by Teagan Kade
I moan and rock my head from side to side, reaching out and finding him, slowly grinding against his face. His stubble brushes the bottom of my sex, his chin working there as he laps and licks, bringing me quicker towards the inevitable.
I’ve never had an orgasm, never come, but even so I know what’s about to happen, can feel the way my body flushes from head to toe, that tightness pulling inwards, tighter and tighter until there’s no going back.
He spreads me with his fingers and groans, dipping his tongue into the slick mouth of my sex.
I purr and moan aloud. I’m louder than I should be, unrestrained, but I don’t care. All I can think about is Archer—his lips, his tongue, the beautiful texture of it all against my wanton flesh.
He brings his attention back to my clit, strong hands spreading my thighs further, the sensation ratcheting up and up until I can almost see it there behind my eyelids, the end result, the ‘little death.’
Just when I’m about to crest over, my entire body tight as a piano wire, he pulls away and stands.
I sit up on my elbows breathing hard and labored, watch as he works at his belt and zipper, each movement quick and calculated, the animal hunger never leaving his eyes as he watches me, the aquamarine of them switching between my lips and the hot space below.
His cock comes free hard and long, far bigger than I remember from the other day. I’ve never really seen one up close before, appreciated the sleek look of the glans and shaft, the velveteen length of it all.
Archer moves to the drawers beside the bed. I hear a wrapper being undone and know he’s sheathing himself, returning to edge of the bed and pressing me back, climbing over me with his cock in hand and cool eyes above.
I take his face and press my lips to his, tighten further when I taste myself on them.
I gasp against his lips when he positions himself against me, spreading my legs wider so he slips in a fraction of an inch, poised there to take me.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I take in a deep breath and nod.
For a moment he stops and we stare at each other, spellbound.
The world passes between us.
Need.
Fear.
Desire.
I hold his gaze, hold it as he slowly sinks into me with a single, fluid push.
I yelp, eyelids fluttering closed momentarily as my virginity is taken.
He holds himself there, one hand moving to hold the side of my face. “Are you okay?” he asks, his concern in such contrast to what I expected.
“Yes,” I whisper, reaching for his hips. “Keep going.”
He draws back and rocks forward again, running deeper into my wetness.
I let out a faltering breath and grip him tighter, urge him on with my hips.
He starts moving and the pain begins to subside and give way to pleasure. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced, the shift from one to another, the pleasure building the more he moves, the more of his manhood that is swallowed up by my body.
He moves slowly at first, the urgency growing until I’m begging him to take me harder, deeper, rocking against his cock as it runs into me.
A fever builds between us, a waiting eruption simmering under the surface of my skin. I push my hips back and he thrusts forward hard, almost to the end of me, fresh moans coming from my mouth, my fingers dipping deep into his sides.
“Yes,” I moan, smiling against it all, “yes.”
He places a hand on my hips and pounds into me with abandon, fucking me hard and showing no remorse for it.
My body adjusts slowly, stretching to accommodate his cock, softening and reshaping itself around him.
I do my best to relax, to shift deep into a total and complete calm, but it’s useless.
He forges into me deeper and deeper. I can feel his cock twitching inside me, his own release imminent. I swivel my hips, lock my ankles against his back, a whole new slew of sensation following as his cock finds a new angle inside my aching pussy.
Embers of that coming firestorm fan into flame, rising higher and higher until he pulls back to the slackened mouth of my sex, holding himself there, teasing me until I beg him to continue, thrashing below.
He runs into me long, deeper than before, his shaft lightning, nerves set alight inside the hot channel of my sex. He brings his full weight against my body, driving me deep into the bed. It all merges in my periphery, the neon colors of the streets below, the ocean, the cut light of the apartment.
With every thrust his hard body presses against my clit. My focus shifts to that small spot of sensation and I know my first climax is imminent. I bring my hands up to his shoulders, bear against him with everything I have.
His neck drops, his lips against my ear. “Come,” he says.
I do, soaring higher and higher until there’s nowhere else to go. I scream, I think, and convulse, exploding with new pleasure that clutches my entire body, my sex gripping and releasing his beautiful cock in quick contractions, forcing his orgasm.
He stiffens against me, a long, guttural groan following as he thrusts one final time and finds his release.
His lips cover mine and our tongues meet. We laugh and smile, Archer collapsing sideways, his cock coming free to slap against the side of his leg.
He holds my thigh over him, the two of us staring up at the bands of light on the ceiling, the celebrations continuing outside.
He looks over.
“What’s this?” he asks, fingertips running over the brand on my shoulder, the one his friend mistakenly thought was a tattoo.
“Just something silly I did when I was a teenager,” I lie.
He studies it. “It looks familiar.”
I silence him with a kiss.
“That was my first orgasm, you know,” I tell him, changing the subject.
He plays with a long strand of my hair, looping it around my finger. “How do you know if you’ve never had one?” he queries, one eyebrow raised.
I can still feel where he was inside me, the afterglow of his cock. “Female intuition, I suppose.”
“Well, you did. I felt it.”
“You did?”
“Sure. So fucking hot.”
Silence falls. I feel compelled to fill it.
“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I ask cautiously. “I mean, I know you’ve had,” unable to find the right way to phrase this, “women… but has there been anyone special?”
He kisses my forehead. “Like you?”
“Come on,” I tease, walking my fingers over the tight tessellations of his abs. “Tell me. I want to know everything about you.”
He draws in a breath. “Actually, I was engaged once upon a time.”
I sit up a bit in surprise. “You were?”
“We met when I was working at this marina during college, had a whole future planned out together.”
“What happened?”
“I joined the Army and she cheated on me while I was on tour, screwed another guy while I was out,” using air-quotes, “‘fighting for freedom’.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on.”
But I can still see the echo of hurt sketched into his features. Whatever this woman did scarred him for life.
And I want to tear her eyes out.
He holds me tighter, pulling me into the warmth of his side. “It doesn’t matter, because now I have you. Who could want anything more?”
I smile, lay on his chest, but it fades when I think of the lies. Because breaking someone’s trust, especially someone who has been burned before, is like crumpling up a perfect piece of paper. You can smooth it over, but it’s never going to be the same again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ARCHER
You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you? You’ve fallen for her hard.
My head, usually the point of irrationality, is spot-on for once. How has this girl who washed up into my life suddenly taken it over? A
girl who I still know so little about yet feel like I’ve known forever.
I had a process, a system of quick and dirty hookups that would leave me satisfied, albeit briefly, before the next. I was living the dream.
But I know that satisfaction was only physical, and rarely even complete. No, what Winter provides me is what I’ve been missing all along but never able to place my finger on—emotional satisfaction, something to grab onto to stay afloat, a light cutting through the fog.
I’m leaning against the doorway watching her sleep. It’s almost mid-morning but I don’t want to wake her, to disturb what basically amounts to a scene so perfect it could have been painted by an old master, a modern Sleeping Venus.
She might have been a virgin yesterday, but I know the woman who will wake now will be hungry to explore her sexuality. It’s a privilege in a way, an honor to share that journey with her.
My cock hardens at the thought of how she felt, how it was to be inside her, connecting with her on a far deeper level than most women who pass through these hallowed halls. It wasn’t just sex. It was an elevation, a transcendent experience.
Can you even hear yourself?
I can alright—loud and clear.
Her eyes flicker open and she sees me watching her. She makes no attempt to cover herself up, surprisingly confident now in her nakedness. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I reply, “and most definitely a good night.”
She buries her face in the pillow. “Mmm, you can say that again.”
“How are you feeling?”
She sits up, nipples a hot, rosy red. “Absolutely wonderful,” she replies, enunciating each syllable.
“Shall I start breakfast?”
“The best night of my life followed by breakfast in bed—a woman could get used to such things.”
“My woman,” I smile.
She sits up straighter, feigning surprise. “Oh, really? And what makes you think you own me, Mr. Big Shot?”
“Could be that nice ol’ handprint of mine on your ass.”
She kneels up and looks behind herself no doubt expecting to see the handprint in question, and hell, I’d leave my hand glued to that perfect ass if I could.
She looks back at me with a short smirk. “A lifeguard and a comedian. Do the two occupations go hand in hand?”
“Baby,” I tell her, pushing myself off the doorframe, “when you’re the hottest thing on the beach, you can be anything you want.”
“How about my own personal man-slave, ready to attend to my every whim and desire?”
“That can be arranged, but how about we start with that breakfast?”
She sits back on her ankles and I swear to the good and honest lord there is nothing more beautiful in the world than the sight of her bare body. “Sounds good to me.”
“Why don’t you hit the shower? I should have it up in ten or so.”
She stands and approaches me, hips sashaying with such sultry perfection it’s like a whole different person awoke this morning.
She stops as she passes me, looking up at me with eyes full of energy and life, that fragile bird who first showed up in my apartment having taken flight overnight. I see confidence there now, energy. I intend to put it to good use.
I reach down and cup her face, taking her lips with my own and allowing my tongue only the briefest of sojourns into the hot space of her mouth. She breaks away and smacks her lips, playfully spanking me on the butt. “Like I said, a girl could get used to this.”
I watch her walk down the hall to the bathroom, those wonderfully smooth orbs of her ass lifting and falling against one another. My cock feels like it’s going to snap in two it’s so fucking hard.
She could get used to this, yes, but she’d be the first. Almost every girl I’ve slept with is gone by the morning. I look at them in bed, just like I looked at Winter now, and all I feel is a strange sort of disgust, a distance that somehow grows between night and day. I look at them and I want them gone. It’s that simple.
But not today.
It’s all so new. I was starting to think I’d never feel this way about a girl, never experience…
Go on, say it, my head dares.
I let the L word linger there in my thoughts, test and prod at it, see how it feels against me. I’m pretty damn surprised when I find I like it.
I scramble some eggs quickly, doubling up on the butter because hey, who doesn’t like a bit of richness first thing in the morning. Chives, a dusting of salt and pepper, fresh sourdough that probably cost me more than a month’s rent from the hipster bakery downstairs… It’s quite the meal.
The crazy thing? I never cooked breakfast for anyone but myself until Winter came along. Is that selfish? Maybe, but the last thing I wanted was one of my lays thinking a hot meal was an invitation to hang around and make chit-chat about our cozy future together with two-point-five kids and a nice four-bedroom in the ’burbs. Nope.
I clean up and can’t resist the allure of running water and a naked, willing Winter any longer.
Smiling, I decide to join her.
Fuck it. Let the eggs go cold.
I’m back in the main bedroom, about to start stripping down, when I notice something under the large set of drawers against the wall—a tiny white triangle peeking out from the bottom of it.
I bend down to pick up thinking it’s an old bill, a piece of tissue, but when I pull at it several pages of paper come free.
I get down on my knees and look under the drawers, surprised to find there’s a whole series of papers pushed under there. I pull them out confused, because I sure as hell don’t remember putting them there.
The shower’s still running down the hall. I stand and start to leaf through the papers. There’s handwriting all over them, strange diagrams and maps, lists and lists of numbers. It’s not my handwriting, and I’m pretty sure Ernest Hemmingway doesn’t live here, which makes the whole thing even more unusual.
I do my best to decipher what it means, but it’s basically gibberish to me. I don’t even think it’s in English. It’s looks more like Spanish. There’s only one word I do recognize that seems to keep reappearing—cocaína.
It has to be Winter’s writing, but why would she write all this? What does it mean? I don’t think it’s directions to El Dorado. In fact, looks like something far more sinister.
I think I’m starting to get a picture in my head of what’s going on. It’s vague, still blurry around the edges, but it’s a hazy start all the same.
I know there’s only person who can provide answers.
It’s gone on long enough.
I need the truth, and I need it now.
I hear the shower shut off down the hall, looking past the doorway to see Winter emerge wrapping a towel around herself, twisting her hair into a messy bun atop her head. She can’t see me, but she’s smiling regardless—smiling like she’s won the lottery.
She enters the room and doesn’t look at me, heading straight to the pile of clothes in the corner. “You know, I thought you were going to join me in there, or is breakfast that elaborate today?”
She picks up a shirt and turns, seeing me standing there with the papers in my hand.
Suddenly, her expression goes cold. Color drains from her face and the shirt drops from her hands. “You found them,” she says.
I look down at the papers. “And that’s just the question—found what?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WINTER
I look at my papers, my writing spread across the coffee table. I hadn’t realized I’d written so much. I suppose it became a stream of consciousness of sorts.
I pick up the coffee Archer made me and bring it to my lips, placing it back down and forcing myself to meet his eye. I see the desperation in his face, for answers, and I know this is the time. I have to tell him everything.
I pull in a breath before I begin. “I suppose you’ve read through everything, have some kind of understanding what’s going on, yes?�
�
He nods, hands on his knees on the other side of the table. “Well, it throws my theory out the window that you’re a mermaid.”
Even with the gravity of the situation, I can’t help but smile, reining it back in when I start to think how to approach my story.
I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, my hands tight around the Hoff mug. “I was born and raised in Cuba to a Cuban father and American mother. In fact, I’ve lived in Cuba my entire life.” My throat’s suddenly tight, but I press on. “My father was injured in a work accident soon after I was born, forcing my mother to find work. We weren’t well off, but she found a job at one of the clubs in town, used to smuggle me in to watch the dancing, the entertainers helping me with my homework. It was quite the education.”
“I can imagine,” says Archer, leaning closer.
My smile fades. “Two years ago my mother passed, cancer, leaving it up to my father to support us, which he couldn’t do. I found work, but it wasn’t enough. We were about to lose our home, lose… everything.” I fight back the tears, willing myself to get through this. Archer watches on with quiet attention, eyes firm.
I look down at the papers. “My father, unable to live with this, went to one of the local cartels, Lacoya, and asked for a loan.” I pause, collecting my thoughts. “I knew nothing of this, of the terms of the loan. My father told me it was inheritance from a long lost uncle. I believed him in my naivety, but when the cartel came to collect one day, I knew the truth.”
A hot tear cuts down my cheek. “They were going to kill him, men with masks and guns. I begged them not to, on my hands and knees, pleading for his life, offering my own in his place. Instead, they took me, telling my father I was to become a bride of Serpiente.”
“The Snake?” Archer fills. “The head of the Lacoya Cartel? You can’t be serious.”
I nod. “I am. The men had sent a photo of me to him. He liked what he saw, and I agreed on the condition my father’s life would be spared and the loan considered repaid. They took me then and there, a hood over my head that smelt like oranges, driving for hours to God knows where. Then I met Serpiente.”
