Текст книги "Sex Love Repeat"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
“More,” he groans. “Tell me more.”
“I came from his fingers, my juices all over his hand, I came and I screamed his name when I did it. I told him how fucking perfect he was and how much he turned me on.” His strokes roughened with my words, increasing in speed, his competitiveness lighting a fire in my belly and I was suddenly there again. One the brink of orgasm, need running through my limbs and pumping loud in my heart. “God Paul, you have no idea how good his cock feels in me. How deep he goes when I straddle his cock and fuck him hard. How he whispers my name when I take every inch of him.”
He roars, pulling me to the far edge of the sink, thrusting deeper and harder than he ever has, his mouth roughly taking my own, his tongue marking, branding, and drinking from my mouth. I push against his chest, my own body breaking in his arms, the orgasm whirling through my body, my words tumbling out as I shudder with pleasure in his arms, his pace never slowly, his cries joining my own, the hot spread of liquid pumped deep with his cock, his name repeated over and over as he finally, with one final shuddering thrust, buries himself inside of me.
Five minutes later, I slip back into my seat, Stewart barely pausing in a lengthy explanation of market trends and their expected impact. But I feel his eyes on me, see the casual glance at his watch. “Impressive.” He murmurs, tugging my hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on my knuckle. “I take it you are taken care of?”
I feel drugged, heady with the release and the knowledge of what I have just done. “Till tonight,” I whisper.
“Oh have no doubt,” he says, staring into my eyes. “You will need every bit of energy for it.”
I hide a grin behind a long sip of champagne, turning when I feel a soft hand on my arm.
“My wife tells me you sell books,” the man says, a polite smile on his face. “Tell me, what authors do you enjoy?”
I smile politely, responding to the man, and feel the rough heat of Stewart’s hand, sliding up my dress, and hear his intake of breath when he finds my lack of panties.
We leave the event early, Stewart declining invitations for cigars, blaming my lightheadedness for our early departure. He pulls me by the hand, his steps clipped, my heels skittering to keep up. We push through the lobby doors and into the cool night air, the valet ready with his car, the intense look on his face as he shuts my door sending shivers through my body.
The engine roars as he accelerates, out of the garage, his hand fumbling for and unbuckling my seatbelt as he turns onto the road, the traffic light. “I need your fucking mouth on me. Now.” He loosely grips my hair and pulls as I climb my torso over the center console, my hands quickly undoing his belt, his erection strong against the expensive fabric.
He grunts when I have it out, my hand gripping it, my mouth on it before he can speak, precum salty and sweet on my tongue, proof of his arousal. His hand pushes my head, pushing me down on it, and exhales as I take him. “Jesus, Madison.” His voice breaks, almost as if on a cry, the need so strong, his hand shaking as he cups the back of my head. “I couldn’t fucking think in there. Knowing what you were doing, knowing what you had done. My sweet fucking girl, full of another man.” He thrusts upward on the final word, his sentence ending harshly, thick with competition.
I suck, hard and fast, my hand aiding me, the push and pull of his hand setting the tone, my mouth doing the rest. And it doesn’t take long. He is so ready, so primed for me, three hours of buildup turning my steel man into a mess of want and desire. It is gorgeous when he comes.
gasping my name
thrusting into my mouth
twitching, spurting, more and more
draining down my throat, spilling out around my hand
I gag, I gulp and he says my name
over and over
his thighs flexing beneath me
his grip tight on my hair
His car flies into the portico of his building and he slams on brakes, shoving the car into park, groaning for air as both hands come down on my head, pushing himself up into my mouth for one last thrust, one last drop. Then he pulls me back, lifting under my arms and dragging me across the center, until my dress rides up and my ass is on his cock, his arms encasing me, as I curl into a ball against his hard chest. A chest that is heaving, his heart pounding beneath his skin, his arms wrapping tightly, strongly, around my body. “God...” he whispers. “You are my fucking kryptonite.” He leans down, pressing soft kisses on my hair and forehead, his hand releasing me and cradling my face, turning it up to his, and kissing me fully and deeply on the lips. “I love you Madison. For everything.”
And that is how it is. I fuck Stewart, I fuck Paul, and they both know about it. And the more I fuck one, the more turned on the other gets. The more competitive, aggressive, loving, they become. It is a constant, whirling sea of sex. I love it, and they love it. They don’t need to know who the other is. That would take it a step too close, a step too real. It is better that it is a nameless, faceless individual. And I appreciate keeping the worlds separate. I have fantasies, sure. Of having them both at the same time. Their hands on my body, their competing cocks battling over my skin. But that just seems too messy. And I don’t want to do anything to disrupt the perfection that is us. The three of us. Living two separate relationships.
I get that you don’t understand. That you wonder how someone could possibly be aroused, turned on by the thought of something so forbidden. But often, it is the forbidden that is the hottest, and the depraved that is the most arousing.
TORRENCE, CA
DANA
It is unhealthy, this obsession I have with Stewart’s love life. Why should it matter who he dates? Why do I care if the blushing blonde on his arm is a flavor of the week or a future wife? I should return to my life, return to my empty condo and my stacks of work. I should not care whether he is happy or lonely, a workaholic or a loving boyfriend. But of course I care. I will always care, I will always love him, and I will always watch out for him. He is my Stewart.
And the blonde from the bookstore—if she is a flavor of the week, she has stretched her flavor into months. Some may call it stalking, some might call it love, but I have continued to watch them from afar. I see her leave his building, her long legs in cutoff shorts and flip flops, her friendly smile to the valet one of familiarity as she catches the keys and slips into her expensive convertible. I’ve followed her onto the freeway, the woman driving recklessly, quickly losing me in traffic as I attempted to use a blinker, maintain a safe speed, and not nose dive beneath the tread of an eighteen-wheeler. She was gone, the white car whipping into the glare of the California sun, headed east, my sleuthing attempt a disaster. Except for her tag number. I wrote it down, with no clear idea of what to do with it.
Maybe he is happy. I hope he is. I called him this afternoon. But again, as it has been for three years, he did not answer.
LUNADA BAY, RANCHO PALOS VERDES
CRUSHER: Someone who surfs hard,
as if they have nothing to lose
and no fear inside.
MADISON
Lunada Bay is Paul’s favorite place to surf, the waves so high they take your breath away. It is also one of the most contested spots to stick your board in at. It’s located in Rancho Palos Verdes, which is pretty much where all rich white people money goes to die. Colossal mansions sit oceanfront, with manicured lawns and Mercedes that stare out onto waves that kill at least one surfer a year. The local surfers are territorial, running off tourists with sharp voices often backed up by fists, keeping the waves uncluttered and the beach sunbather free. In the ‘90s, a local television crew was attacked, broken bottles and fists causing blood and bruised egos to scamper back up the slippery slope to the road, their broadcasts interrupted by a trip to the ER. But they allow Paul. They are in awe of him, as am I—his effortless conquer of the waves, his ability, no matter how rough or dangerous a spill, to resurface in the froth. But he wasn’t always allowed. I have seen his scar. A long, thick knot of tissue where some spoiled rich kook slashed his side in an attempt to protect this jewel-encrusted strip of beach. Paul returned the next day, and battled waves while bleeding through thirty-four stitches. After that, they accepted him as their own, and, when I came into his life, welcomed me with sunburnt smiles.
Today the waves are almost twelve feet. Surfers measure from the back, so a twelve foot wave is actually, from the shore, twenty-four feet in height, a huge wall of dark water, rising like a beast before curling and crashing onto whatever surfer is foolish or unlucky enough to be in its’ grasp. I look for Paul, look for his red board, not seeing his head bobbing among the riders. My arms tighten, my eyes scanning slowly, then quickly, my mind trying to recount the last time I saw him.
Then I see his board, a quick rush of relief replaced by nerves. He is out farther, a few hundred yards behind the main peak, at a spot called Truck Drivers. My heart sinks, a heavy weight of doom pulling it down, dragging it to the bottom until it sits somewhere in my stomach, heavy as lead, my breaths coming short and fast.
“Whoa, Paul’s taking Truck Drivers?”
I don’t turn at the voice, knowing its source. Rayne. A dreadlocked Barbie who rarely lifted her head off her boyfriend’s cock or the bong he placed before her. “Yeah.”
“He is crazy, girl.”
He is crazy. Truck Drivers is a take-off spot for waves, named by some tourist that had probably died shortly after naming it. It’s for daredevils, or anyone stupid enough to want to risk their life for a wave. And the wave that was coming? It was beautiful. Terrifyingly so.
“Uh-oh.” Rayne says softly. I don’t know whether to slap her or bury my face in her massive chest and avoid the entire thing.
But I can’t move. I’m glued to the scene, glued to his form, as he leans forward, lying flat and low on the board, and begins paddling, the wave growing larger and more deadly as it grows.
The ocean is a beast. A beast that doesn’t care if it chews you up or swallows you whole. A beast you cannot beat, you can only dance with it until the time comes when it kills you. It will never lose, and with moves like this, Paul is living on borrowed time. I watch him paddle and wonder if this is the moment when he will die.
The wall of water stands, straight up, sunlight glinting off it in a way that hurts my eyes. I stand, my eyes locked on the one small break in its awesome silhouette, the dip that is my heart, the man I love standing to his feet and disappearing into its churn as it breaks, bending down on itself, Paul’s body gone, nothing but white energy before me.
He is right now in one of two places. In the channel, hidden by the wave of water, or he’s fallen, crushed underwater by the wave.
A breaking wave can push a surfer down twenty to fifty feet, sending them into a washing-machine style spin that tumbles and breaks them apart. When they finally stop spinning, when their chest is breaking apart and fighting against the urge to inhale, they have to regain equilibrium and figure out which way is up. Some surfers swim the wrong way, traveling ten feet before their bursting lungs and their sense of direction alerts them to the deadly mistake. Lack of air is not the only danger. Water pressure at that depth will rupture an eardrum as easily as crushing a fly. Even worse is not having any depth. If the ocean floor, or a reef is present, the wave will grind you against it like a mortar to a stone. Paul needs to get to the surface before the next wave hits. The next wave will be a new downward force, a second round in the spin cycle. A second round that compounds the danger, one that his lungs will probably not survive.
Red. Breaking. Far left, shooting out of the front of the curl, Paul’s board dipping down and ahead of the break, swinging up, and then down again, his body stepping forward on the nose, arms loose and confident, his movement graceful and relaxed.
I gasp. For him, it was nothing. For me, I just died a small death. I blink back tears and sink to the sand.
“Chocka,” Rayne drawls, brushing off her arms and stepping away.
HOLLYWOOD, CA
Paul left this afternoon, headed to San Diego, where a tropical storm has created a current he wants to chase. He kissed me quickly, throwing some clothes in a bag and promising to be back tomorrow afternoon, unless the weather changes. I am used to it, his excitement over perfect conditions, the unending quest for the perfect wave. A conquer that no one will see, a personal victory only for himself. I watch him leave before dialing Stewart. He doesn’t answer, and my texts go unanswered. I mill around the house for a bit, then grab my keys and head into town.
I valet my car and take the elevator up, inserting my key and pressing the button for his suite. Chances are, at eight PM, he’ll still be at work. But I can wait, change into comfortable clothes and grab something from the fridge.
Entering the suite, I hear his voice, move down the hall to his office, and step in.
He is on the phone, his face tired, small lines outlining his handsome features. He looks up, surprised, a smile stretching over his face and he turns in his chair, away from his desk, tapping his thigh, and pulls me into his chest when I sit. I stay there for a while, his hand on my back, rubbing as he listens, stopping when he speaks, his other hand scribbling figures on a pad of paper. I can hear the voice in his ear, the phone stuck in the crook of his shoulder, a fast-paced dialogue about product placement, market awareness, and sales trends.
I bore quickly, sliding off his lap, into the opening between his legs, my hand running over his belt, my eyes moving up to catch his. He watches me wordlessly, his eyes urging me to continue, the push of bone under my wrist letting me know that he is ready.
He is always ready. His cock seems engineered to spring into action at a moment’s notice. It is one of the things I love about him. I unbuckle his pants and stand, pulling my sundress over my head slowly, letting him see every inch of what he will soon get.
STEWART
She is beautiful. I knew that from the moment I first saw her, through snow flurries, a grin on her face like she captured the world and just threw it back. But I didn’t know how beautiful she was until I knew her. Until I saw into her soul and became lost in her goodness. The final step of my capture came when she lost her clothes. Bared her body, that body that I see in my dreams, jack off to in the morning, and worship in her presence. And now, with her pulling every inch of that yellow sundress up and off of her curves... I am lost. I am lost and she has found me. I hang up the phone mid-sentence and unplug the cord from its back.
I roll my chair forward, running my hands along the back of legs, traveling up the curves of her ass, gripping the skin there as I lean forward and kiss her skin, tasting the hint of salt that tells me she has been in the ocean. I slide my fingers under the cloth of her underwear, simple pink boyshorts that I tug down, over the tan curves of her hips, faint strips of paleness showing me her tan lines. Then it hits the floor, and she is bare before me. I start to stand, but she pushes me down, pins me to the chair as she kneels back down, a playful smile on her face, a gleam of fire in her eyes. I love her eyes. Love how I can instantly tell if she is mad, excited, or in love. Whatever the emotion, whatever her temperature that day, there is always sex in those eyes. It floats off her skin, gleams in her eyes, and is in every move of her delicious body. This woman cannot exist without sex. It is her food, her body-sustaining air. I discovered that early, knew it from the moment of our second date. She cannot contain it, does not even try. She embraces it, owns it, loves it. She does not fuck out of insecurity or to get something or someone. She fucks because she loves it, and loves through it. It is her gift to the world and I am lucky enough to be a part of that world.
She feels the strength of my arousal, her smile brilliant in my dim office. Then she unzips me, and I am in her mouth.
Fuck. I will never be able to accurately describe her mouth. It is like a throbbing pulse of wet, hot moisture, seconded only by her body. It knows how hard to suck, how deep to go, how fast or slow to take my cock, and when to give it a moment to regroup. Her eyes flicker to mine, heat in their gaze, and I want nothing more than to pull her to her feet and bend her over my desk. I place my hand at the back of her head, watching in drugged awe as my length slides deeper into her mouth, her pink lips tight around me, the playful gleam in her eyes making my cock harden even further.
I pull back on her hair, trying to lift her up, but she shakes her head, burying me greater, her eyes closing as she gags on my cock. She grips me tightly with her hand, sliding it up and down my shaft, squeezing it, and I feel every bit of stress in my body leave, as if she is milking it out of me. I sigh, leaning back in my chair, content to let her work.
She is beautiful when she sucks a cock. Her cheeks hollowing, the curve of her mouth when she pulls off, the mischievousness in her eyes that telegraphs how much she truly enjoys the act.
I groan, feeling the pressure of buildup. Feeling the push, I’m throbbing in her mouth, close to climax, the three days without her taking their toll on my self-control.
“Fuck baby.” I lean forward, cupping the back of her neck, watching intently the movement in and out of her mouth. “Here I come.”
She takes me fully, her mouth massaging and squeezing the length of me, my head deep in her throat when I come. Wave after wave of release, my hand unintentionally tightening on her neck, my pleasure audible in the groans that I can’t contain.
She swallows it all, her face, when she finally pulls off of me, clean, a smile stretching across it. I collapse back in my seat, tugging softly on her skin, pulling her into my arms, her body curling onto my lap. “Thank you baby. I needed that.” I rest my head on hers. “I’m surprised you’re here. Thought I wouldn’t see you ‘til this weekend.”
“He had to run down to San Diego. I thought I’d stop by, give you some lovin’, stay the night. Maybe kidnap you into a breakfast date.”
I frown against her hair. “Can’t do breakfast. I have a six AM call with Helsinki.”
She tilts her head up, brushes her lips across the rough shadow on my neck. “Then how about I cook you breakfast at five?”
I wrap my arms around her, including her arms and legs in the grip. “That would be perfect. Need me to take care of you?”
She bites my neck lightly. “No baby. Get back to your work. I’ll wake you at five.” She pushes at my arms, breaking free of my grip and standing, her naked skin glowing in the light from the lamp. I pull at her arm, bringing her closer, getting one last taste of her mouth, before plugging my phone back in and returning to the documents on my desk. As she leaves, tugging the door shut behind her, the phone rings.
ACID DROP: When you take off on a wave
and suddenly have the bottom fall out
as you free fall down the face.
DANA
It is Wednesday night; I am in PJs and socks, a face mask beginning to dry on my face, in front of the television, popcorn in the microwave. Cross-legged, my back against the edge of my way-too-expensive-but-I-love-it couch, I am flipping through channels, and trying to resist touching my face, to stick my curious fingers into the wet mask, which has not fully hardened.
Soap opera. Flip.
Infomercial. Flip.
Football. Flip.
Surfing.
I wait, my remote extended, waiting to see what the show is about, which hotspot or event is being covered. And then I see him, trudging through sand, a board tucked under his arm, that one-in-a-million smile lighting his tan face. My breath catches as I see pure, effortless happiness, no sign of the haunted Paul I remember. Then, there is a blur of blonde, a streak before the camera, a bundle of bikini and cover-up throwing herself into his arms, gripping his neck and placing a kiss on his cheek. A girl. Maybe she is the reason for his happiness, for the light that shines from his eyes. Or maybe she is a groupie, one of the hundreds of beach Barbies that follow the surfing circuit. I listen to the announcer, to his recount of Paul, of his awards and standings, watching as he swings the girl in a tight circle before setting her down. Pulls her into a full kiss before she bashfully pushes him off. She turns, and I see her face.
It hurts, the expression I make, the contortion of my face as my jaw drops and eyes open wide, dried edges of the mask pulling and protesting as I stare in shock.
Her.
Tucked under Stewart’s arm, their faces beaming, as they walked past me in Livello.
A carefree wave to the valet as she left Stewart’s world and headed elsewhere.
On her knees, surrounded by books, spewing out friendliness as she gave away lighthearted mysteries.
Her. Stewart’s love, the reason for his smile. Hugging Paul. Kissing Paul.
The camera flips to another surfer, and my world blurs, my thoughts moving too quickly for rational thought, question after question pounding through my mind. In the background, the microwave shrills a persistent beep, repeating and repeating, like the countdown timer to a bomb of horrific proportions.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
