Afterlife (58 page)
Authors: Joey W. Hill
be yours.”
So I can be
free.
“I like hearing you beg.” He slid it
under her jaw and she
lifted her chin again as he brought the
clasp together at her
nape. It fit snug and perfect on her
throat, sending a spiral
of reaction down from the contact
point. As he’d said from
the beginning, it was no light, barely
there col ar. It had the
weight and significance she craved,
that she’d always
wanted. It stiffened her nipples
further, tightened her lower
abdomen, pul ed at the muscles in her
thighs and curled her
toes.
The sapphire rested at the base of her
throat. As he bent,
he placed his lips above it, so she
tilted her head farther
back, arching the rest of her up to
him. “Mine now,” he said,
his voice thick with emotion and
fierce resolve at once. “My
slave. My love.”
“Yours,” she whispered, and hoped
for it, with al her
heart.
Yes, she might not survive losing
this, having her belief
betrayed, but the truth was, as much
as she feared that, she
simply wasn’t strong enough to give
him up. She had to be
his, and had to trust that he would
love her forever, just as
he said. But for now, she would
settle for each day because
that was al she could handle. Trust
would grow slow, but if
she believed, the rest might come.
He folded himself over her now,
arms on either side of
her, hands beneath her, their bodies
flush together, every
naked inch. She could feel her
arousal not only lubricating
his path but trickling between her
thighs. It took quite awhile
to come this way, and the pleasure of
it became
unbearable, an excruciating
sweetness to every stroke. He
didn’t falter, keeping it slow and
easy as the position
required, though his shoulders and
back began to be slick
and gleaming with the perspiration of
withheld release.
His muscles flexed beneath her hands
as she held his
shoulders and he coiled around her
the same way, their
bodies one writhing animal, moving
in a rhythm that
connected to the earth. The sun beams
coming through the
rice shades had angled so they were
in her eyes, and she
buried her face in his throat, feeling
his col ar on her, his
fingers sliding along it, touching and
pul ing it, confirming its
presence and meaning, increasing the
restraint at her
throat and her arousal at once.
She was crying out now, every stroke
like a tiny orgasm,
but stil not quite there. His. She was
his. His slave, his
submissive. She would do everything
to give him pleasure,
fol ow his wil , his desires, and find
her own, have the
courage to grip them again. This
acceptance was the true
Wild Thing pose, for she found the
strength in this moment
to embrace that power and freedom,
to believe this
was
her
birthday, a chance to renew al the
dreams she’d had and
believe in them again, as if she’d
been given a cake with
the candles of al the birthdays, past,
present and future.
“God, you’re so tight and sweet.”
Keeping up that
movement, he lifted enough to claim
her breast again,
suckling the nipple as he laid his
hand over the col ar,
stretching her neck up farther,
increasing the reminder of
his possession, his claim. It knocked
her over.
“Please…I can’t… May I…”
“Come for me.”
It rol ed up hard and slow, like the
richness of molasses,
and when it took hold, it was so
powerful he had to hold her
stil , keep her legs down and clasped
together, making it
that much more incredible. When he
released at her
pinnacle, it pushed her higher, so
much pleasure at once.
He captured her fierce cries in his
mouth, his tongue
plunging hard and deep like his cock.
She clung to him,
rocking with his body, making noises
of need and yearning
into his mouth, tugging on his hair as
her body convulsed on
his and the world changed
irrevocably.
* * * * *
Coming down was as slow a
process, for he kept kissing
her mouth, her throat, her breast,
moving inside her, though
he let her legs slide outward to
cradle him. That movement
alone brought on an intense final
spasm that had her
clinging to him an extra, gasping
moment. Lesser
aftershocks continued for a long time
afterward, as he
cleverly kept drawing them out.
While he did his sorcerer’s
magic on her body, his gaze rarely
left her face, that total
attention she’d envied Dana for
having with Peter. It was
now a gift she’d won as wel .
“You’re crying.” He placed open-
mouthed kisses over
every tear, nuzzled her ear, the line of
her jaw. “Don’t cry,
sweet girl.”
“They’re good tears, I think.” She
reached up, traced his
face. “You know, when other girls
were dreaming about
careers as veterinarians or dancers
or equestrian jumpers,
I only had one dream.”
“Tel me what it is, and I’l make it
happen.”
She smiled at that, even though it
made her eyes brim
again. “The big adventure I dreamed
about was fal ing in
love with someone and loving him
with al my heart and
soul, for the rest of my life. It was al
I ever wanted.”
When those blue eyes fil ed with
pleasure for her, his
mouth a sensual curve, she saw what
Dana had been trying
to say.
They only pick one
. By some
miracle, she was it for
him.
“Part of the problem with trust is that
you’re a fairy tale,
Jon,” she whispered. “It’s hard to
believe you’re real, when
I’ve longed for you for so long, and
convinced myself you’re
a delusion I had.”
“I’l change your mind about that.” He
gave her buttock a
pinch, hitching her leg more securely
around his back. Her
heel rested on his upper thigh, his
firm ass beneath her calf,
flexing as he shifted their bodies. “I’l
be the fairy tale
and
the reality. Shining armor one
moment, underwear dumped
outside the hamper the next. The best
of both worlds.”
It made her smile, as she was sure he
intended, and he
framed her face in his hands, tender
affection in his
expression. “I believe there comes a
time when, no matter
what else has happened, your soul is
ready to give yourself
something you want, and you’re
ready to accept it, your
appreciation of it deepened by
experience.” His serious
blue eyes caressed her face. “I also
believe that sometimes
you’ve suffered enough, figured
enough things out, that you
earn something wonderful in this life.
You don’t have to wait
for it. You get your taste of afterlife
now, ful of everything
you’ve always wanted. On the karmic
scale, it means
you’ve been very, very good.”
She closed her eyes, clasping his
strong forearms. “Or it
means God is very, very merciful.”
She hadn’t believed that,
not after Kyle’s death, but somehow,
the love she was
finding here told her she might find
that faith again. Human
tragedy might have taken her son
from her, but he was in
Love’s hands now. Maybe, wherever
he was, he was happy
and at peace. And maybe she could
find the same in Jon’s
hands.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He slid from her at
last. Just as he’d
done a remarkable few days ago, he
turned them and
curved around her, protecting,
sheltering and caressing her
at once, holding her pain and
happiness in the same
capable hands. “I’m here. And
whether whatever we cal
God is merciful or not, I’m not going
anywhere. You deserve
everything I can give to you, and I
want to give you the
world.”
“I only want you,” she said softly. “If
God lets me have that,
then I won’t ask for more.”
The End
About the Author
I’ve always avoided interviews of
favorite personalities
because so often the person doesn’t
measure up to the
beauty of the art they produce. Their
politics are distasteful,
or they’re shal ow and self-absorbed,
a vacuous mophead
without a lick of sense. From then on,
though I may
appreciate their craft, it has somehow
been tarnished.
Therefore, when I’m asked to
provide personal info for
readers, a bal of anxiety forms in my
stomach as I think:
“Okay, my next words may forever
change the way
someone views my stories.” Why
does a reader want to
know about me? It’s the story that’s
important.
So here it is. I’ve been given more
blessings in my life
than any one person has a right to
have. Despite that, I’m a
Type A, OCD phobic paranoiac who
worries I’l never live
up to expectations. I don’t like talking
on the phone, I dread
social commitments. Living in
monastic solitude with my
husband and animals, books and
writing, is my idea of
paradise. I love chocolate, but with
that irrational female
belief that weight equals worth, I
keep it to a minor
addiction. I adore good movies. I’m
told I work too much.
Every day is spent trying to get
through the never-ending “to
do” list to snatch a few minutes to
write.
Despite al these mediocre and typical
qualities, for
some miraculous reason, these
wonderful characters wel
up out of my soul with stories to tel .
When I find that
precious “stil ness”, which calms al
the competing voices in
my head, I can step into their lives,
hear what they are
saying, what they’re feeling, and put
it down on paper. It’s a
magic beyond description, akin to
believing my husband
loves me, winning the trust of an
abused animal, making a
true connection with someone or
knowing I’ve given a
reader something special through
those written words. It’s a
magic that reassures me there is
Someone, far wiser than
myself, who knows the permanent
path to that garden of
stil ness, where there is only love,
acceptance and a pen
waiting for hours and hours of
uninterrupted, blissful use.
If only I could finish that darned “to
do” list.
Joey welcomes comments from
readers. You can find
her website and email address on her
author bio page at
www.el orascave.com.
Tell Us What You Think
We appreciate hearing reader
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orasCave.com.
Also by Joey Hill
Chance of a Lifetime
If Wishes Were Horses
Knights of the Board Room: Board
Resolution
Make Her Dreams Come True
Nature of Desire 1: Holding the
Cards
Nature of Desire 2: Natural Law
Nature of Desire 3: Ice Queen
Nature of Desire 4: Mirror of My
Soul
Nature of Desire 5: Mistress of
Redemption
Nature of Desire 6: Rough Canvas
Nature of Desire 7: Branded
Sanctuary
Snow Angel
Threads of Faith
Virtual Reality
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ora’s Cave. Whether
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sure to visit EC on
the web at www.el orascave.com for
an erotic reading
experience that wil leave you
breathless.
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