Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  When my orgasm hits, I see the face of God—or maybe it’s just Morgan Freeman, but whoever it is, he’s in complete agreement with me when I call out his name. I’m surprised I haven’t pulled out a giant tuft of Mac’s hair, but I see I have messed it up to the point where he’ll need a good shower if he ever hopes to go out in public again.

  My chest rises and falls in quick pants as Mac lifts his head and sends me a searing look from between my legs. The snapshot is utterly salacious and I commit it to memory immediately, filing it in my mental scrapbook of dirtiest moments.

  “Lift up.” Mac’s command is pure gravel, and aftershocks from my orgasm pulse through my sex at his tone.

  I do what he says because I’m not an idiot. Doing what he wants leads to orgasms, just as I suspected, so I’m quick to comply. Mac unzips my skirt and pulls it down my legs, leaving me in just my flimsy blouse and bra.

  This is clearly unsatisfactory to him because next he grabs my hand and pulls me up to sitting where he carefully lifts my top over my head and tosses it to the side. His forefinger traces along the lace of my bra cup and I swear my breasts physically swell at his touch. A new shiver runs across my skin and I suck in a breath.

  “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

  The breath catches at his words and my eyes fly up to Mac’s face. He’s watching the movement of his finger as it skims up only to slide the strap of my bra off my shoulder. He repeats it on the other side, him watching me and me watching him. His expression is one of complete adulation, as if he’s never seen or touched a woman’s skin before. As if his face wasn’t just between my thighs. I’m dumbstruck.

  There have been any number of times in my life when I’ve been called beautiful. I’m not being boastful; I just know I did better than average in the DNA lottery. My boyfriend back in eighth grade told me I was beautiful in my favorite dress. Bobby Lee said on our very first date that I was beautiful, and Cookie and Mama and Daddy tell me all the time that I’m beautiful.

  But I’ve never felt it bone deep like I do when Mac says it. And it’s not because he used the f-word to modify it. It’s because he doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean, and the expression on his face tells me it’s one of life’s simple truths for him. Poppy James is “fuckin’ beautiful” to Mac McKinley and that’s all there is to say.

  “Mac.” All I seem to be able to say, on the other hand, is the man’s damn name.

  His eyes flick up to mine at the sound of my voice and it’s a wonder I don’t drop dead on the spot from their shimmering intensity. Without another word, one of Mac’s hands snakes behind my back and my bra falls from my breasts like a soft sigh.

  “Lie back.” His voice is smoke and need.

  My hand comes up to cup his cheek and his whiskers scrape my palm. I run my thumb over the corner of his mouth and on up toward the scar that mars the side of his nose. The skin there is pink and angry, standing in contrast to the surrounding flesh. On any other man, it might be the kind of imperfection you avoid looking at. On Mac it’s part of what makes him so exquisite.

  “I want to see you.” My words are imbued with more meaning than he likely recognizes, but that’s okay. For now.

  He hums in his chest and then his hand is behind his neck and he’s pulling off his shirt.

  If ever there was a moment for cursing in my life, it’s right now. Because there are no other words to describe the sight of Mac’s body in its full glory looming over me. It’s a fucking miracle.

  My eyes don’t know where to start their optical feast. Dark hair dusts over hewn muscle and tanned skin while colorful ink runs the width of his broad chest and dots other planes along his arms, shoulders, and stomach. The man is a work of art in more ways than one.

  “Lie back,” he tells me again, this time with a hint of impatience around the edges.

  I shake my head, not pulling my eyes from his skin. “I want to touch you.”

  “Want that too, but I’m not done.”

  I glance up and scowl at him, then slide my hand up his arm, ignoring his words. I’ve seen this particular tattoo peeking out from the arm of his t-shirts, but I’ve never been able to study it up close. It’s a dagger engulfed in flame, the meaning of which escapes me. My fingers trace his collarbone next and sweep down to skim over the largest of his tattoos, a brilliantly-colored fire-breathing dragon over his pectorals. My intention is to continue exploring all his tattoos with my fingers, but my lips decide they want in on the action and I bend forward to taste the hollow just above his clavicle.

  He hisses and his thumb grazes one of my nipples before he circles it and then captures the peak between his thumb and forefinger. I moan into his chest and, before I know it, he’s gotten his way and I’m flat on my back again, a giant Mac hovering over my naked body.

  My mouth loses contact with his skin when he pins me with his hips and goes up on an elbow, one hand still working my breast while the fingers of the other trace the skin at my hairline and tuck a strand of wild hair behind my ear.

  His eyes study my features and I can see questions behind them, making me wonder if they mirror my own.

  What are you doing to me?

  How am I feeling so much?

  Are you going to break me?

  But he doesn’t voice them so I can’t know.

  I pull him down to me for a kiss, letting my lips and tongue speak for me against his wet mouth. My fingers dig into the warm flesh and hard muscles of his back and shoulders while his erection presses down onto my naked sex through the material of his shorts. I circle his hips with my legs and push up into him.

  He releases my mouth and groans my name against my jaw, and then his mouth is on my breast—licking, sucking, biting—yet all his movements are controlled. Mine, on the other hand, are that of the wanton woman we talked about. I’m thrashing and scraping my fingernails over his scalp and shoulder while I grind shamelessly up into his hardness.

  Finally, he rises onto his knees like a warrior on the brink of battle, but he doesn’t stay still for long. He leans his long body to the side to reach into his bedside table where he extracts a box of condoms. An unopened box of condoms, I don’t fail to note, as I file that away for later.

  He wastes no time, in classic Mac fashion, and I get only the briefest glimpse of gray boxer briefs before his shorts and briefs join the rest of our clothes on the floor and he’s rolling a condom over his thick length and settling himself back between my thighs. Part of me feels a pout coming on that I didn’t even get to touch him, but the other part of me tells everyone to shut up because the real show is about to begin.

  He positions himself at my entrance and I gasp as he starts to press inside. It’s safe to say it’s been a while for me, but even if that weren’t so, Mac would take some serious getting used to. Suffice it to say he’s very proportionate.

  He draws his hips back and pushes forward again, stretching me with a beautiful burn. I close my eyes and tilt my head back into the mattress.

  “Open,” Mac rasps, pulling back and thrusting forward again until he’s almost fully inside me.

  My inner walls tremble and my eyes fly open to see him watching me with eyes on fire. His jaw is clenched tight as he maintains a grip on his control and holds my gaze. Our eyes are locked together when he withdraws almost completely and powers forward so he’s fully seated inside me. I gasp and clench around him, my back arching.

  “You okay?” he asks on what’s almost a wheeze. Glad I’m not the only one.

  I just nod because I can’t speak. I’m so full yet it’s still not enough. It’s exquisite and torturous and mind-blowing all at once, but it’s nothing compared to what I feel when he reassures himself I’m truly okay and begins setting a rhythm.

  With each stroke, he gives and takes, the effort forming a sheen of sweat between us where our bodies glide against one another, bare skin to bare skin. He’s attuned to every shift of my body, every sound I make, constantly adjusting his movements to drive me higher into t
his stratosphere of pleasure he’s building.

  I’m unaware of how my hands get to the places on his body where they squeeze and caress and scratch, driven completely by instinct and the mindlessness of the storm between us. It’s as if I finally understand my body’s purpose and it’s to absorb pleasure and sensual power through every pore of my skin where it meets Mac’s. He’s a god and a man and a wizard and an orgasm fairy all in one. And he’s mine. At least for now.

  By the time he’s shifted my body for the fourth time, I’ve lost all connection between my brain and my muscles and I’m pretty much just a vessel of nerve endings. Mac stands at the side of the bed with my ankles held to his shoulders as he drives into me at a brutal pace. I’ve already come twice and there’s no way I can handle any more, but I’m too overwhelmed to form the words to tell him I’m toast. Instead, I lay with my arms tossed above my head and my back keenly arched while I watch Mac’s face and revel in the wonderfully dirty things he’s doing to me. He’s the picture of tortured restraint, powering forward with beautiful strokes into me, lighting my core and ruining me in the best of ways.

  Sweat drips down his face and chest as he watches where our bodies connect. It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. He thrusts forward, hitting the most secret and sensitive points in my entire being with each stroke. I’m mesmerized by the bunching and shifting of all two million muscles before my eyes and promise myself to get my hands back on his skin once I can move again.

  Aaaand… it looks like I’m not toast after all because a new wave crashes over me and I’m whimpering and panting his name while my inner walls pulse around him, my hips rising off the bed and my toes curling by his neck. It takes what feels like forever to come down from my new high.

  I have no idea how long we’ve been at it, but two things are clear: I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight, and I’m throwing my vibrator away the minute I get home.

  Mac’s eyes find mine again in the dim light and his teeth clench with his final strokes before he roars a delicious manly growl and reaches his climax, eventually stilling inside me.

  The only sound to fill the air then is our labored breathing. Mac lets go of my ankles and falls forward to the bed on his elbows, careful not to crush me. My thighs naturally fall apart to accommodate him and then I wrap him up with my arms around his neck and my legs circling his hips.

  It occurs to me that if I don’t move, we may be able to just stay like this forever. It’s one of my better ideas, I must admit.

  Twenty-One

  “God made men and women different for a reason; what else would we have to talk about?”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  “So, what does this one mean?” I run my finger along the tattoo that snakes behind Mac’s ear—the same one that’s been taunting and winking at me since the very first time we spoke.

  He’s lying on his back with his elbows cocked and his hands behind his head while I use his chest as a very hard, yet very warm pillow. Honestly, I’ve never given underarm hair a single thought, except to be annoyed that I have to waste time shaving my own—until about point-two seconds after Mac pulled his t-shirt over his head tonight and I realized exactly how manly and sexy I find it to be. I’ve been sneaking peeks at his since he positioned us this way after our glorious and exhausting sexathon, but I’m finally shifting my focus to his tattoos.

  Mac spouts out an unintelligible mush of words I assume are Gaelic by the general cadence. Then he switches from word salad to normal English. “No man can serve two masters.”

  “Ah,” I respond as my finger reaches the end of the inked text at his shoulder and lingers there on the warm skin. “Very deep.”

  I still can’t believe I get to touch him like this. I mean, I know parts of him have literally been inside of me, but he’s possibly the most beautiful human specimen I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’m thinking about taking up sculpting as I sit here admiring him.

  He grunts and shifts his chin down to see me better. “Don’t be fooled.” He catches my hand and guides my finger over to his right shoulder. “This one back here says, ‘So long and thanks for all the fish.’”

  My chin digs into his chest when I laugh. “I’m so afraid to ask.”

  His mouth slides into an almost-full grin. “Remember the book?”

  I laugh again. “Let me guess, your first tattoo?”

  His answer is a brow quirk and I consider my previous instinct to lean forward and run my tongue over it. Instead, I choose normal human behavior.

  “Isn’t that book kind of… a comedy?”

  “Yeah.” The added so what is silent.

  “Hmm.”

  His brows come down. “You don’t think I have a sense of humor?”

  “Uh, it’s not the first attribute that comes to mind.” Hello, orgasm whisperer.

  Mac’s response is to pull on a strand of my hair that I’m sure looks like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons at this point. If I’m not mistaken, Mac is being playful. Who knew?

  I grin and hope it’s adequately sassy. My post-coital haze has taken my inhibitions down to zero. “So, Mac, about this sci-fi thing… does that mean you’re a Trekkie?”

  “What if I am?” He asks with a straight face.

  Aside from it blowing my mind, it wouldn’t matter much at all, per se. In the interest of keeping the current lines of communication open, I’m careful with my next words.

  “Well, that would make my day since I’m a total Trekkie too.” In other words, I lie. I mean, seriously, I just don’t get it. Apart from the hotness that is Chris Pine, I’m lost.

  “You lie like it’s your job.” Mac completely calls me out.

  I gasp and poke him in the ribs. This no inhibitions thing is fun. “I do not.”

  He grunts but doesn’t try to remove my hand. “Name one conversation we’ve had where you didn’t lie.”

  I open my mouth to respond and come up empty. “Well, that’s not fair. We really haven’t talked all that much when you think about it.”

  His lips twitch again. “And that’s better somehow?”

  I send him a scowl. “Anyway, it’s just because you hardly talk at all so I have to fill in the silence with something.”

  “I talk. When I have something to say.”

  Stop the presses, y’all!

  “With your eyebrows, maybe.”

  The thick sexy slashes spike at that. “My eyebrows?”

  “Yes. Your eyebrows are as prolific as William freakin’ Shakespeare.”

  “They write plays?” Now who’s being sassy?

  “You know what I mean.” I resettle myself so my chin rests on my hands where they’re folded on his chest. How did I get here? Sigh.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “See! Right there.” I whip a hand out and point to his face. “Your left eyebrow just said, ‘You’re certifiable, Poppy James.’”

  “It said all that?” He lifts his head to rake me with his eyes and then his voice drops especially low. “What is the right one saying?”

  “Oh. Oh. No.” I pretend to back away. “That’s too dirty to say out loud.”

  Mac flips me on my back in one smooth motion and I forget all about being a smartass. It’s only later that I find out he’s not a Trekkie at all, but he does have an entire bookshelf crammed with sci-fi paperbacks and a collection of vinyl records, and I’m totally down with that.

  * * *

  After a breakfast of egg white omelets and a few additional personal Mac tidbits I hoard to myself like a crotchety old miser, it’s time to face the music—the music being one of those incessant old Rick Astley songs that get stuck in your head until you want to claw your own ears off. Namely, a worn-out tune by the name of Bobby Lee Collinsworth.

  But when I go to get dressed and attempt an awkward goodbye with Mac, he’s having nothing of it. Instead, I find myself naked and in the shower with Mac soaping up every inch of my body and tracing it all with his mouth just to make sure he got every
thing. He’s thorough like that.

  Then, of course, I have to make sure he’s clean, a process that’s cut short when he decides I’ve done enough and pins me to his shower wall to do me like a bad habit. Suffice it to say, we’re both super clean by the time I’m allowed to get dressed. Mac throws on jeans and a t-shirt and walks me out to grab a taxi.

  And that’s how I find myself climbing my apartment building’s stairs with Mac on my heels and Bobby Lee waiting inside. How in the world did I get here?

  “Morning!” I greet the entryway wall. If I know Bobby Lee, he’s been up since the crack of dawn, so there’s no reason to keep my voice down. And, yup, there he is, hair still damp from the shower and pressed chinos and a dress shirt covering his tall frame. He has a newspaper spread before him on the table and a cup of coffee that I’m guessing has been refilled more than once.

  He wipes his lips with a paper napkin and rises. “Morning, Poppy. Angus.” He doesn’t extend a hand to Mac, nor does Mac make an attempt from where he stands pressed up against my back. This is even more awkward than I thought it would be.

  I rock on my Converse soles and Bobby Lee shoves his hands in his front pockets, neither of us knowing what to say. And it’s not like I can count on Mac to break the tension. Hell, his middle name is probably Tension, a moniker he wears proudly, no doubt.

  “So…” I finally say, ever so helpfully.

  Bobby Lee smiles painfully. “So…”

  Good God. Where is the Kool-Aid man when you need him?

  I finally crack. “You have breakfast yet? I can make you something. Or maybe we can pop around the corner and grab a bite. Somewhere around here is bound to have a half-decent biscuit, right?” At this I turn to Mac for confirmation—or maybe to hand out a distress signal. But he’s not looking at me. His eyes are on Bobby Lee.

  Crap. I’m thinking we might just have ourselves a good old-fashioned pissing contest on our hands.

  “No, Poppy, darlin’. I already ate.”