9. ETHAN
9
ETHAN
“I can walk out at any point?” she asks, looking at me skeptically.
“Absolutely.”
She nods slowly, a thin smile creasing her face. She extends her hand for a business-like handshake, but I have other plans.
I kiss her hard.
I feel a little guilty. I had played fast and loose with the facts, and Sophia was smart enough that she would eventually figure that out. I honestly do believe we are doing what’s best for the child, and hopefully, by that point, she will feel better about the whole thing.
The thin cotton dress clings to her curves in the brisk ocean breeze, and the moonlight in the clear sky gives her face an almost saintly glow.
I wrap her in a tight embrace, feeling her briefly shiver.
I hope that’s a result of the chill in the air and not due to any misgivings about my integrity.
My lips find her earlobe, nibbling lightly, drawing a playful giggle.
As my hand slides across her hip and cups her ass cheek, she moans softly, almost inaudibly.
I can feel the heat emanating from her body and her muscles tensing in anticipation.
I desperately want to take her right here, right now, but I’m bereft of options. For once, I hadn’t planned ahead for a potential encounter. How uncharacteristic.
“How about we go for a ride?” I suggest. Nodding my head towards my car.
That was usually a surefire thing for me, but I instantly feel stupid for trying such a cliche line. Sophia is too smart for that.
She surprises me with an unexpected reply. “Only if I drive.”
I let out a soft chuckle and nod as she grabs a small clutch from the railing, presumably containing her wallet and keys.
I start to head for her car when I hear her call out, “Uh, uh, lover boy. I mean, I get to drive the Aston Martin.”
“Ah, what a cheeky little minx!” I exclaim, turning toward her. “Think you can handle her?”
She replies with a middle finger. I like this version of Sophia. Maybe I’m rubbing off on her.
I toss her the keys. Hey. It’s only a car, right? What could go wrong?
She spins tires as she turns left out of the parking lot, almost losing it, but collecting it nicely and roaring off.
“Nice,” she comments over the growl of the engine. “V-8, right?”
Ah, a woman who knows cars. I like. I seem to remember when Liam and I were in high school, he liked to work on classic muscle cars with a group of friends we hung around with. Sometimes Sophia was around too and seemed to take an interest. I never thought she was paying attention.
“Yeah,” I reply. “four liter, twin turbos, about six-sixty horsepower.”
She nods in appreciation, gripping the wheel harder.
I know how she feels. The first time I drove this car, it was a magical experience, almost better than sex ...
She’s a surprisingly skilled driver. We fly down the highway, at one point topping one hundred, before she slows it down, pulling over and sliding to a stop.
“Wow!” she says almost breathlessly. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“You surprise me,” I tell her as we switch places.
“I don’t know what came over me. I guess I took one chance accepting your proposition, why not double down?”
“Why not?” I repeat.
Settling into the driver’s seat, I pull out on the highway and turn around in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” she asks. “My car.”
“It’s perfectly safe, we’ll come back for it later.”
Ten minutes later, we’re pulling into my driveway and parking in front of my little bungalow – my fifteen hundred square foot bungalow. The Blackwoods are like Texas, we do everything big.
“I figure if you’re going to be my ‘wife’, I should at least offer you a tour of the house.”
Sophia’s family is far from poor, but I can tell she’s impressed with my little corner of the family compound.
“Nice,” she says, looking around and obviously trying to appear noncommittal.
“I know,” I tease her sarcastically. “So twenty-first century gaudy, right? I’m having a decorator come in next week.”
“Don’t redecorate on my account,” she snaps back.
I enjoy her sense of humor. She gets me.
“Let me show you the bedroom,” I suggest.
"Why, Mr. Blackwood,” she says, putting on her most exaggerated Southern belle accent, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to take advantage of me.”
I shake my head and lead the way up the stairs.
My bedroom is large and masculine, but not ostentatious. That's not really my thing. It's utilitarian and suits me well. The king-sized bed is flanked by a couple of built-in bookcases, mostly filled with interesting trinkets like baskets and figurines I had acquired while traveling the world.
A large computer monitor sits atop a utilitarian desk tucked away in one corner and a couple of well-cared-for potted plants are strategically located in front of two enormous picture windows that face the beach.
I feel that vibe is understated and mature. The only monument to myself is a shadowbox on one shelf containing the few service medals I had earned and my prized SEAL trident insignia at the top.
“Well, well, Mr. Blackwood,” Sophia says, wandering over to the window and staring out over the open waters of the Atlantic, “nice place you have here.”
“It’ll do – for now,” I reply, walking up beside her and wrapping my arm around her waist. “I’ve been looking for a place of my own. I want to stay nearby. I like it here, but I need to be out on my own, away from my parents.”
“What’ll you do?” she turns to me, her face serious. “I mean, I guess you have the money to lie around being a beach bum, but that’s not you, is it?”
“No,” I shake my head. “I did have plans to strike out on my own, but my father quashed that before I even had the chance. They want me to go to law school, and I dunno, take over the family business or whatever. I have no interest in that. The money is good, of course, but what do I need with that at this point?”
“Word is, you have a lot of powerful people in your pocket, or at least your dad does,” she pointed out.
“Yeah, and that does open a lot of doors, but it’s their willingness to destroy people that bothers me. I’ve never been one to respect authority, and probably never will be, but having been a member of a team, I learned that not everyone will always agree on everything, and the solution is not to eliminate those who disagree with you.”
“Enough about them,” I change the subject and sigh. “Look, honestly, one of the only reasons I agreed to work on this thing with the adoption is it meant I would get to spend more time with you. I know this pretending to be married thing will be weird, but it’ll work out.”
“Now, Mrs. Blackwood,” I whisper, pulling her into my arms, “I have a little surprise for you.”
Sophia stands nude in the center of the room, eyes closed, the moonlight streaming in from the window bathing her body in an ethereal glow.
I can sense the tension, and I know she feels vulnerable. Given our past, I’m surprised she trusts me, but I have no intention of harming her in any way.
I drink her beauty in as I approach her from behind.
In my hand I hold a violin bow.
I wish I could take credit for being clever enough to come up with this little game, but it was actually a guy I knew in the Navy band. He’s a violinist, and he explained to me that a bow is made from fine horsehair stretched between the two ends of the bow. The friction caused when the microscopic ridges of the hairs rub across the strings is what generates the sound.
As he discovered, those same tiny ridges can also cause a woman to make a sound when lightly drawn across her most sensitive places.
Lightly grasping the bow, as he taught me, I come up behind Sophia and ever so gently draw the hairs across one taut pink nipple.
A strangled gasp emerges from the depths of her throat, and her knees wobble slightly.
I guess my friend was right.
“Jesus, what was that?” she whispers.
“Ah, ah, that’s part of the game,” I say quietly, a mischievous smile on my face.
I repeat the process on the other side, and this time she lets out a small yelp, her knees buckling beneath her.
I drop my new toy and rush to catch her before she falls.
“Maybe we take this to a less risky place,” I suggest, leading her over to the bed, having her sit on the bed with her legs dangling over the edge.
Once she’s situated, I retrieve the bow and climb up on the other side so I’m behind her once again.
I begin to lightly nip at her ear once again, whispering in her ear, “Open up,” tapping on the inner side of each of her upper thighs with the bow to get her to open her legs.
Tentatively, she complies with my instruction, parting her thighs.
I tease her, gently tracing intricate patterns with the very tip of the bow, as her excitement grows.
Finally, I draw the stings lightly up the center or her channel, barely brushing her clit.
She explodes almost instantly, her legs trembling uncontrollably.
I continue to move the instrument back and forth, ever so slowly, playing a symphony on her skin, the texture of the hairs driving her wild. She clutches at my arms, her red-painted nails digging into the flesh of my forearms, her heels digging into the frame of my bed. Her breath now coming in deep gasps.
“Please,” she cries out, thrashing her head from side-to-side.
“Please, what?” I ask, enjoying the exquisite torture I was subjecting her to.
“Please stop. Just fuck me,” she cries.
“We’ve only just begun,” I complain, trying to find the most sensitive parts of her body.
The area between her lower stomach and the rise of her pubic mound seems particularly reactive to the touch of the bow as I graze the skin.
“Dammit, just fuck me,” she almost shouts, spinning around with force I didn’t know she had and pinning me to the bed.
She hovers above me, her nude body the picture of fury, her eyes ablaze, her hair a messy halo surrounding her head.
Straddling me, she searches for my erect cock with her hand before positioning it at her entrance and sinking down with a satisfied groan.
She begins to rise and fall rhythmically above me, occasionally brushing stray hairs from her face.
Her expression changes, and she emits small gasps when she hits just the right spot.
Her hands entwine with mine as she tries to steady herself, her pace quickening as her second orgasm approaches.
Her breathing grows heavier and more rapid, and I can feel the muscles of her vagina tighten.
I feel a similar sensation arising from within myself.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she repeats, riding to her climax in her own little world, focused completely on her own pleasure.
“Fuuuuuuck,” she cries out as her orgasm washes over her.
That was enough to send me over the edge as well, sinking as deeply into her as I could manage.
Throwing her head back, she tries to catch her breath, sliding off of me.
“I guess you are a kinky little shit, aren’t you?” she asks, producing a tired laugh.
“Guilty as charged.”