Forever (6 page)

His deep, dominant tone had her rubbing her thighs together, the slick surface disconcerting. She was wet nearly to her knees. She did as he asked and the fat head of his cock poked forward to rest on her bottom lip.

“Suck it in as far as you can without moving your head.”

Like he gave her any choice, with his hands wrapped so tightly in her hair. Amy sucked and a considerable length of him slid inside her mouth on her saliva, the salty taste of him overlaid with musk.

“Suck more.” His voice was strained, the rasp apparent. She sucked harder and wondered if his cock had filled and hardened to its full potential, because the invader was now at the back of her throat, stretching her mouth wide. She couldn’t take any more.

“Relax your throat and breathe through your nose, Amy. Suck and swallow me down.”

Mind over matter, she chanted in her head, working hard to follow his instructions. The sensation of drowning immediately overtook her and she tensed, remembering to take air her nose, mitigating the overwhelming feeling. His thatch of rough hair tickled her lips, scrotum soft against her chin. Now she’d taken him all.

“Close your lips tightly and don’t move.” Peering up at him, she saw the clenching of his strong jaw as he struggled for control, and tracked a tiny bead of sweat roll off and drop down to spatter on his forearm. And he began to fuck her face. She held her position and fought her gag reflex, pulling in breaths through her nose, trying to keep her lips closed tightly around him. The crown of his cock slid like velvet against her palate to fill her throat time and again. Her jaw ached and she flickered her tongue on every outstroke in mute defence. Dean growled something above her, the rhythm of his strokes faltering. He erupted and she choked and swallowed, one of his hands loosing her hair to gently stroke along her throat to ease her efforts.

Pulling out against her softening lips, he smoothed a fingertip along her cheek. “You okay?”

She thought so. Her jaw ached, but that would pass. He hadn’t hurt her, once again mindful. It had been an experience, one she usually didn’t enjoy so much, but her sex ached for attention.

“You looked fucking hot, your hands tied like that. And you did good. Better than—”

Oh no. No, no, no. No, he didn’t. Amy glared at him. “Untie my hands.”

Dean reached around instantly and tugged and her hands came free. Either a boy scout or lots of practice in his adult life with knots. Probably the latter. Using one hand against the mattress she levered herself up and reached for her robe, giving him her back. Asshole.

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

She whirled on him. “You get this time with me, Dean. You get the fuck. What you don’t get is to compare me to your other women. That’s crass even for someone with your approach to, to…” She wound down like a tired
, old spring because she couldn’t begin to describe what this man was. A whore? A player? Was it even the sex, or the power, rewarded by the release? Who knew? Who cared? He was an asshole. What he’d given her earlier wasn’t even close to what she just gave him and he could put his pants on and hit the road. Before she hit
him
with something really hard and unyielding, like a baseball bat.

“You figure out what it is I am?” Was he a mind reader too? Didn’t matter.

“Go.”

“Night’s not over, sweetheart.” One muscular
, long arm reached out, the dark hair patterning his forearm, and his big hand caught her wrist.

“Are you insane? It’s
over
. And it wasn’t that great, FYI” She hadn’t meant to say that, really she hadn’t. That was crass, too. He just seemed to bring out the worst in her.

“Then I guess I’ll have to give you something more to grade me on.” The words seemed squeezed out between gritted teeth and his eyes were chips of granite.

She struggled with him as he yanked the robe from her hands and tossed it away, using his size and weight to push her backwards onto the bed. He pinned her hands at her sides, lowering his head to her drenched apex. For a moment she nearly gave in, let him tongue her to orgasm, but she rejected the need. They weren’t keeping a balance sheet.

“Red.”

His movements ceased as if by magic, his head lifting, eyes narrowing on her own. “Did you just use your
safe word
? With me?”

“You need to go.”

She lay sprawled as he moved off of her and then the bed, mouth set and jaw clenching. He dressed without comment, never looking once in her direction as she inched her legs closed and felt furtively for her robe. She didn’t think he’d be sexual with her again, but he was most certainly pissed. She wasn’t physically afraid of him, but men like Dean Chambray didn’t take kindly to being rejected. Especially when he was the one to do the loving and leaving, make that the fucking and leaving. He’d want the last word.

“Keep the condoms and the lube, sweetheart. Wouldn’t hurt to get in a little more practice.”

Okay, then. There it was. She’d poked the bear in his big, fat ego, and Dean was just a man, after all. Sad. The comment irked her, though, and annoyingly made her wonder what he’d had in mind for the rest of the night’s activities. She let the condoms lie, scattered as they were, but snatched up the lube, following him as he worked the locks free and exited her home. Her steps faltered when she realized she hadn’t reset the alarm once they were inside. There was that paradox again—feeling both protected and anxious. She shook it off.

The well
-lit shared driveway, compliments of her paranoid neighbor, gave her a clear view of his fine ass and oh-so-controlled gait. No massive erection to impede his grace this time—just affronted male. Amy wound up like the pitcher she’d been on the softball team in juvie and let fly. The bottle sailed through the air to smack the windshield of macho man’s big black truck dead center, the plastic cap likely popping open, because the liquid sprayed out to scent the night. And to coat the glass and hood.

Amy turned on one bare heel and ran like all the furies of hell were on her tail to make it safely inside her house and throw all the locks, managing to punch in the security code with a trembling finger. She huddled behind the door, breathless at her actions, struggling against impending hysterical laughter. She heard no sound for a really long time, the anticipation nearly killing her, then thought she heard male voices. Listening hard—was that a scuffle? Just as she screwed up the courage to open the door, she heard one slam, and caught the grinding of a starter. He was leaving. She hit the lights and headed for her room, using the glowing square of illumination cast from beyond her bedroom door as her guide.

Hurling herself face down on the mattress, Amy laughed until she cried, the tears flowing with surprising ease, a luxury she rarely allowed herself. They cleansed her somehow, coupled as they were with mirth. It wasn’t her birthday any more, the hour well past midnight, but it was one to remember, anyhow. She decided she didn’t feel badly used, having shaken up a misogynist womanizer who had a little too much faith in his prowess. And if that something deep inside of her ached and whimpered, well, it was nothing more than she deserved. Secretly hoping for something special was always doomed for failure and disappointment. On that thought she crashed, the events of the night too much for her overloaded system.

****

Dean stood on the neighbor’s side of the drive, scowling at the oily residue on his truck, unwillingly smelling strawberries. This was bullshit. The whole evening had been off. He was still unsettled, in fact so unsettled, he was thinking about breaking into a certain blonde’s home and spending the rest of the night, or day, or week, or month, as long as it took, to discuss the anointing of his truck, to satisfy his burgeoning need for her, and incidentally, make her
take it back
. Not that great? It had been
sensational
, all of it.

She’d screamed her release. The woman loved blowing him. He had scented her arousal. It was an amazing blow job, none better
, and he just had to open his big mouth and fuck it up. Nice afterglow. And she’d used a safe word! What the fuck? He was standing outside a woman’s house, his truck lubed, second guessing his sexual performance, having met and kissed a birthday girl and witnessed her amazing submission along with a hundred other people. Dean shook his head. Time to chalk this one up to experience and head home. He was a serious, dangerous
businessman
with a secret that could get him killed, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted, not even by a precocious, unpredictable, beautiful, blonde Amazon.

“What are you doing standing out here?” The voice belonged to a thin, bespectacled man wearing a jacket over p
ajamas, clutching a cell phone. Dean recognized the type. Powerless, so he tried to lord it over others with petty enforcement of so-called rules.

“I was just leaving.” Better he let it go and not give little Hitler here any reason to call the cops. Dean had lots of contacts in the department but his street cred would take a hit if they responded to a call and saw—and smelled—the lube. Amy so deserved an ass paddling for that.

“Well, see that you do, and if Mizz Copeland is going to
entertain
this late she’d better watch where people park and ensure they don’t hang around. This is a nice neighborhood.”

Dean traversed the distance between him and the other man, grabbing the phone and tossing it onto the lawn. He hauled the prick up by the collar and shook him. “Watch your mouth, got me?” When the man’s bravado leaked out like air from a pricked balloon and he nodded, Dean shook him again. “You give Miss
Copeland any trouble, I’ll finish it. Got it?”

He released the asshole, shoving him backwards. Little Hitler’s arms flailed to catch his balance. He hustled away around the corner and Dean swung up into his truck. Knowing the wipers would just smear the lube, he turned them on anyway, plying the wiper fluid switch until it cleared enough of a path for him to see through. He drove home immersed in the smell of fruit, wishing he’d put the stuff to better use.

As he parked, a shape flowed out of the shadows, punctuated by the glowing coal of a cigarette. Olsen. The only man in his crew who smoked. Maybe he was grabbing a cigarette outside in deference to Dean’s recent threat to make him paint the fucking walls in his unit because of what his habit was doing to them.

The man sniffed. “You hit somethin’?” It was surprising he could smell anything past the nicotine.

“Other way around.” Dean left Olsen to puzzle that one out and climbed the steps to his condo, noting with satisfaction the turn that made the property more easily defensible, creating a bottleneck, a choke point, should people want to hit him at home. He had an exit through the bottom level, too, one that few knew about. The rest of his crew lived in the complex, making for additional resources, should he require them. The day would come when he’d put this life behind him, but it was a vague date in the future and he had work to do first. It all came down to one important coup.

Getting himself a beer from his enormous fridge, he pulled his boots off and leaned back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He looked around his home, decorated by some firm Randy had chosen, and compared it to the little place he’d just left. He wondered
, if
he
had decorated, chosen his own furniture, colors, if it would reflect his personality. It was presently a wickedly expensive, if tasteful, high-end way station, a place to sleep and hole up. He never cooked here, rarely had people over, and his bedroom featured a big comfortable bed and a place to store his clothes. An altogether sad commentary on a home, and a marked contrast to his childhood one, at least physically. Neither nurtured his soul.

Marsha Chambray had no time for her son, pawning him off on
her
mother soon after she pushed him out, unable to spare the time from her pursuit of the drug of her choice. He had a few vague memories of a nice, old gramma, holding him on her lap and reading to him in a broken mixture of English and French, cooking him rich and tasty meals. Kissing him goodnight and making him say his prayers. But she died and his mother came for him, the new family allowance monies the impetus of her newfound maternal drive. She could expand her horizons with the extra cash. As her looks faded, assaulted by the bottle or two of vodka she drank like water every day, supplementing her income with whoring also dried up.

Dean scrambled up on his own from around age four, rejected and rebuffed by the person he needed the most, and he understood it inhibited his emotional expression and made him insistently independent. Once he attended school, he no longer needed her for anything, getting his fix from a constant turnover of strangers and a few regulars.

All the horror stories of Catholic schools aside, Dean had no doubt charity saved him. He got touched a lot, in a good way, the teachers ruffling his hair, some of the women giving him little squeezes, finding him lunches and snacks. Unlike other little boys, he didn’t pretend to eschew the attention, soaking it up instead, his size and willingness to use his fists shutting the traps of any kids who remarked on his possible sexual orientation. His quick brain garnered him further consideration, particularly in math and the sciences. It was a wonder his brain developed, considering how much his mother drank, Dean being the exception to that rule about fetal alcohol effects. He supposed he should be grateful she never left the neighborhood because that ensured the consistency of his schooling.