Chapter 10 Storm Rules #2
“I want him to watch my ass,” Bianca said, and lifted off me, my cock slipping free slick and hard for a moment before she turned in the water, reverse now, her back to my chest, her hands braced on my knees, and reached between her thighs to feed me back into her and settled down again.
She aimed the view of herself at the ledge on purpose, the defining curve of her ass cresting the waterline with every roll, water sheeting off it by candlelight, working herself up and down my cock, the lips of her cunt clinging tight on every down-stroke, gripping me deep.
“There. Now you can both look. Greta, is it good?”
“It’s obscene,” Greta said warmly, and her commentary slipped for the first time, just a little, the clinical precision warming into something with want in it, her hand drifting to rest on her belly.
“It’s, oh, it’s very good. He’s holding you open so I can see.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, this one.
Henrik would shut his eyes and get on with it, kind and quick. This one watches where all of it goes.”
The ceremonial pace climbed. Bianca took my hands and pulled them to her, one to her hip and one up to a heavy breast to cup and squeeze it, and rode me harder, bouncing on my cock now, the water surging, slapping the lip of the pool, the wet slap of her ass meeting my hips loud under the candlelight, her volume off the marble walls unrationed because the storm covered everything and the only audience was a friend who’d asked to watch.
I dropped a hand between her thighs and found her clit and worked it in circles while she fucked herself on me, and she keened.
“Now, querido,” she gasped, switching to Portuguese as she always did at the end, “agora, agora, don’t stop, I’m…
” and she came loud and shaking and beautiful, full of me, her cunt clamping and fluttering around my cock, her body locking taut, her head thrown back against my shoulder.
The grip of her milking me was too much and I followed her a moment later, gripping her ass down hard onto me, holding her there as I emptied deep inside her in thick hot spurts while the candles guttered in the steam and the water churned and both of us breathed like we’d run up the mountain.
From the ledge, Greta gave her verdict, warm and certain and final.
“Yes,” she said, hand on her belly, watching the two of us come apart in the candlelight. “The spa is going to be fine.”
We floated, the three of us, after, in the warm water with the storm dying on the glass.
Bianca dozed against my shoulder. And Greta, drifting on her back, gold hair fanned in the water, told us the thing under the serenity, the confession that only surfaces at midnight, in warm water, with the road closed.
“I don’t miss the sex, when I’m home,” she said, conversationally, to the ceiling, the storm rattling the high glass above us.
“I mean, I miss it, I’m human and pregnant and the third trimester is a scandal nobody warns you about.
But the sex was never the hole in it. I miss being seen.
A whole house that looks at you and is glad you came up the mountain.
You can’t buy that. I’ve tried. I have a lot of money and I have tried to buy the feeling of a full house and it doesn’t come in any size.
” She let her hand trail through the warm white water.
“My flat in Malm? is very nice and very quiet. Too quiet. Built for two and lived in by one. That’s the part the waters can’t fix and even your clever hands can’t fix, novato. The quiet afterward. That’s all of it.”
She paused, the smile still in her voice, the loneliness right underneath it, the two of them braided together in her, smile and sorrow sharing the one breath.
“But I’m working on it,” she said, after a moment, before I could make a face about any of it.
“Don’t look like that. I’m always working on it.
You do it on purpose, every day, the same as the dishes.
Nobody ever feels like washing up either, and the plates get clean regardless.
” She turned her head, gold hair fanning in the water, and smiled at me, unbothered, certain.
Nobody said anything for a moment. The storm rattled the glass.
“You won’t be alone in there,” Bianca said, quietly, against my shoulder, not opening her eyes. “Wherever ‘there’ is. We’re terrible at letting people be alone. It’s our worst quality.”
Greta laughed, soft, and let it go, and we floated, and the storm blew itself out over the mountain.
By dawn the wind had dropped and the sky had gone a thin clean blue, and the road crews would have the valley open by noon.
The cable car ground back into motion mid-morning, and the first thing it carried up was a delivery, and the first item in the delivery was an envelope for the directress, hand-couriered from the panorama suite even though the suite was thirty meters from the office, because Simone Devereux did things in writing.
Marlene opened it at the desk with Poppy and me both pretending not to watch.
Inside was the fourteen-page amendment document, the schedule density and the penalties and the metrics and the reports, every clause Simone had insisted on the day she arrived.
Withdrawn. All of it. A single line in her slashing hand across the cover page: Amendments rescinded. Standard agreement accepted in full. S.D.
Marlene read it twice. She set it down on the desk, very carefully.
“Well,” she said, to no one, in a voice gone quiet with something close to wonder under the dryness. “That’s new.”
Then she drew the panorama suite’s schedule card from the rack and wrote the next three words on it herself, in her own careful hand, instead of leaving them for Yuki and the board.
Window opens Thursday.