by Rose, Ranae
He flexed his hips, sending the blunt tip of his erection sliding against her slick skin. “You’re so wet.” He slipped a hand between her legs, rubbing his fingers against her tingling lips as if he couldn’t resist feeling for himself. After teasing her for a few moments, he succumbed with a moan and gripped his shaft, angling his dick toward her entrance.
When he slid inside her, it felt every bit as astonishingly good as the first time. He tunneled through her channel, stretching its sides and fulfilling the throbbing ache that pounded inside it.
She leaned down, bracing herself with one hand against the back of the couch and the other against one of his shoulders as she let her lips brush the rim of his left ear. “I know.” Her voice trembled slightly as she made her admission, the thrill of telling the simple truth heightening her senses. “Thinking about what it will feel like when you slide inside me makes me so wet it hurts not to have you here.” She rocked her hips faintly, stirring the place where he was lodged inside her. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Saturday morning.”
He growled like she was killing him with her words.
Meanwhile, satisfaction unfurled somewhere between her heart and her pussy. She wasn’t used to talking dirty – if what she’d said even counted as that – but she wanted him to know what that morning had meant to her. She couldn’t explain fully how their first time together had destroyed the little bit she’d known about sexual pleasure and plunged her into a new world where her sexuality was as much a part of her as eating, sleeping and breathing. But she could at least give him pieces of the truth and let him know that she’d enjoyed it, that he’d literally been on her mind 24/7 since.
He plied her with thrusts that were slow and deep-reaching, silent as she swayed in his lap, her nipples brushing his shirt at the end of each stroke.
“Will you think about this,” he breathed, “after you leave tonight? When you lie down in your own bed to sleep and when you wake up in the morning... Will you think about me inside you like this, Ally?”
Her throat trembled before she even managed to make a sound. She clutched his shoulder hard, letting her nails dig into his skin. “Yes.”
He breathed a deep sigh, like he was both relieved and turned-on by her answer. “Good. Because I’ll be thinking about you too. When I’m this deep inside you… Fuck, I don’t think I know what pain is. You feel so good. I won’t be able to think about anything but getting inside you again.” He thrust a hand between their bodies, rubbing her clit in an insistent massage, demanding that she respond with more than just words.
Like clockwork, her channel tightened and pulsed, squeezing his dick as he pushed inside her, hitting a spot that tore the breath right out of her lungs. She concentrated all her willpower on one simple task – bearing down.
He thrust deeper than ever as she widened her legs, sinking so low into his lap that her thigh muscles ached from the strain. It was worth it – the slight discomfort was overshadowed by intense, wrenching pleasure that wrung waves of sensation from every place his cock touched. She let her breath come wild and free, hitching when she tried and failed to say his name.
It was the first time anyone had ever given her pleasure that was literally too strong for words. The revelation gripped her like her orgasm, shaking her to her core, where he filled her. She threw the arm she’d braced against the couch around his neck and clung to him as she rode out the last few moments of her climax.
When it was over she kept holding on, liking the feel of the pulse in his neck beating against her bicep.
He continued to roll his hips below, sending little bolts of aftershock quivering through her with every stroke. “Fuck yeah…” The tiniest of tremors shot through his chest, causing his shoulder to shake briefly beneath her grip, and he picked up pace, driving each stroke deep and punctuating it with a ragged breath.
She rocked her hips, matching his rhythm as he tipped his head back, hot air rushing over his lips and sending strands of her hair dancing.
She could feel him come. It was evident in the way he tensed against her as energy seemed to surge out of nowhere and into his limbs and loins, allowing him to fuck her with an intensity that made her moan, and the way his cock seemed to have grown even harder inside her.
When he stopped, she unwrapped her arm from around his neck and relaxed her feral grip on his shoulder. The dusting of little crescent-shaped red marks she’d left there filled her with dual senses of satisfaction and faint regret. Satisfaction that evidence of her touch and the pleasure he’d given her would linger on his skin a while longer, and regret that she’d caused him pain, however slight.
Or had she? He’d said he didn’t know what pain was when he was buried inside her. Just thinking about those words made her head spin and her heart speed. Smoothing her fingertips over the marks as if she could wipe them away, she leaned in and brushed a kiss across his temple, dampening her lips with the faintest sheen of sweat and letting the edge of his butterfly bandage tickle one corner of her mouth.
Her thigh muscles quivered when she rose, slowly unsheathing him. When the solidness of his cock was gone from inside her body, the memory of pressure and hardness remained, causing her channel to ache pleasantly where he’d been.
When she settled beside him on the couch cushion, he removed the condom and rose to dispose of it, walking the short distance to the trashcan in the kitchen.
The movie was over, the credits scrolling across the screen. He didn’t mention it as he approached her again, tucking his softening cock back into his underwear and zipping his jeans.
“How’s your head?” she asked when he joined her on the couch again.
Despite what they’d just done, his gaze clung to her body, slowing over her curves and lingering on her breasts. “Fine.”
Instinctively, she reached for him, gently brushing his hair out of the way so she could see the little gash that was held shut by a single bandage. “Does it hurt?”
He shook his head, sending her fingers sweeping over the curve of his skull and through the thick of his hair. “The wound is barely an inch long, if that. I’ve had much worse. Don’t worry about it.”
The blue and purple whirl of bruising that extended from his hairline certainly looked painful, whatever he said. But then, he had a hundred times more scar tissue, at least, on his thigh, where his skin had been torn by shrapnel hurled through the air by an IED. Maybe the pain of his recent wound really did seem insignificant in comparison. She couldn’t say – she’d never sustained such an extreme injury and was incapable of knowing how one like it might change one’s perception of future, smaller hurts.
“Have you had any headaches – migraines – since Friday night?”
He caught her hand in his and lowered it, intertwining his fingers with hers. “No. I’ve been fine since then.”
“I read something over the weekend,” she said, resisting the urge to take a deep breath as she hoped that her eyes didn’t betray her nervousness. “Melissa’s sister had it, and I took a look – it was a medical pamphlet, about TBI. Her fiancé is in the Army Reserve and just came back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan.”
She tried to gauge his expression, but there wasn’t much change. Was that a sign in and of itself – was he preparing to stonewall her question? “I was wondering if that’s the cause of your migraines.” There, it was out.
Chapter 11
He still held her hand. One of her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. She could feel his pulse there, beating strong and warm beneath skin that was surprisingly soft.
“Yeah. That’s what they diagnosed me with, anyway. After the blast.”
“When I read about it, I couldn’t help but think of you.”
His mouth twisted a little at one corner as he maintained eye contact with her. “You thought right. It didn’t seem like something to mention on a first or second date, you know? And then you saw what it can do… Still, most people don’t know what TBI is. Those three letters
are just out-of-sequence pieces of the alphabet to them.”
“I didn’t know what it was either, before I saw that literature. I’ve spent some time researching it since then, trying to understand what it is.”
“It’s basically the after-effects of a concussion,” he said. “My case is considered mild. Traumatic brain injury – it’s not as dramatic as it sounds.”
What it had done to him – crippled him with pain that had sent him stumbling into a fresh injury – had certainly seemed dramatic at the time. And judging by what she’d read, the effects of TBI could definitely interfere with one’s life. But how could she say that without sounding like she was chastising him or downplaying his resiliency? He knew much better than her what it was like to live with it.
“I’m seeing a doctor,” he added, “at the VA Medical Center. The migraines and everything… They’ll most likely go away eventually. I already don’t get them as often as I did at first.”
“I’m glad you’re getting treatment,” she said as the thin ice feeling of earlier that evening descended upon her again. “And I understand that recovery can take a while. But fighting … isn’t that dangerous?”
“Entering a ring and knowing you and the other guy are both going to try your damndest to beat the hell out of each other before you get out – of course it’s dangerous. You’d know. Haven’t you ever been hurt fighting?”
“Yes.” She’d had more bruises than she could count and the occasional black eye or purpled jaw. “But I’m not talking about the standard risks – aren’t you endangering yourself and jeopardizing your recovery by voluntarily risking more head trauma?”
He gave her a look of sheer determination – one she could imagine him aiming across the ring at an opponent if he added a little malice. “It’s been almost a year. I waited that long to get back into competing. I’m not going to wait any longer.”
“What does your doctor say about you fighting?”
He gave her a look that confirmed her suspicions before he even spoke. “I haven’t mentioned it to him. Look…” He squeezed her hand a little more tightly, sending a ripple of surprise through her. “I know Friday night must’ve freaked you out. And it’s nice that you read up on TBI. You’re kind, Ally, and that’s rare. But I’m not going to stop competing. I know what I’m doing.”
His words stung, the feeling of rejection enhanced by the look in his eyes – obviously, nothing she was saying was deterring him the least little bit. “I know you know what you’re doing in the ring. But that doesn’t mean you’re not going to be hit in the head, because you are. And I’m going to think about that every time I watch you fight. Every time you step into the ring I’m going to wonder if you’re going to come out in so much pain you can’t even drive or walk, let alone fight another match.”
He didn’t let go of her hand, but the warmth and passion left his eyes, turning them a cold shade of blue. “I’m sorry I’m putting you through that.”
The discussion was obviously over, and it had gone the way she’d feared, not the way she’d hoped.
* * * * *
“Do you have a date tonight?” Maria raised an eyebrow as the sound of a loud motor rumbled outside, somewhere near the house.
“No.” Ally shot a glimpse toward the front door anyway, imagining the cold Thursday night outside. Picturing Ryan emerging from his mustang and approaching the house flooded her with warmth that quickly cooled. They hadn’t planned anything for that day, and she knew the sound of his car’s motor. Funny how she’d come to know it by heart after only a few rides.
A knock sounded at the door, jolting her out of her thoughts of Ryan, which tended to reduce her mind to a jumbled mess of concern, arousal and a dozen decidedly tender feelings she couldn’t quite identify. “I’ll get it.” She rose from her seat at the table, abandoning a half-empty cup of tea.
They’d been expecting no company, so both doors had been closed against the chilly night – the storm door with its large window and the oaken door with its much smaller one, suitable only for peeking at a visitor’s face. She stood on her tiptoes to peer out the latter window before undoing the lock. She’d expected to see her aunt, or maybe a cousin dropping by on an unexpected visit. It happened occasionally. The last person she’d expected to see was her brother.
She was locked in eye contact with him for several bizarre moments before she managed to tear her gaze away, turning her back halfway to the door. “It’s Manny.” The note of surprise in her voice was audible, even to her. Her heart raced as she stood awaiting her mother’s reaction, terribly aware of the man on the other side of the door – one who shared her eye and nose shape and was just two years older than her.
“Manny?” Her mother rose slowly from her seat in the kitchen, bracing herself with her palms flat against the table top. “Are you sure?”
“Definitely.” This was the closest she’d stood to him in years, but she’d grown up with him and had glimpsed him on numerous occasions since their formal estrangement had begun years ago –a consequence of living in the same city and knowing so many of the same people.
Maria hurried toward the door with surprising speed, her expression so torn between different emotions that it became an unreadable mask. “I’ll answer the door,” she said, laying a hand on top of Ally’s.
“Mamá, are you sure?”
“He’s here,” she replied, as if those two words left no alternative but to open the door to the son she’d told to leave years ago.
Ally’s mouth went dry as her mother unlocked the door and opened it.
“Mamá.” He said the word like he saw her every day, as if it were a familiar endearment. “Ally.” He used the nickname he knew she preferred as he stepped over the threshold, into the house.
His shoulder just barely brushed Ally’s. No shiver raced down her spine or set her teeth on edge. His presence felt more familiar than it should have, and that was what kindled a spark of anger inside her.
“It’s nice to see you both.” He spoke in Spanish. He’d been born and raised in Baltimore just like Ally, and their mother before them. But when he spoke Spanish, he sounded a little like their father, who’d spent the first eleven years of his life on a farm in rural Mexico and still carried the accent that life had given him, though he’d long since become an American citizen.
The similarity grated on Ally. She liked her father’s voice and accent. She missed hearing it every day. “What are you doing here?” She spoke in English, refusing to adjust to Manny’s preferences, even in that small matter.
He showed no reaction as he strolled through the entry area and into the kitchen, his movements slow and deliberate. The edges of tattoos peeked from above the collar of his leather jacket, but he wasn’t dripping with gold chains or flashing cash like a gangster in a movie. There wasn’t even a visible outline of a handgun tucked into the back of his jeans, though he more than likely had one concealed somewhere on his person.
His arrogance and corrupt nature were instead manifested in his stride, in the way he walked through the house he’d been kicked out of. He looked at everything as if it were all his – belongings he’d put down long ago and was now returning to pick up again, unsurprised that they had remained untouched and unchanged while he’d ignored them.
“I’m getting married this summer.” He paused by the kitchen table, one hand resting on the back of a chair. “Inés said she wasn’t sure if you two would attend the ceremony. I came to invite you personally.”
“Manny, you know we can’t attend.” Maria spoke in Spanish too.
Manny shook his head – a sparse movement, as if he couldn’t be bothered to waste any more energy than was strictly necessary on refuting her. “You can attend. You don’t want to attend.” He reached for the fridge door, opening it and peering inside. “It’s your son’s wedding. You should attend.” He pulled out a baking dish and peeled back the foil cover.
Rage simmered inside Ally’s stomach as he eyed the contents o
f the dish with a tiny nod of approval. “Speaking of things people in this room should do, you should leave, Manny. If you wanted us to come to your wedding you should’ve thought of that before you betrayed this family.”
He didn’t even bother to shake his head as he placed the dish in the microwave. “I’m like you, Ally – I love my family. I work with my family every day. I’m the only person in this room who’s been betrayed, and I’m willing to forgive.”
Ally didn’t bother to conceal a sneer. “You don’t work with family. You work with a bunch of criminals.”
Manny removed the dish from the microwave, took a fork from the drawer next to the sink and began to eat the leftover casserole he hadn’t bothered to ask if he could have. As he chewed, all Ally could think about was her father in his prison uniform and how sick with worry and anger he’d be if he knew Manny was walking around the house like he owned the place.
“At least no woman of mine will ever have to fight to keep the lights on.” His eyes were a shade of chocolate brown that should have appeared warm, but they looked cold as he surveyed Ally over his dish. “You wouldn’t have to either if you weren’t so stubborn.”
“I don’t have to fight.”
“Don’t you? I know how much the salon is bringing in and how much you pay every month on this house’s mortgage. I know you sold papá’s car just a few months after he went to prison so that you could afford to put food on the table.”
“I was only seventeen then. Things are different now.”
“The only thing that’s different is that you’re fighting every other Saturday for a chance at a few hundred bucks.” His tone was sickeningly pragmatic as he looked down at his dish as if he’d just won an argument. He frowned faintly as he set it down, as if surprised and disappointed that it was empty.
In that moment, it was impossible to imagine anything more satisfying than the hard point of her elbow colliding with his smug jaw. It was easy to imagine marching around the table and laying a hard strike into his face – one that would cut it open. Elbows did that. They weren’t like punches. They were often stronger and could lay open skin in a way fists just didn’t.
