Tales by Rails (Rays of Sunshine Book 1)

by Leonard,Jewel E.

  Did she dare ask him to go down on her? No. She hadn’t bathed in three days and it must’ve smelled reminiscent of a bakery on the beach down there. Make that a fuck no. It was nothing a little Summer’s Eve couldn’t fix, but until she could shower . . .?

  Until when? She drew in a sharp breath, pulling away from Surfer Boy’s lips.

  “What?” he asked, his voice tight with apprehension. “Is it something I said? Something I did?”

  Yes. No. Rhea dreaded the arrival in Chicago more with each passing minute. “Take me,” she begged. “Take me slow, take me long. Make it last a lifetime, for the love of God.”

  Surfer Boy nodded, converting the seats in his roomette into a bed and closing the door. “I’ll be glad to, but . . . One question first.”

  “. . . Yeah?” Her phlegm thickened.

  “If you don’t know my name, what will you scream when I make you come?” He lifted her T-shirt off over her head before reaching around to unhook her bra and pull it off.

  “I . . . Guess . . .” Rhea smiled, pleased with her quick thinking. She’d have to remember the exchange for her story: “I’ll just have to blaspheme the hell out of myself.”

  He chuckled, giving her a big nod of appreciation. “I’ll make an angel out of you yet.”

  Rhea wriggled out of her jeans and underwear, reclining on the bed. She gazed at him, aiming for an innocent expression which had to be more porn queen than nun.

  Surfer Boy undressed under Rhea’s watchful eyes. His physique, if imperfect, was so close to perfection she didn’t see any flaws: nothing but smooth, tanned skin over the fine lines of well-defined muscles. She’d massaged him, and given him the handy-j, but she had yet to explore his body with her mouth. She bit her lip, staring at his erection.

  There she was, making plans for future encounters with him. Rhea thought he’d be great fun to suck on in the shower like a big, vanilla ice cream drumstick. Nuts, and all.

  “What’s that look for?” Surfer Boy asked, his lips crooking upward into a smile.

  “Nothing,” Rhea lied. “I’m just taking in the sights.”

  He rolled on the condom. “Promise you’ll remember me.”

  “You’ve already given me so much that I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to.”

  Surfer Boy lowered himself to the bed, wrapping his body around hers and kissing her on the neck. He drew Rhea’s skin between his lips and sucked. She inhaled sharply and moaned.

  His cock rested against the inside of her thighs and she squeezed it between her legs.

  “Oh yeah,” he told her, his lips against the sensitive mark he’d left on her neck. “That feels so good.”

  So she squeezed him a bit harder and he moaned, his voice reverberating against her neck. Surfer Boy peppered her collarbone with pecks and he kissed a trail down to her breasts.

  Rhea raked her fingers through his hair, trying to cling to him as well as her composure without it being too obvious she was well on her way to losing control.

  He flicked the barbell in her nipple with his tongue, squeezing her left breast. Rhea clenched her eyes shut as his lips scorched her skin. She knew it then: He was branding her.

  “I want to taste you,” he whispered.

  Rhea was certain he’d been teasing her with the shower talk, as if it had all been sexual bravado during foreplay to get her juices running—which it had.

  “I need to taste you.”

  There was such urgency in Surfer Boy’s voice that Rhea could do nothing but indulge him, cleanliness be damned. “Who am I to say ‘no?’”

  He acknowledged her statement with no words but with actions: kissing a meandering trail down her torso to the tops of her thighs. And then from her right thigh, kiss by kiss, he nestled his face between her legs, greeting her pussy with a long slow lick the full length of his tongue.

  The sensation filled her whole body with a sizzle of excitement unlike anything she’d ever experienced. “Oh my God—” she gasped and the remainder of her articulation collapsed into a long, deep moan.

  “You are so fucking sexy.” He licked again.

  “Don’t—stop—” She praised him with another moan between staggered gasps, gathering what loosely qualified for bedding into fists.

  After a little bit of repositioning, Surfer Boy teased her with his fingertips, sneaking the tip of one into her white-hot center, his tongue tracing circles around her clit.

  Rhea whimpered. She’d have told him whatever he was doing to her pussy was unabashed cruelty, but while she was coming, her words were not. Just sexy, delightful moaning and sighing as wave after wave of unparalleled bliss imparted by his tongue washed over her.

  When pleasure gave way to oversensitivity, Rhea tried to close her legs on Surfer Boy. He chuckled and backed away, wiping his chin with the back of his arm. Her chest heaved and he reached out to caress her right breast, circling her nipple with his thumb.

  Focused on her piercing, he told her, “This is so damn cool.”

  “You—gonna—waste—” Rhea managed a deep breath to finish her question. “—the condom?”

  Surfer Boy gave her a big smile and a simple answer: “Nope.” He slid along her body, positioning himself before easing into her.

  She closed her eyes, compelled to commit this moment to memory and forget it all at the same time. Rhea ran her hands down his sculpted back, settling them on his ass, where she enjoyed the rhythm of sex from yet another vantage point.

  He kissed her neck, working his way to her jaw. But he hesitated putting his lips to hers.

  “Kiss me,” Rhea said.

  He grunted between thrusts. “I taste like you.”

  “You could taste like my ass. I don’t give a shit.” She put her hands on either side of his face and drew him down to her, pressing her lips to his softly. Rhea found nothing objectionable there. So she parted her lips, and he did the same, their tongues dancing around each other, exploring each other’s mouths. It was only then that she tasted herself on him, but she didn’t care. The things he did with his tongue, wherever he did them, were marvelous.

  He broke their kiss. “Will you ride me ‘til I come? Please, Sunshine?”

  Thinking of his stamina, she worried she would get a saddle sore from such endeavors; but oh, would the pain ever be worthwhile! She smiled at him. “Sure thing. Just . . . Don’t make it too hard for me.”

  Surfer Boy dismounted her, glancing at his cock as it jutted away from him. “I’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t get any harder than this.”

  In the cramped quarters, they maneuvered around each other. He reclined on the bed and she straddled him, her dripping slit mere inches from his erection. She watched it quiver beneath her as he adjusted his position between her thighs. Rhea gave him a devious smile.

  He lifted his head, watching her. “What’s that look for?” he asked, his eyes and voice wary.

  “You really tortured me earlier, y’know?”

  Surfer Boy dropped his head back on the pillow. Though he was smiling, he groaned: “Do your worst.”

  Rhea reached around behind herself, curling her fingers around his balls. “Is that a challenge?”

  He moaned, closing his eyes with a wide smile.

  She lowered herself until the tip of his dick parted her folds; it tortured as much as it teased and she was sure she felt the anticipation as much as he did. Rhea lifted herself off him, sliding her heat against the full length of his cock—which served to make her even wetter, and him, somehow even harder. She thought to point out he could get stiffer but instead, she repositioned herself facing his toes, backing up toward his face. She wrapped her hand around the base of his cock, and brought her mouth to its tip.

  He grunted. “You’re a tease!”

  Rhea wrapped her lips around him, rotating her slick hand and sucking. She thought about how much better this would be without the wretched flavor of the condom. Going down on him without it made her want to get monogamous with him. The intrusive th
ought was wrenched from her head when his fingertips sank into her creamy ass, and his tongue found her clit again.

  It took every last shred of concentration to focus on pleasuring him, rather than creaming his face. As another orgasm built, Rhea pulled away from Surfer Boy. She turned to face him again.

  “Please,” he moaned, “put me out of my misery already!”

  Rhea slid against his member, rotating her hips in circles over his lap. It wasn’t long before he grabbed those hips, thrusting into her with a hard shudder. She thought he’d come then, but he made that motion—with the same reaction—again. And again. So she followed his lead, sliding up and down him.

  His right hand slid from her hip to cover her clit—he pressed it, rubbed it, and circled it with the pad of his thumb.

  “Oh jeez—” she gasped, her climax rebuilding at break-neck speed.

  “Come again?” he moaned.

  And she did.

  The ripples caressing his erection with her orgasm beckoned his, and he came hard. “Fuck—” Surfer Boy gasped through his.

  They both fell quiet, catching their breath.

  Rhea exhaled as Surfer Boy pulled her down to rest chest-to-chest.

  “You’re amazing,” he remarked.

  She closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of his muscles beneath her breasts. “Yeah well that’s neither here nor there.” If she concentrated, she thought she felt his heart pounding. Or perhaps what she felt was the clicking and clacking of train over track.

  They were on a train; how easy it was to forget that in the throes of passion. Rhea pushed herself to her knees again, and Surfer Boy moaned.

  “It’s so sensitive . . .”

  She smiled, reaching around to gently manipulate his balls some more.

  “Oh—God—yes—”

  As his moan dangled there for want of a proper noun to attribute her amazing massage skills, Rhea regretted not giving her name to him. She was regretting a lot of things now, not the least of which was they’d used the last condom he bought.

  And they would be arriving in Chicago soon.

  She blinked, opening the window curtains enough to peer outside; she was expecting open plains but what she got was suburbs.

  “When are we supposed to be in Chicago?” asked Rhea, gingerly dismounting Surfer Boy. For all her care, she knocked her head against the bottom of the upper bunk, which they failed to close.

  “Oh! Are you all right?” gasped Surfer Boy, reaching out for her head.

  She rubbed the back of her head, laughing despite the throbbing pain. “Clearance is lower than advertised.” She kissed his forehead for his compassion; after all, he could have laughed at her for her clumsiness. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Surfer Boy snapped the condom off himself, wrapping the used rubber in a few tissues and dropping it into the trash. At the sound of the train approaching a railroad crossing, he peered out through the slit between the curtain panels. He announced flatly, “We’re in Chicago.”

  “What?” she snapped.

  “We’re in Chicago.”

  Rhea felt an unexpected panic rise in her chest, clamping around her throat with a merciless squeeze. She had to dress. She had to gather her things. She had to make a decision about Surfer Boy. “Damn. Shit. Oh hell, fuck!” She rushed to get back into her clothing.

  Once dressed, she combed out her short hair with her fingers, shaking her head—as if that had any affect. “I’ve gotta go to my seat . . . Get my stuff . . .” It was miraculous she could think straight.

  Surfer Boy zipped his pants and slid open the cabin door. Rhea swept her few articles from the bunk.

  “Would you—” He cleared his throat.

  She glanced at him, taking a steadying breath. If her expression read as even a smidgen the amount of conflicted she was, he could see it.

  He finished, “—meet me on the platform for a proper goodbye?”

  Rhea swallowed. Why couldn’t she say ‘no’ to this guy? He was derailing all her plans! Or, rather, her lack of them. “How will I find you there?” She had no experience of Chicago’s Union Station but assumed it was similar to any large city transportation hub: busy as all get out.

  “I’ll stand beside the train until we’re the last two passengers left on the platform, if I need to.”

  Son of a bitch! Could he be any more romantic? “Anyone ever tell you you’re too good to be true?”

  “You’d be the first. If . . . you’re telling me that.”

  “I’ll be out on the platform,” Rhea told him, turning into the stairwell. “I hope to see you there.”

  Two-hundred-some dollars, she mused as she returned to her seat and pulled her backpack from the overhead compartment. For a seat I spent so little time in. But . . . I had amazing sex for the first time in my life. On balance, she decided, it was all worthwhile. The laptop went into the bag; Rhea thinking she would have to chronicle her trip—in explicit detail—once she got to her hotel room.

  The train jerked several times as it slowed in its approach to the station.

  It stopped. With it, Rhea’s heart.

  Yes, she was going to meet Surfer Boy on the platform for a hearty handshake and a thanks-for-the-orgasms. But she was still undecided about keeping in touch with him.

  Rhea watched as the other passengers gathered their belongings and one-by-one filtered down the aisle to the stairwell. And one-by-one, their heads bobbed and disappeared down the stairs until she was alone in the car. Still without a decision on the sexy stranger.

  “Ma’am?” An attendant cleared her throat from behind Rhea. “We’ve arrived in Chicago. I must ask you to detrain now.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” Rhea nodded absently. “Thank you.” She slung the backpack over her shoulder, and slid the purse handles up her arm.

  “The attendant downstairs will help you with your luggage.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for choosing Amtrak and have a nice day.”

  “You too.” And, as every passenger had before her, Rhea descended the narrow staircase to the first level of the Superliner.

  While the attendant pulled her tagged suitcase from the luggage storage compartment, Rhea rooted through her purse, pulling out the single piece of paper she’d torn from her little notebook. She was sorely tempted to crumple it in a fist and ask the attendant to throw it out for her. But the way her heart wrenched at the thought gave clear indication her mind was indeed made up about keeping in contact with Surfer Boy. Better yet, keeping in touch with him. Direct touch. Literally.

  The attendant handed her suitcase over and with an unexpected lazy southern drawl, he told Rhea, “Ya have a nice day now, y’hear?”

  “Thanks. You too.”

  By the time Rhea stepped off the Southwest Chief into the whole new world of Chicago, there were but a few people left milling about on the train platform. Some of them hugging fiercely; reunions, Rhea guessed. One was gazing at the station building—either lost or struck by awe. And, under an Amtrak sign: Surfer Boy by himself, a single suitcase by his feet and his large black portfolio tucked beneath his right arm.

  With a steadying breath, Rhea approached. “Hey.” It felt like greeting an old friend rather than a one-night-stand whose name she still didn’t know. And maybe she did want to know it after all. But only if he volunteered it; she wasn’t about to ask.

  “Hi.” His salutation was filled with the same familiarity as hers.

  “You, uh . . . You owe me a self-portrait as I recall.”

  To Rhea’s surprise, he pulled a piece of paper from his portfolio and handed it to her. “Don’t be hard on me, I’m really not the kind of artist who does portraits.”

  Rhea’s mouth fell open in a quiet gasp. She didn’t know on what to comment first: his amazing likeness, or the sketch in the upper right-hand corner of a chibi-style Surfer Boy and Sunshine—each labeled as such—in profile and kissing, a single heart drawn between the two. It was painful in its innocence, especia
lly considering the not innocent things they’d done together. “You have me fooled,” she whispered. “It’s perfect, thank you!”

  “I agonized over it.”

  “Your hard work shows.” Rhea considered her statement. “Your talent shows.” She reconsidered her compliment again: “You have skilled hands.” Let him interpret that as he would.

  Surfer Boy laughed in hearty appreciation. “So do you.”

  “I suppose . . .” Do it, do it now! “. . . I should give you this.” Rhea gave him the note she’d written him last night and held her breath.

  He scanned it, then broke into even more laughter. “No wonder you liked me calling you Sunshine!” After a pause, he added, “Rhea.”

  God, it sounds sexy on his voice. And he pronounced it right: ray. Not the way the vast majority of her teachers did, like a truncated version of a popular word for the trots.

  “Turn the portrait over,” Surfer Boy told her.

  Rhea did, finding his email address written on the back. “Adam arts on the beach,” she read, nodding with a wide smile spreading across her face. I guess I really do know him from Adam! “Email me sometime. Okay?”

  He nodded. “I will. My offer still stands, by-the-way, to take you around the Art Institute.”

  Rhea made a counter-proposal: “Only if a meal’s included.”

  “You got it.”

  “Dinner, though. And maybe . . . Drinks afterward?”

  “As long as there’s a nice long night of screwing in a hotel room, after.” Adam countered her counter-proposal.

  “There’d better be shower sex like you described or I’m calling the whole thing off.”

  “Oh you drive a hard bargain. But . . . It’s a deal if you promise to scream my name now that you know it.”

  Rhea was smiling so hard, her cheeks hurt. “Only if you leave me no other choice.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll rise to the occasion.” He was smiling every bit as big as Rhea now.

  “I have no doubt you will.”

  “I’ve . . . I’ve got a gallery to get to,” said Adam reluctantly. “I’ll send you an email tonight.”

  “Best of luck to you.”

  “Thanks. Get some rest and enjoy your stay here.”