13. Handled Itself
handled itself
Mirren
I want to say it’s too much. I wonder if I can shatter from coming too many times.
But I have time for neither the words nor the thoughts as his fingers leave my ass. I feel empty, but only for a moment because his thumb replaces it. Them. I have no clue.
His mouth is back on my aching, swollen clit, and what senses I have left tunnel to only the sensations between my legs. Three fingers enter me, reaching, rubbing, finding that spot deep within that scares and eludes me.
Between his thumb, his lips, and his fingers, I’m only sensation… a tinder box waiting to combust, leaving me the burned shell of the woman I’ve known.
I moan and reach with my core for more while knowing I can’t take anymore. I can’t help the spasms rolling through my body, the threats of the coming wave of pleasure dooming me. I’ll shatter into fragments of a woman who’s had so much pleasure she’s unable to be pieced back together.
It’s coming. “I’m going to…”
Darkness threatens to overtake me. Fireworks shoot off behind my eyelids, and my hearing tunnels. And the wave sucks me under in absolute bliss.
I come to with Strider kissing my belly, between my breasts, returning to that pulse point he sucked what seems like hours ago. He’s at my ear before I know it, whispering, “I swear you’ve ruined me. You are the ultimate woman. The ultimate feast. I’ll never be the same.”
I take my hand from the edge of the island and wrap it around the back of his head, turning my face to his. I want to say something funny or pithy. But I have no words. His ice blue eyes hold mine and something flits between us.
A knowing.
A truth.
So I keep my silence and swallow my jokes. Strider Anderson is authentic, honest, and kind. He deserves more than my sarcasm.
My chest heaves, first with the need for oxygen, but with something else I can’t explain. It tightens and locks in place. “Take me to bed.”
“You want to go for four?”
“I want to handle this.” Holding his gaze, I reach between us and squeeze his cock. “And then I want a nap.”
“That, uh…” He closes his eyes. “Handled itself.”
I pause, getting his meaning.
He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised. You may not know what you taste like or what you look like when you come, but, baby, it would be enough to bring me to my knees if I hadn’t already been there.”
“Well, I want you inside me until you come again and then have a nap and maybe some cold pasta. That work?”
“I’ll never turn that down.”
He scoops me up and carries me down the hall to his bedroom—my bedroom—and sets me down. Twice now I’ve had the weird feeling about being a guest in my own home. Perhaps it’s worse. Perhaps it’s that this feels like home with him in it.
And that’s tragic. Because he’s the best I’ve ever had in bed.
And fun to be around when we’re not. He’s charming and sweet—when it comes to anything but sex—and tempting as fuck with those dark rimmed glasses.
But he’s passing through. He’s a guy on vacation, a man who lives hundreds of miles away, and worse, a friend of Charlie’s.
Thinking of my brother is off-putting. That thought quickly fizzles as Strider unbuttons his shirt and shucks his jeans and boxers. How did I not notice he was barefoot?
“Come on!” It’s a whine. And I mean it in the sense of how many ways could he seduce me. Instead, he takes it in the hurry up way and leans over caging me on the bed.
“Impatient much?”
“Around you? Always.”
Now, why did I say that?
Strider
“Spread your legs for me. Show me.”
Heat covers her face, but she does it anyway as her chin lifts defiantly. The woman cannot back down from a challenge. I could dare her to move to the Himalayas, sight unseen with no time to prepare, and, if phrased correctly, I bet she would just to prove she could.
It may be the sight of her, the smell of her pussy, her proud chin, or the provocation in her eyes, but I’m hard instantly, throbbing and desperate.
I flick her clit with the head of my cock, watching her face and hearing her hiss. “Sensitive, Freckles?”
“No.”
That makes me laugh. Out loud. It’s unavoidable. “Liar,” I whisper against her lips, not stressing at all at her untruth.
“Fuck me.” She holds my eyes as I take my cock in hand, nudging against her entrance. Slick heat meets me as I start to sink but—
“Hello?” a male voice echoes through the house.
What. The. Hell?
Mirren freezes. “Shit.” She scrambles, rolling me to my back and disengaging what little connection we have. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I can’t explain how sorry. Shit.”
I don’t know if it’s all one word because she’s speaking so fast or if panic has overtaken her tongue. She stares at the floor, twisting in circles, and grabs my shirt.
“Who is it?” I ask her retreating back. More importantly, why now?
“My brother,” she throws over her shoulder as she flies out of the room.
Lying prone on the bed, I stare at the ceiling trying to think about my sisters. It’s the fastest way I know of to deflate my dick.
Sam’s a watercolor artist who, to the best of my knowledge, lives in a commune in the Florida Keys.
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been invited to her place.
She’s flaky but kind, incredibly talented, but so reserved I barely know her.
Less than two years apart, she left home at eighteen and never looked back.
She got married on my birthday and didn’t even invite me or Lorien.
Did I mention we were all in the same town? That’s another story for another day.
I don’t even have to get to Lorien. My dick is normal, albeit annoyed, so I roll off the bed, clean up from earlier and toss on my jeans. I find a lemon-yellow tee in my suitcase and pull it over my head before venturing out to find what fresh hell awaits me.