Saving Emily: A Fighter's Curvy Prize

by Nora Haley

  I only wish I wasn’t so exhausted now that he’s in my apartment.

  When I return to my room, I find him lying on my bed, leafing through one of my books. It’s the fantasy novel I’m reading at the moment. His black T-shirt stretches tight over his chest and the muscles in his arm flex when he turns the page. I could get used to this sight.

  “Looks interesting,” he says, snapping it shut and setting it aside.

  “You can borrow it if you like.”

  A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I could read it here, in your bed?”

  “I’d like that.”

  His eyes travel up and down my body, lazily. I’m in my PJ’s already. Nothing sexy, just plain and simple gray cotton, but I can tell he likes what he sees.

  Blushing again, I look away, suddenly self-conscious. That when I notice there’s a glass of hot milk and a glass of whiskey on the nightstand.

  “Didn’t know which one you’d prefer,” he says when he notices my questioning gaze.

  I reach for the milk glass and sit down on the edge of the bed, taking a sip. It’s nice.

  “I can sleep on the couch,” he offers.

  I shake my head. “No, please stay.”

  I meant it when I said I don’t want to be alone. No matter how tired I am, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without him by my side, knowing he’ll watch over me.

  I lie down next to him on the bed and he folds back the covers so I can get under them and he pulls me toward himself, a neat little bundle to wrap in his arms. He is warm against me, big and solid and reassuring. I could get used to this, too.

  Yesterday I would have thought it impossible to sleep a wink with such a hunk in my bed, but today I’m so bone-tired, it takes no time at all until I’m drifting off.

  “You don’t have to stay on top of the covers,” I say, my voice slurry with tiredness.

  “Noted,” he whispers into my hair. “Now sleep, sweetheart.”

  So that’s what I do.

  * * *

  I must have slept for at least twelve hours. Bright daylight is filtering through the curtains when I open my eyes. For a moment I enjoy the pleasant drowsiness, the heaviness of my limbs, the warmth of the bed. Then the sound of a page turning reminds me I’m not alone.

  I turn around and there’s Jon, his head propped up on his hand, reading that fantasy novel. He’s halfway through the huge book already. When I move, he looks up.

  “Morning, sweetheart.”

  I return his smile. “Good morning.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much!”

  He reaches out to touch my cheek. My eyes flutter shut of their own accord as I lean into his hand. All the emotions I was too tired to feel yesterday are coming back to me now. I’ve got this queasy feeling in my stomach. My whole body is in turmoil, my skin burning up.

  “God, sweetheart, you’re so beautiful.”

  I swallow hard and open my eyes again. He looks at me as if I’m the most precious thing he has ever seen, but there’s also a heat to his gaze that’s unfamiliar and unsettling. Not unsettling in a bad way, but being looked at like this makes me nervous. Just like being called beautiful. A part of me can’t believe it’s true.

  Jon’s dark eyes flicker over my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m just nervous.”

  He moves to pull his hand away but I grab it and press it back to my face. “No, I want this, it’s just...”

  And that’s when he leans in to kiss me. His lips are so soft, such a stark contrast to the sandpaper-stubble of his beard, and then his tongue slips into my mouth, hot and wet, and I moan. I clutch at his shoulders, at the bulk of his upper arms. Every slide of his tongue against mine makes my shyness fade a little more. Desire is rising inside me like a fever.

  Jon’s fingers trail down my throat to the neckline of my top, questioning. He shifts, leaning over me, so big and solid, and I welcome the sensation. I’m not afraid of him, I want him closer, I want him on top of me, his weight bearing down on me –

  I realize I’m panting and his breath is coming heavier, too.

  I comb my fingers through his hair. It’s softer than I expected. Too short to find purchase but still nice to the touch. Our mouths move against each other, slow and lazy, our tongues dancing. I want him so badly I’m feeling all empty inside. A void only he can fill.

  “Sweetheart–” he says, trying to break away from me, his voice hoarse, broken.

  I press my lips against his again, teasing his tongue with mine. I don’t want this to stop.

  “Sweetheart–” he tries again. “If we go on like this, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. I want you so fucking much, I–”

  “I don’t want you to stop.”

  I didn’t know I was going to say that until the words slip from my mouth, but it’s true. I don’t want him to stop. I want all of him, the tender, gentle, protective Jon. But I want his other side, too. His animal-self, straining against the surface. The snarling, dangerous, possessive beast that rescued me from my captor. I want to feel his passions unleashed upon me, and I sense I’m going to get my wish: Jon’s self-restraint is crumbling. He touches me differently now, more demanding.

  He slides a hand under my pajama top and upwards. He cups one of my breasts in his large callused hand while he keeps kissing me, hard and deep, and I kiss him back. I’m tugging at his shirt and he pulls away for a moment to help me get it off him, then returns the favor. As soon as we’re both topless, he goes back to kissing my mouth and my jaw and the line of my neck down to the hollow of my throat, hand cupping my breast, squeezing it gently.

  My hands glide down his back, over smooth skin and hard muscle, mapping old scars and fresh bruises and half-healed cuts. He’s covered in marks of violence, and I decide to kiss every one of them the first chance I get. Sometime when I’m not fully occupied with drawing breath, one labored pant after the other, because whatever Jon does feels so fucking good I’m dizzy with pleasure.

  He takes his hand away from my tit to replace it with his mouth, covering the tender flesh in hot, open-mouthed kisses. He laps at my nipples, licking them, sucking them until they’re stiff and hard like pebbles while his right hand slips between my thighs. He rubs my mound through the fabric of my PJ bottoms with his thick fingers, along the line of my labia.

  I’m so wet for him my panties are soaked through. He must be able to feel the dampness under his fingertips, through the pajama bottoms I’m wearing, and perhaps I should be embarrassed about that but I’m not. I grind myself up against his hand, eager for more friction.

  I push my fingers under the waistband of my pants, shoving them down and Jon’s quick to help me wiggling out of them, and my panties, too. Then I’m naked before him and I’m blushing under his gaze, suddenly self-conscious again.

  He looks intently at me, at my exposed sex, his gaze heavy like a touch. Then his right hand trails down a searing hot line from my breasts to my stomach to my mound. I’m laid bare to him now, exposed. He can see how wet I am for him, how ready.

  He runs his thumb over my pussy lips, parting them.

  “Fuck,” he whispers when he finds me slippery wet for him.

  He leans in with a hum, lowering his mouth to my pussy – I hold my breath.

  He follows the line he drew with his finger with his tongue, parting my lips, tasting me. A low, satisfied rumble in his chest, he delves deeper. My hands curl into the sheets. Bashfulness drowned out by pleasure I moan as he laps at my clit, gently the first time, then harder.

  I arch off the mattress and towards his mouth, greedy for more, so he gives me more. He fastens his mouth to my clit and sucks, trailing one large, thick finger through my wetness. A low, mewling noise escapes me when his finger pushes into me, then another, curling up inside me just right. God, this feels so good!

  Jon falls into a rhythm as soon as he’s understood what I like best. He holds me steady with one large hand on my th
igh, two fingers of the other pumping in and out of me. My pleasure is almost effortless, rising and rising like the tide inside me, simmering, boiling. I get there so quickly, hovering at the edge of climax.

  I want to watch him eat me out. I want to dig my fingers into his scalp and pull him closer. I want to focus on the noises he makes, hungry and satisfied at once. But I can’t. My eyes fall shut from the sheer unbearable bliss of his mouth against me. My hands scrabble uselessly at the sheets. I hear nothing but the blood rushing in my ears.

  And then I come – a sharp stab of pleasure, frozen, hot, shivers on my thighs, then the wave spirals out, runs through me, shakes me, shatters me. I cry out as spasms run through me, Jon’s wet, warm tongue too rough of a sudden.

  He lets me ride out the orgasm against his mouth, then scrambles up to kiss me, his face wet with my pleasure, his eyes gleaming. When he slips his tongue into my mouth I taste myself on it, strange somehow, but I want more. I want all of us mingled together, a heady cocktail of human pleasure.

  He must have gotten out of his pants before he went asleep, but he’s still wearing boxer shorts.

  “Jon,” I breathe, tugging at his shorts. “Get rid of these, will you?” I want to feel him, all of him, skin on skin.

  He only growls, a deep rumbling sound in his chest, and does what I asked him.

  I forget to breathe for a moment when he shoves down his shorts and his cock springs free, hard and thick and flushed. It’s so pretty. Pretty and massive as the rest of him. Involuntarily I lick my lips and reach out to wrap my fingers around it.

  It’s hot and silky in my hand and I give it an experimental stroke and Jon grunts, an almost pained sound, his face screwed up in a grimace of pleasure. His muscles tremble with the effort to keep still. He allows me a few determined pulls before he grabs my hand, stopping me.

  “I need a moment,” he rasps.

  Is he really that aroused from going down on me and a couple of strokes?

  Another flavor of pleasure floods through me – pride, satisfaction that I can do this to him, that he wants me so much he's close to losing control already. I rub my thumb over the tip of his cock, over the tiny slit, spreading the wetness gathering there, and his eyes flutter shut. A low groan comes from his throat, guttural, heady enough to get drunk on.

  I summon all my courage. “Do you wanna fuck me?” I say, almost stumbling over the words. I never said that to a man before, but it’s what I want. I don’t want him to make love to me, or to sleep with me, I want him to fuck me, take me and claim me and make me his.

  The sound he responds with shakes me to the core, it’s so needy, so desperate.

  “There’s nothing I want more,” he says hoarsely. “But–”

  “But?”

  “I didn’t bring a condom. I usually don’t do this, you know–” He grins, somewhat sheepishly.

  For a second I allow myself the fantasy of forgoing protection. The thought of his cum flooding my pussy is so hot it makes me clench with want. But this is our first time and I don’t want him to think I’m planning to trap him.

  “I think my roommate keeps a stash in the bathroom,” I say. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I have to remember thanking Amber for being so well prepared. Not only does she keep a stash, but she also has a selection of all kinds of sizes and flavors. I snatch the whole box, then I allow myself a quick glance in the mirror.

  I look fucking sexy. I don’t think I’ve ever thought that about myself but it is true. My long brown curls are disheveled and my skin’s practically glowing. Best of all is my face though – my expression is a hundred percent blissful happiness. I’m in love, I realize. I’m in love with someone who wants me. Who perhaps loves me back.

  I’ve got a spring in my step when I return to my bedroom.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jon

  I don’t want to overwhelm Emily with my desire for her. And I sure as hell don’t want to get her into trouble. But it takes all my willpower not to just shove her back into the pillows and spread her thick, perfect thighs and just fuck her bare, without protection.

  I always thought I was so good at fighting because I’m more in touch with my animal side than most men. I trust my instincts. I let them guide me. Not always, but often enough. And know they’re telling me that she’s the one, my mate, the one I’ve been waiting for without knowing it. The mother of my children, the love of my life. I want all of her. I want to plunge my cock into her without a latex barrier between us. I want to coat her insides with my fertile spunk. I want to fill her up with my seed and watch it trickle out of her, push it back into her tight hole with my fingers or lap it up as it trickles from her delicious pink pussy. I want to rub my hand over her belly as it swells with our child, our children. I want to feel that baby kick in her womb. I want to hold it. I want to care for her and our kids, I want to protect them.

  These are the thoughts that keep me painfully hard while she’s gone getting the damn condom. I’ll put up with it because it’s the right thing to do. For now. But I swear to myself, now, before I even really had her, before I felt the sweet hot clutch of her pussy, that I will ask her to be my wife. That I will never let her go. She’ll be mine.

  She was only gone for a couple of minutes but when she comes back, it hits me like the first time – an electric shock runs through me. She’s so sexy, it knocks the breath from my lungs. Her generous curves, the soft, smooth skin, the long tousled hair, everything about her is so beautiful it hurts.

  She offers me a whole collection of condoms to choose from and I pick a magnum – I’m not just muscular, I’m a big boy all over. She watches me roll it on with her bottom lip pulled between her lips, as if she’s never seen anything as mouthwatering as my cock.

  “You like what you see, sweetheart?” I growl and she casts down her eyes and nods, suddenly bashful. It suits her.

  I guide her over my lap. I’m selfish. I want to see her, all of her, this first time. I want to look at her round belly and her marvelous tits and her wide hips while I sink my cock into her, relish the sight of her. My balls feel plump and heavy, my cock is aching for her.

  Slowly, she positions herself above me, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. I grab her hips, holding her steady, while she slowly lowers herself onto my thick shaft, inch by fucking inch. I’m large and she’s tight, so it takes a while before she managed to get the whole length of me inside her. The pressure is so sweet and so much, I have to think of other things, unsexy things. I even have to close my eyes for a moment not to come right then and there.

  But I’m getting used to it after a while. For all the emphasis on my inner animal, I’m quite good at keeping it on a leash when I need to. I let her ride me. I let her explore how it feels to have my cock inside her pussy, how to stroke herself on me for maximum pleasure. I allow her to use me like a toy, move against me, rise and fall and moan and whimper. Only when a faint sheen of sweat has sprung up on her skin and her movements have grown more desperate, do I raise my hips and thrust up into her while I pull her down at the same time.

  She makes a wet sound in the back of her throat, half surprise, half ecstasy, and I respond in kind, with a groan and a grunt, and then I do it again. I fuck her like she asked me to, pushing up into her, hard and deep, and at that pace, I’m getting close fast. I withdraw my right hand from her hip to reach between her legs and swipe my thumb over her clit while I keep fucking her. Her cunt clenches around me and she moans, so I do it again and again and soon she’s falling.

  The climax runs through her like an earthquake, in shudders and spasms, and all it takes are a couple more strokes and I follow her, coming so hard, I wonder for a moment if the condom was useless after all. I’m pretty sure they’re not made to withstand explosions.

  The afterglow is as sweet as it can be – I cradle her in my arms and she presses her nose into my neck, snuggling as close to me as she can, squeezing her soft body against mine.

  It’s
perfection. It’s what I want to fall asleep to every day from now on. It’s also what I want to wake up to. I can’t imagine I’ll ever tire of this.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Emily

  Amber sits on the sofa staring at her phone when we enter the open plan kitchen.

  “That sounded like you were having fun,” she comments without looking up.

  I’m not surprised she’s so blunt about it – it’s not a coincidence she keeps a whole selection of condoms in the bathroom. And I know her well enough to understand her comment isn’t meant as a complaint. It’s more a weird sort of congratulation.

  “Sorry,” I say nonetheless, slipping behind the kitchen counter to turn on the tap. When I look at him, Jon gives me a grin.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Amber says, eyes still glued to her phone. “I’m happy for you. I mean, how often did I tell you–”

  That’s when she finally looks up and sees who’s with me and her eyes go wide. For a moment she gapes at Jon, apparently speechless. When she’s got a grip on herself again, her eyes cut to me. The question is plain as day on her face: Who is that hot guy and what the fuck is he doing here?!

  I have a hard time suppressing a grin. Did she think I'd let a guy fuck me, and then throw him out as soon as he's done? Perhaps that's how other people do it. But not me. And I'm damn glad Jon isn't one of those other people either.

  “Hey,” Amber says, still somewhat nonplussed, looking Jon up and down.

  “Hi,” Jon says, unfazed. He walks over and stretches out his hand to shake hers. “I’m Jon.”

  He keeps it brief and matter-of-fact, but the effect he has on her is still noticeable.

  “Amber,” she stutters, blushing. “I’m Amber.”

  I’ve never seen her so flustered by a man. Amber is one of those girls who’s just perfect – she’s blonde and pretty and lithe with a generous helping of self-esteem and a good portion of humor. She moved here to become an actress, and I would bet a lot of money that she’ll succeed. Pretty much every man she meets fancies her, if that's any indication for her future fame.