Chapter 14 #2
Not able to wait any longer, she stepped away, opened the condom, fell to her knees, rinsed him off, and rolled it on.
Standing up, she pushed him against the shower wall and pressed her body against his.
Reaching below, she moved his erection to her place.
When her body opened, with a deep guttural groan she drove to the end in one desperate plunge.
Wrapping her arms around his torso, she pulled their hard bodies tight together.
With him buried to the hilt, she lay her face against his shoulder while her body adjusted.
She held steady, feeling his pulses, her spot mashed tight against his pelvis.
She’d never needed that pressure more than she needed it right then, erotic pulses throbbing through her groin, her body completely full. God, just what the doctor ordered.
Not able to hold steady any longer, her arms wrapped tight around his back, Molly began with long, slow strokes, Bart pressed against the wall, Molly doing all the work.
Keeping his shaft hard against her place, she ground desperately back and forth on it, grunting, groaning, and gasping, the powerful sensations overriding everything.
There was nothing else, only that incredible pressure on that amazing place.
She increased the pace until she was pummeling her body against his, her face hard against his shoulder, her arms locked behind his back, her breaths coming in gasps and deep guttural groans.
She understood Rebel’s wild, untamed, primal urges.
She felt the orgasm coming, but she didn’t want it yet.
She let it come to the edge before she started fighting it off.
At that incredible edge just before release, she fought as hard as she could to hold it back, ramming her body unmercifully against his, until the first explosive contraction involuntarily preempted the process.
She felt his release, those deep pulses so incredible.
She groaned and held tight as their bodies moved through the process, the final relief deeply satisfying.
Oh my God. She’d really needed that. She couldn’t remember ever needing it so much.
Keeping him embedded, she whispered in his ear, “I’m sorry about that. Are you okay?”
He kissed her forehead.
“Oh, yeah, you don’t talk during or after.”
He kissed her again. Then she pulled her head back and really laid one on him.
He was still pulsing inside, the final spasms working themselves out.
Her mouth open, she kissed him with everything she had left.
They were intimately one, the moist connections above and below intense and beautiful, reflecting exactly how Molly felt.
It was a few moments of soft, gentle kissing before she finally released him. She disposed of the condom and returned to the shower for a final rinse. Her body felt so good. God, she’d needed that. Just exactly that.
Naked on the bed, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tight.
She turned sideways, laying her leg over his, pressing her place warmly against his thigh, resting her head on his shoulder, two hearts beating, breathing returning to normal.
Never had the aftermath felt better. Molly’s body was just radiating waves of satisfying warmth.
“I really needed that.”
He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her forehead.
Oh yeah, he didn’t talk after sex.
“How’s Shadow?”
It was late afternoon. After a half hour naked on the bed, they’d managed to dress and take Scotch and glasses to the Adirondacks by the lake. A warm end of June day, they sat in the shade, Molly’s body still glowing.
“She’s definitely ready. It’s going to happen in the next forty eight hours.”
“What do you know about the litter?”
“Best guess is eleven pups. They look healthy.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m staying close to Shadow the next forty eight hours. You break away and do your business when you need to. You’re welcome to take the Jeep. Otherwise, I hope you’re here, having sex with me, and waiting for Shadow.”
“We just had sex.”
“We’re about to have it again. My body is nuts right now.”
“Okay, then.”
“Yeah, that’s right. This cowgirl is a mess.”
“So, I have bad news,” Molly said.
They’d each had two pours. Molly was feeling the Scotch on an empty stomach. It was time to work on dinner, but she needed to tell him what was on her mind.
“What’s up?”
He didn’t look too upset with the prospect of bad news.
“I don’t like secrets.”
He looked at her but didn’t say anything. He still didn’t look upset.
She said, “You have secrets.”
He was still looking at her. He didn’t look concerned, but he wasn’t making fun of her either. He just wasn’t answering, waiting patiently for more context.
“You have a secret business and you live in a secret place.”
He was still studying her. It was a respectful study. But he wasn’t responding.
She said, “I guess it depends whether this is a fling or a relationship.”
She definitely had his attention now. He took a drink of Scotch, keeping his eyes on her. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was paying attention, apparently hoping she had more to say.
“If this is a fling, maybe secrets aren’t such a big deal. But if this is a relationship, then secrets are no good.”
She’d said what she wanted to say and sat back.
She took a drink and studied him back. She wasn’t going to say anything else until he spoke.
The warm, late summer afternoon felt good.
Molly was still basking in the afterglow of great sex.
The Scotch had created a lovely buzz. She liked having him there, and she liked looking at him.
He seemed happy to be there. But this was a conversation that needed to happen.
The silence lasted a long time until a wry smile formed on his face.
“I write books.”
Molly tried not to flinch. Flinching wasn’t something a cowgirl did. Cowgirls were tough, poker faced, rarely showing surprise. But, she was surprised. Couldn’t have been more surprised. He was a writer. Really?
“You write books?”
“Yes.”
“That’s your secret business?”
“Yes.”
“Who knows about this?”
“You and me, my literary agent, editors, proofreaders, my publisher.”
“Your family?”
“No.”
“Gloria?”
“Gloria knows I’m writing. She doesn’t know my pen name and hasn’t read anything.”
“You write under a pen name?”
“Yes.”
Molly wanted to know the pen name but decided not to press her luck. Maybe right now it was enough to know that he was a writer. She wasn’t sure how much more she’d be able to pull out of him.
“What do you write?”
“Western adventure stories.”
“What authors write similar stories?”
“Jack London, Zane Grey, Ivan Doig, Wallace Stegner, Louis L’Amour. I don’t write at that quality, but those are writers I read and admire.”
“Full-length novels?”
“Short stories and full length.”
“You have a literary agent and a publisher?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been writing?”
“I started in college but didn’t pick up the professional help until after the Army.”
Pure Bart. He wasn’t volunteering a thing, but he was answering her questions. Might as well keep rolling.
“How’d that happen?”
“I wrote my first book after getting back from Afghanistan. It was based on my own experiences, a story about a dangerous rescue operation in a remote mountain valley deep in enemy territory. Two journalists had been kidnapped by the Taliban. The mission was to bring them back alive. So a war adventure story.”
“You submitted it to a publisher?”
“Publishers don’t take books like that. They only work through literary agents.
I circulated it for over a year to various literary agents before one picked me up.
She shopped it to publishers and found one interested.
She also submitted it for contests, and it got some recognition as a new adventure book by a first-time author. ”
“How’s it selling?”
“I’m not getting rich.”
“How many books have you written?”
“Ten full length. Twelve short stories.”
“How are they selling?”
“I’m not getting rich.”
“Enough to live on?”
“Only because I live on ten dollars a day.”
“You live on ten dollars a day?”
“My monthly provisions run in the $300 range. Divided by thirty days that’s about ten bucks a day.
No rent. No mortgage. No car. No insurance.
No TV, WIFI, or internet. I make most of my clothes and buy the rest at Goodwill.
Ten bucks a day is probably a low estimate, but I like to think about it that way. ”
“So, you make at least $300 a month from your books.”
“I make more than that, but I’m not getting rich. I meet my expenses and save the rest. I have a small following that’s growing.”
“So, what are you doing at the internet café when you come out?”
“Sending new copy to editors. Receiving edited copy back. Deciding on pricing, marketing, ads. Reviewing the monthly newsletter and proposed covers. Updating the website. Responding to readers. Like that.”
“You advertise?”
“All online. Facebook, Amazon, Google. It’s where the action is. My literary agent oversees all that, but it’s a constant discussion.”
“How long does it take you to write a book?”
“I write an average of a thousand words a day. So 30,000 words a month. Three months to write a 90,000 word novel. My contract is for four books a year.”
“What are you working on now?”
“I’m in the second book of a young adult adventure series.”
“Young adults? Teenagers?”
“Yeah, this is my first effort at the young reader.”
“Fantasy, Sci-Fi?”
“That’s what most kids are reading, but that’s not my genre. More like Lassie. Boy and his dog. Girl and her horse.”
“What’s your current story?”
“Boy and his hunting falcon.”
“Why do you keep your writing a secret?”