32. Blissed out in Neverland
blissed out in neverland
Mirren
My gut is good. I’m not being played. I’ve been fucked but not fucked over. Strider isn’t some criminal operative who’s using me for nefarious purposes.
Unless those purposes are for fabulous sex. In which case, I volunteer to be played… like a symphony.
“Fuck me,” he says from just below my ear.
“I think I just did.” Squeezing my inner muscles, I remind him where he is right now.
“Every time I think it can’t get better. How can it keep getting better?”
I don’t know. I hope I never find out, because if this is us and then we go average, I’d rather never know.
“I credit the hormones and the distance.”
He kisses under my ear and glides in an out with his softening cock. “I assume it’s you. My cock seems to have a mind of its own around you.” He pushes up to hover above me. “You okay? Did I hurt you?”
Rocking my ankles into his shoulders, I tilt my pelvis and squeeze against him. “Never better.”
“This angle”—he continues his strokes—“is my new favorite.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m willing for it to be dethroned. Or to pursue testing things out.”
I laugh at that. And he moans when I do.
“I need to clean up, honey.”
His whimper is cute. But he leaves me and rolls onto his back, his curved cock resting lazily on his belly.
“I’ll be right back.”
I do my thing and grab a moist washcloth to clean up Strider when a thought strikes me.
I count. Recount. Count again.
I need my calendar and my pack of pills to be sure, but barring me missing something big…
I’m late.
My thoughts race, my heart speeds, and I pad out to the room, trying to keep my cool and school my features to not give anything away.
I stand over the man who’s almost fallen asleep during my freakout. Jeans and underwear just above his knees. One socked foot, one still with a shoe on it. His black eye is swollen and pink due to blood flow. The bruises around his neck stand out in stark relief with no place to hide them.
I clean him up, all the while he watches me, watches my hands, my face.
Tossing the rag aside, I pile onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling beside him.
The chill in the air from my overheated skin and the sweat that lines it is too much and a shiver runs down me until my teeth almost chatter.
Strider stands, shucks the rest of his clothes, and turns the bedding down, allowing me in ahead of him. He follows, enveloping my body with his, warming me up.
My mind whirls. I pull up a mental calendar and count yet again. The man behind me snores ever so slightly telling me he’s under, even if it’s not six in the evening.
He left two weeks ago tomorrow. I’m religious about taking my pills, though they may have been slightly off schedule with me sleeping in the wrong—no, not wrong… a different—bed. And then there was Taiwan. Who the hell knows what time was what there? But I didn’t miss.
So, why am I three days late?
Cartoon me thinks it’s just three days.
Real me knows it’s three whole days when we could set the atomic clock by my damn cycle.
I blow out a huge breath.
“Are you getting warm?” The grumbly, soft voice at my ears purrs.
“Yeah.” I nestle back into him.
“I’m hungry.”
“Do we need to go find some dinner for you?”
“You’re my dinner. I want to eat you, but I don’t want you to be cold. I’ll keep you warm if you want.” His hand on my belly slides down, inch-by-inch, seeking permission in its speed.
I stretch wide and open enough to give him some space. His long fingers slide in and out of me, the sounds of our connection filling the room.
“On your knees, Mirren.” His tone has gone from sleepy to bossy as he leans onto me, rolling me onto my belly, only to pull me up on my knees, my head still on the pillow.
He positions himself between my knees and works me from an angle where all I can do is receive. I can’t see, can’t coax. I can only take.
He moves from my pussy to my ass in a long trail of his tongue, and I gasp.
Again and again he makes the path, building and playing until I’m writhing.
I never come—whether because he never takes me there or because my mind is in a million places, I don’t know, but he lifts up, keeping a hand firmly between my shoulder blades and slides into me inch by deep inch.
I need to rock. I need to roll. I need some movement, some friction. I need to come hard after being tightly wound and kept wound for longer than my body’s used to.
As he slides out, a thumb enters my ass.
I push back onto him, only to have that hand between my shoulder blades press with more force. “Just feel, baby. Feel me. Feel us.”
Slow, long, lazy strokes hit the end of me and retreat. He twists the thumb in my ass with each stroke and builds his pace. Faster, deeper. The hand on my back slides around to my clit and rubs deep, tight circles.
It’s enough to get me out of my head. He’s everywhere.
It’s everything. My body is an orchestra that he conducts like a master symphony.
The swells and crescendos melt into melody until the finale when everything works so flawlessly together.
I’m going to snap, to fray, to shatter in a million pieces.
Blackness hits my vision. My hearing tunnels, and I crest a wave so beautiful that I fall and fall and fall, never needing to be caught. Drifting along on beauty, on bliss, on carnal pleasure so huge, it’s enveloping.
I can’t hold my knees in place, and they slide out from beneath me, Strider still pounding into me, the angle, the tightness of our new position rolling me onto and over a second wave. One he must be surfing with me. I don’t know. I’m blissed out in Neverland, flying and floating, into dreams.
Strider
I don’t know that she said a word, but her moans are so raw and decadent that they draw me over the edge. I rut like a wild animal to every luscious whimper and groan.
Somewhere between her first and second orgasm, my name is a benediction on her lips. It’s all it takes for me to explode inside her. I collapse on her back, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs.
With the hand not trapped below her, I stroke her side. “You make it too easy to fall for you,” I whisper into her skin. “And it’s not the sex. Though I’m not complaining.”
When I can wait no longer, I pull out of her and lift off her body, pulling the covers over her and head to the bathroom.
The room is gleaming white marble with tall, ornate ceilings and way more space than I’d expect in a building of this age.
The shower is modern and floor-to-ceiling, but it’s the tub that catches my eye.
Long enough for two and deep enough to almost get submerged to the shoulders, I start the hot water and add just a little of the salts on the edge.
I handle myself and return to the woman who’s little more than a puddle of goo in the sheets.
Pulling back the covers, she grumbles at what I assume is the cool air.
I roll her my way and carry her, bridal style, into the bathroom and clean her up as best as I can before extending a hand to the tub.
Wordlessly she enters ahead of me and scoots a bit, playing with the taps as I slide in behind her. We’re not coordinated enough not to slosh water onto the floor, but that’s a later me problem. For now, I have my girl in my arms, sated, warm, and relaxed.
“How are you perfect?” She’s leaning back into my chest, our legs tangled after figuring out how to fit.
“I’m hardly perfect.”
“I don’t know. You seem perfect to me.”
I can’t help the smile in my voice. “Would you write that down for me? My family needs to hear it from someone.”
“What I mean is”—she plays her fingers along the surface of the filling water like keys on a piano—“how are you not taken?”
“I am taken.” My hips cradling her squeeze reflexively.
“How were you not taken?”
I shrug, knowing she can feel the rise and fall of my chest against her back. “I could say the same for you.”
“But you know why I was single.”
“I kind of got busy doing what I was supposed to do and didn’t realize until recently it’s not at all what I want to be doing.”
“What do you want to do?” She rubs a foot up and down my calf.
“Drink coffee with you. Go to museums with you. Sit at the beach with you. Fuck you. Eat you. Cook for you. Experience a Jones’ Halloween with you.”
“You might not like me enough for all that togetherness. I’m… a lot.”
“Good.”
She cranes her neck to find my eyes. “Good?”
“Yeah. I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for right.”
She faces away from me and asks the room, “And you think I’m right?”
“For me? Absolutely. I know it in my bones.”
Using a toe, she shuts off the water. “You know it in your bones after three weeks, when you’ve been gone for two?”
“I do.” Sucking in a huge lungful of air, I ask the question that terrifies me. “Don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer my question. She gives no clue how she’s leaning. Instead, she offers two words.
“I’m late.”