by Lilia Moon
His hand strokes my hip. “Spread your legs, sweetness. If that’s where you’re wanting me to go, I need more room to work.”
My feet spread. My brain splutters, but whatever it might have to say gets washed away in the steam from the water he dumps on the rocks. I inhale deeply, my face offering up yet more sweat to the sauna.
My ass feels oddly cold.
The fingers of leather return, working their way down my back, over my hips. The angles are different this time. I jump as strands sneak into the valley between my ass cheeks.
Callum makes a sound that vibrates in my belly. A man as deep in this as I am.
I arch into what he offers, front and back.
More strokes, not as hard now, but threatening skin that never expected to meet leather spaghetti. Which should probably be frightening, but he’s far too good at this for it to be anything other than wildly erotic. I can feel my breath speeding up, trying to tell him with sounds what I can’t seem to tell him with words, even though I know better than to pant in a sauna. I don’t want this to end in an unconscious puddle of Daley on the floor.
Not yet, anyhow.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Callum
I’ve boxed myself into a corner. That amuses me, even as I yank my Dom far enough out of his deep enjoyment of Daley’s reactions to figure out how to fix this. I’d intended to use the flogger to warm her up, to make her more sensitive, to pull the fire inside her to her skin and ask it to play. I didn’t expect her to find it this arousing.
I shake my head at the flogger strands that are too short, the safety railing that’s in my way, and the delightful woman whose legs are going to begin shaking any minute. I land a couple more light flicks between her legs, a promise for future joys more than anything else. One day soon I’ll lay her out and have her hold her legs open for me and show her just what a small flogger can do to a willing pussy in the right hands.
But not tonight. Her skin is a glorious rosy color all the way around, her hips are rocking in the universal motion of desire, and I’ve a need to be inside her that I don’t intend to deny any longer.
I toss the flogger under the bench and pick up one of the crinkly packets I stashed there. She stills at the sound of the opening package. I walk over to the side of her, until I can see her eyes. They’re hungry—and wide with surprise.
I lean forward and capture her mouth in a hard kiss, one that makes my intentions very clear. I roll on the condom where she can see it, which pulls a long, liquid moan from her throat. I run my hands up into her hair, freeing it from captivity just long enough to get a good handful in my fist. I kiss her again, the taste of salt and cedar and need mingling together.
She keeps a firm hold on the overhead railing, but her hips are already angling to try to meet mine.
I nuzzle her ear as I circle around behind her, running my hands over the slick curves of her. “I want to hear all your noises this time, love.” My hands run up and capture her breasts, kneading them, delighting in the tight peaks that form.
She squirms, trying to push her nipples forward into my hands and her ass back into my cock. I let her grind. Her breasts are wondrous things, and I’ve not had a good chance to play with them yet. She hisses as I give her nipples a firm roll. I do it again, seeking the hints of pleasure I heard at the end of her hiss.
She quivers, not quite sure what to do with the pain.
Her lion knows. I brush my thumbs lightly over the skin I just tweaked. “Breathe into it. Make it yours. Just like with the flogger.”
She groans, and somewhere in the noise, finds understanding.
I pick my timing and roll my fingers again. This time her hiss turns into a wail of need—one my cock can’t possibly ignore. I move my hands to her hips and line myself up at her entrance.
Her wail crescendos as I drive home.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Daley
I never make this much noise. That’s the only coherent thought I can form as I wrap my fingers so tight around the railing it’s a wonder it doesn’t snap in two. I’m trapped between hot rocks and a hard place, and I need them both to get to work, because the need inside me is ravenous.
I hear his groan in my ear. His hands travel back to my breasts. I can’t see him, but it doesn’t matter. I can feel him, and my job isn’t to be the audience for this new art, it’s to be the paper that holds the charcoal and gives to the eraser and comes charging out of the dark into the light.
I wail again, only it’s more of a growl this time, a hot mix of need, demand, and not-so-latent threat.
The growl I get back lights primal fires I didn’t know had been waiting for more fuel. My hips drive back to meet his thrusts, the sound of my skin slapping against his igniting the need to hear it again and again.
His hands pin my hips against the railing, and not gently. His feet spread mine outside of his, a man putting me exactly where he wants and not asking for permission. He thrusts again and I nearly go off, a stick of dynamite with very little left to my fuse. He grinds, quick tight circles that have found an angle that hooks up to entirely new bundles of explosives.
His hands travel up my slick sides, scooping my breasts and finding my still-tingling nipples.
I gather, crouching and ready, because I know what’s coming. I can feel it stalking us in the grasses of a Canadian winter. This isn’t professional art done in the middle of the day. It’s the kind that wakes me up at night and leaves me with tears and dried snot on my face.
He backs away a fraction and thrusts again, an inch of movement that chews up all the fuse I have left. And I’m not alone. I hear him roaring behind me, his fingers playing my tormented nipples as he swells inside me. I tip my hips and cry again as another stick of dynamite goes off, one that hurls us both into noisy, sweaty, thrusting, finger-clenched bliss.
His arms band around me as we rock through the aftershocks, tiny movements that feel like earthquakes and set off little rivulets of explosives and sweat. I somehow peel my fingers off the railing and swipe at my face, trying to clear my eyes so they can open and see.
Callum chuckles at my ear and there’s a towel mopping my forehead a moment later. I grab it with both hands. I’m sure my legs are going to collapse any minute, but right now I feel like I could leap over the lake in a single bound.
He slides a hand between us and withdraws, and then he’s turning me to face him. The kiss starts gently enough, salty lips and questing tongues, but whatever he’s set off in me isn’t ready to quiet down yet. I move in tight against him, my hips pressing against his cock and asking for things it can’t possibly deliver.
I don’t care. I’m not done yet.
Chapter Fifty
Callum
I chuckle as she rubs against me in open invitation.
I chuckle and I delight, because I imagine she knows the realities of fifty-seven-year-old cocks as well as I do—and she’s asking anyhow. Not hiding, not tucking her need away.
Fortunately for her, I’ve more than one body part at my disposal. And while my cock might be sated, there’s no end to my desire to soak up her pleasure. I back her toward the low bench behind us. I reach for the large basket of towels in the corner and roll out a big fluffy one, and then I bow and gesture. “If you would, my lady.”
She grins at me and flops down on her back, her eyes never leaving mine. I wish momentarily for a camera, because I’d dearly love to have her draw this moment, this Daley. The one who has needs and every intention of letting them be as big and loud and inconvenient as they need to be. I sit on the bench beside her and take two more of the rolled towels and prop them under her spread knees.
Her cheeks flush a little more as I look.
I run my fingers over the glistening, swollen beauty of her. She’s not nearly done, and what a wondrous gift that is. I had plans to end the night slowly, but she’s already getting wetter under my roving fingers, and I’m not a man to leave that alone. I reach over for the vibrator
s I left on the bench. Not strictly necessary for what I intend next, but they’ll add a punch of interest, and she’s had a delightful response to my toys so far.
I take the one that’s essentially a wide, flat rock and set it on her belly, gliding it around in the lovely sauna-provided lubricant. My thumb rolls the small dial that turns on its low, rumbling vibrations. Meanwhile, I thread three of my fingers through the control loops of the one that’s a gift from a friend with a devilish imagination.
I take the end that looks like a series of oversized jelly beans on a slender reed and position it, sliding it neatly along the divide between her ass cheeks. She jolts as it turns on. I hold still a minute, letting her get used to the vibrations against her back entrance. Not invading, just awakening. I slide two of the fingers on that hand into her slick heat, pressing down on the flat rock on her low belly at the same time.
She groans as vibration comes at her from two directions, and flutters around my fingers.
I circle my thumb over her clit. Lazy movements, letting the vibes do their work. Waiting, my fingers still inside her, as the nerves against my fingertips start to pillow.
Her hips try to take over some of the work, and this time I allow it. The vibe currently teasing her ass is designed to stay put through every kind of earthquake, and a quick bend from my fingers lets it use her own rocking to add to the torture.
Her moan is laced with amused frustration. She knows exactly what it’s doing.
I laugh and start circling my fingers over the swelling need inside her.
She squeaks and pushes up onto her elbows, her eyes wide as platters.
I circle a little more firmly, letting her feel the building violence of the orgasm I’m intending.
She wavers, uncertainty stepping out from behind some curtain I haven’t seen. It’s not the one that worries that her needs are too big, too ungainly. It’s something purer than that.
My heart aches a little as I figure it out. As bold and wild and alive as she is, I don’t think she’s gone all that far into the deep end of her own pleasure. She doesn’t know what’s coming. I keep circling my fingers, letting the rumbles of the vibrators shake loose whatever she’s willing to let tumble down a mountain.
I see the moment her uncertainty peaks—and then I see the moment that comes after. The bold, glorious one where her lion strides to the edge of the cliff, surveys her domain, and lets loose a wild, fierce, entirely silent roar.
Chapter Fifty-One
Daley
This.
This is what lives out the other side.
I’ve learned to be exactly who I am when it’s India or Liane looking into my eyes, but this is something entirely different, and I’ve always been afraid of what might happen to me if I let the goddess of sex and fire and passion who lives in me take a full breath.
I didn’t trust a man to look at her and like what he sees, but far more importantly, I didn’t trust me.
Callum’s fingers are inside me, hammering home their message with a riptide force that will not be denied, that I don’t want to be denied. This is me with tears and snot on my face and wild truth on my wall, and what emerges from that place of creation is as potent as it gets.
I arch up, every bit of me taut with where I’m going.
And with realization.
He knew this.
He has seen what lived in me since I grabbed his arm and dragged him out the door of the gallery the rain, and he’s walked naked into a very small room with all of that and set fire to my fuse.
Crazy, delirious, confident man.
There are reverberations in parts of me touching vibrators and in parts of me touching nothing at all, and a deeply physical need to explode, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. His fingers are inside me, pressing the button that will blow the lid off that boiler and let it spill over everywhere.
Literally spill. I can feel myself pouring into his hand, a lake of whatever I’ve created to go along with tears and snot, just as messy and pure and utterly me as those are, and just as hard to contain. I cry out into the steam that held me as I got here and let the man listening hear the noise of fear ripped in two. I don’t know who I’ll be when this moment ends, but I trust that there will be tracks and trails left behind. A drawing holds the history of every stroke, every smudge, every wrong turn, every right one.
I gasp for air, because somehow the sauna isn’t holding quite enough anymore, possibly because I’m laughing like a loon.
A cheek settles against mine, a rumbling chuckle that isn’t trying to soothe at all.
I somehow find my arms and manage to flop them over Callum’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. I try to kiss him, but that’s an exercise in slippery lips and wobbly heads that pours my loon over the edge into a waterfall of giggles.
He sits up, looking as pleased with himself as a man can possibly get. He wipes off my face with a cool, wet towel, but when he’s saved my eyes from more salt than they can handle, he stops. I register that, a little bewildered, as he sets the towel down beside my head and picks up a cup instead. A simple tin one with two handles I recognize sticking out the top.
He pulls one out of the water, twirling it gently against the edge, a man who was taught to treat his brushes nicely in some public school art class. I could tell him that’s entirely unnecessary. These have already been thoroughly abused.
He trails the soft point of the brush along my cheek, leaving a trail of cool water behind him.
My skin drinks in the cool—and the care. The luscious, stunning joy of being seen so very clearly in my messiness and not being rushed to clean it up. My whole body cried tonight, the kind of tears that bring forth wildflowers in the desert and the first shoots of green in the spring and the wondrous colors of a rainbow.
The man who orchestrated all that hasn’t run from the tears at all, which perhaps shouldn’t surprise me quite as much as it has, but even more, he’s sitting comfortably, gladly, beside me, in a sauna only comfortably warm now, trailing a paintbrush over me so that I can revel in how I feel.
Using a brush to blend the art of tears and snot and lakes of sweat deeper into my skin.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Callum
I don’t know precisely where we’ve gone, but I can see in her eyes that it matters, maybe more than anything else we’ve done this night. I’d thought to do this part as a way to stroke her kitty after I made her roar, but it’s turned into something else entirely. Something that requires me only to trail a soft brush over her skin as she breathes, while the alchemy of steam and water and desire and courage soak into her pores.
It’s not a hardship. She’s empty and full and raw and utterly gorgeous, and the simple dark-brown hairs of her brush are an excellent guide through the drying trails of salt and sweat and release. The hairs of the brush splay out as they traipse across her collarbone. Laugh as her nipple makes a small, spluttering effort to react and then collapses again. Slow as they cross the friction of skin on her belly that has mostly dried, speed up again as they find lingering slickness between her legs, meandering down her inner thigh in twirling circles that resemble little brown skirts.
I dip back into the cool water of the cup on some kind of random schedule that only the brush knows. It’s making lazy art now, my fingers going along for the ride simply because they can, because there’s joy in this quiet, poignant connection.
I know I need to be moving us soon, shifting us back to the house before the heat leaves enough that we chill. There are delightfully soft beds awaiting our sleep, and spooning around her tonight is going to be an experience well worth having. But we need to find the end of this one first, and I hope it comes only very slowly.
She lies there, eyes closed, until the brush works its way back up her ribs, over the sleepy curve of her breast, along the side of her neck. Then she breathes in and sighs out more air than a body her size should be able to hold. Her eyes open on her next inhale, and what lives in their depths stop
s my hands. Or rather, it stops the brush. My hands are moving, cupping her face, feeling the answer in me rising to meet what lives in her eyes.
Our lips meet gently.
Reverence wraps around us, the knowing that we’ve just met a moment that comes only rarely in a lifetime. One with no words.
All the words necessary this night have already been spoken.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Daley
I wake up to the smell of food. Bacon, specifically. Which causes my belly to let loose noises that generally come attached to a biker in a taco-eating contest.
Callum chuckles as he slides in under the covers beside me. “I thought you might be hungry. We managed to fall asleep last night without eating our dinner.”
My memories of the post-sauna parts of last night are hazy. A quick run through the snow, neither of our legs working well enough to actually run. A shower that relied more on tiled walls than legs to hold us up. Then… nothing.
I manage to work a hand out of the covers and pat my head, verifying that I indeed went to sleep with wet curls. Which means I’m about halfway to dreadlocks this morning. I open my eyes and lever myself up on my elbows, two acts only made possible by the imminent promise of bacon.
I’m not disappointed. There’s a plate in front of me with muffin-sized quiches laden with bacon and complete with flaky crusts and hints of the green stuff Callum apparently feels obliged to add to all his comfort foods. I pick one up with my fingers. If he’s a man who objects to crumbs in his bed, he’s about to get very cranky.
He rolls onto his belly beside me and companionably picks up a quiche of his own. “I did bring forks, but this looks far easier.”
