kingdom.
There’s timing, for one. Often a president steps down for reasons other than dying or old age.
Sometimes they see someone else leading.
Sometimes a club takes another by force.
A president’s son, if he has one, might not be the right age or temperament for it. ”
“Or you only have daughters. I assume women don’t lead MCs.”
He lets out a short, rough laugh. “Not usually. Club life is pretty, what’s the word?”
“Patriarchal? Misogynistic? Sexist?” Only after I say it do I realize how hard I’m criticizing it.
He squeezes me. “Old school, I guess.”
“Was there an expectation that you would take over, though?”
“Actually, no. My parents encouraged me to follow the MMA dream. They liked the idea that I could be a star. It was a pursuit that fit the club. They’d watch my fights when they could. When I started rising in the lineup, sometimes they’d be on pay per view. All the Wild Hair would watch.”
“They must have been proud.”
“They were. The only time I ever saw my dad without his cut was when I had a bout in Miami, and he wore a shirt with my fighter photo on it.”
I realize something. “Is MMA when you became Iron Jack?”
He laughs, full throated this time. “It is, actually. I needed a nickname. Since Dad was Steel, Mom said I should be Iron.”
“That’s actually lovely.” I touch the tattoo on his chest. He has a large pattern that sweeps his shoulders and collarbone. Below it, over his heart, are the names of his parents. Steel. Theron.
“Do you miss the MMA days?” I ask.
“Sure. I had some friends there. More enemies, though. Part of the deal.”
“I guess fighters tend to be hotheads.”
“Some of them, yeah. My leaving created a hole that a bunch of them climbed over each other to fill.”
“But you’re glad you’re back with the Wild Hair, right?” I settle more deeply into his arms.
“I am right now,” he says. “If I was still there, I wouldn’t be here.”
I must fall asleep because I startle awake. The sun is high, streaming through the edges of the blinds. Iron Jack watches me, like the first time I woke up, and leans over to kiss my eyelids.
“We should probably eat,” he says, “if only to make sure we have the energy to keep going.”
I nod. But even as he says it, his hands rove over my body. And despite the sore muscles, the overused parts of me, I light up again.
This is madness.
I cannot resist.