Two Crazy, One Wild

by Shaye Marlow

  Gripping the counter’s edge, I concentrated on letting him in. It took a while, and was a testament to his determination that he stayed the course. Lesson learned: Don’t get between Zack and what he wanted. And at the moment, he wanted my ass.

  Just the head of his cock, as it squeezed into me, burned. I swung my arm back, holding him off when he might’ve pressed forward. We were on that precipice where trust mattered the most, where he was inside, and he could slam forward if he wanted to, but it would’ve hurt like a bitch.

  He didn’t. Instead, he slicked his fingers around my hip, found my clit, and stroked me. He bent carefully and nuzzled at the nape of my neck. He kissed me, murmuring sweet nothings.

  The discomfort lessened.

  He nudged forward against my hand, a little motion of his hips. A question.

  I let him go. But, something I hadn’t foreseen: He still didn’t thrust into me. He just growled a little and strummed my clit.

  I thrust back on him. The first time was startling. The second was better. The third, necessary. I was almost sobbing with pleasure as I pushed myself onto him. It didn’t hurt anymore. It was pure sensation, and I needed more.

  Finally he gripped my hips, and then he was the one moving. Sliding into me, making me quiver, then out, letting me recover. Tension built, all at the whim of that thick cock that drove deeper, took more.

  He’d straightened above me, and I knew he was watching himself slide almost free, and then stretch me wide. I barely noticed when he retrieved another handful of lube. He poured it over me, over us, until it was running down my legs. He rubbed it over my ass, making it shine.

  He grunted as he pushed up tight against me, and the purely male sound hit me like a crate of dynamite. He’d pinned me to the ground, had bitten me, carried and placed me where he wanted me, and now his cock was buried in my ass. There was no greater surrender.

  My orgasm roared up over me like an upside-down Niagara Falls, pounding and pummeling until I didn’t know up from down, hot from cold. And still, Zack pushed me higher, buoying me up so that I rode what was becoming a monstrous wave. My eyes rolled back, mouth wide open, and I was shaking and squirming and jamming myself back on Zack so hard I screamed.

  “There it is,” he said, thrusting into me even more forcefully as my muscles contracted around him. I had thoughts about me breaking, about breaking him, so tight was the squeeze, but then those thoughts were burned away.

  My shriek became a wild laugh. My cheek slid in the lube and I clawed at the counter. Zack caught my hands and squeezed them tight. I cried out again as his balls slapped my engorged pussy, touching off another round of explosions. He hauled me back against him, tugging my hands until he was pounding into me.

  I was talking, begging. “Please,” I gasped, fearing for my own sanity.

  “Since you asked so nicely,” Zack said. His voice was barely recognizable. Harsh, guttural. Triumphant. He scooped me off the counter, rubbing his hands down the length of me like some Viking claiming his conquest. He pulled me up until his groans were muffled against my shoulder. My feet came off the floor, and my back was tightly arched, my head thrown back against his shoulder in a silent scream as his thrusts sped.

  He pinched my nipple, and bit down on my shoulder. I exploded again. Number three, and it was no less violent. My ability to cope was eroding. I couldn’t see, could barely breathe.

  Zack bore me against the counter. His breath hitched as his cock and abs twitched and jerked. He swayed, but took me with him, not letting me go for an instant as he spurted deep inside me.

  Oh. My. God. One word: Endorphins. The high I floated on was the most intense I’d ever experienced.

  We came down together, and when he finally withdrew, I collapsed over the slippery counter. I was lying face-first in a puddle of lube, and I didn’t care. I moaned, letting the counter take my weight, knowing I’d be feeling that for a week.

  “I need a shower,” I mumbled.

  Zack swept me up in his arms—which was good, because I didn’t feel like I could straighten, let alone get my legs to support me. He carried me with an arm under my shoulders and the other under my legs, allowing me to look up at him. And return my gaze, he did. A big, shit-eating grin split his face as he squeezed me tight.

  “Yeah, yeah, you found a girl who likes anal.” I laughed as he threaded me through the bathroom door—without banging my head.

  He climbed into the shower with me, we cleaned off, and then we spent the rest of the day in bed, doing puzzles. Ha! Just checking to see if you were paying attention. Nah, we fucked like bunnies.

  In between rounds, Zack held me, and he listened as I told him about plants. Then I licked every tattoo on his body, and we collected a five-gallon-bucket’s-worth of lube and ruined the sheets with our next session. By the end of it, every inch of us was slick with lube, and we had to crawl to the bathroom to clean up because neither of us could stand. After that, I sat on his lap in that same chair he’d fallen out of earlier, and I tutored him, naked. I wound up riding him there, and then putting a butt-print on his textbook as he…

  But, I’m sure you’re not interested in details. Suffice it to say, there was sex. Lots of it. I was on top, then he was behind. He made me laugh, I tried to teach him how to pick a lock. We flirted and fed and learned each other.

  It was very possibly the best evening of my life.

  Chapter Twenty

  ZACK

  We wound up doing the airplane the traditional way.

  Frances and I got up at an ungodly hour and stumbled—I stumbled, she seemed fine—out to the runway, where the noise of Gary’s rotors seemed a crime worse than murder. Suddenly, I knew exactly where my sister was coming from.

  I was relegated to the back seat and given the headset with the broken mic, so all I could do was listen as Gary and Frances chatted. She had a certain tone of voice she adopted when she was talking to a man. Her voice got warmer, and she suddenly sounded admiring and flirtatious.

  She turned that same tone toward Gary’s friend as soon as we landed. Turned out, he lived in one of those well-to-do neighborhoods situated around a private airstrip. He was practically the poster child for aviation, with the cocky smile, the aviator-style sunglasses, and the flowing, flippable hair. I wished I could have shown him to Rory.

  He introduced himself as “Oak, short for Oakley”, had a firm handshake, and before I could say, “We’ll take it,” he turned his attention to Frances.

  I didn’t blame him. She was particularly sexy that morning, in a shirt that was partially see-through and tiny brown leather boots. But even more attractive was her knowledge and confidence. I watched with appreciation as she crawled all over that airplane and asked the important questions. As she bent down to inspect the brakes, I was mesmerized by her jeans-clad ass—only to realize that Oak was, too.

  I was contemplating pilot-cide when my phone rang. Since Frances had straightened up, and seemed to have this whole situation well in-hand, I took the call.

  “Where’d you go?” Rory asked.

  “Um. I’m in town buying a plane.”

  “You’re in town?” he demanded.

  “Yeah. Didn’t you hear the helicopter?”

  “I didn’t even know you were going,” he said, his tone hurt. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

  I hadn’t thought of it, plain and simple. He hadn’t been involved in my flying stuff up till now, and I’d categorize this as ‘flying stuff’. “Um.”

  “You forgot about me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a scandalized whisper.

  “No, no, no.” Yes, yes, yes. “I just thought, you know, you were asleep. And somebody had to watch the goat.”

  There was a long silence on Rory’s end. Seeing as his norm was an excited or nervous or pleading babble, it was never good when Rory went silent. The one word he granted me: “Goodbye.”

  He was pissed.

  Wincing, I put my phone away. But I didn’t have any time to mull over
the exchange before Frances started to haggle.

  “How about fifty thousand?” she said. She alternately pointed out the airplane’s flaws—the cornerstone of her argument seemed to be a high total airframe time—and batted her lashes at Oak. Every time I’d open my mouth to say it was fine and that we’d take it, she shook her head, or squeezed my arm, or otherwise managed to shut me up. When Oak came down from sixty to fifty-two thousand, Frances gave me a nod.

  “We’ll take it,” I finally got to say.

  Gary took off, and we rode with Oak to the bank. An hour later, I was in possession of a short-term recreational loan for fifty-two thousand dollars, and more importantly, an airplane. We flew the plane to Merrill Field in Anchorage, with Frances taking the opportunity to explain towered airport etiquette and flight patterns.

  After finding a parking spot, we walked to an aviation store a short distance off the runway. Frances grabbed me maps and tools that looked like they would’ve been right at home in a geometry class, a softback book of regulations, and other various things and sundry. She dumped the stack on the counter, then backed away with the clear expectation that I’d pay, making the guy behind the counter laugh. He rang us up, bagged our stuff, and when we stepped outside, the cab we’d called was waiting.

  A few minutes later, the chatty driver dropped us off at the Harley shop.

  “I, uh… I’ll wait outside,” Frances said, her steps faltering just outside the doors.

  “What? Why?” I was eager to take her in there, not just to let those guys see her at my side, but for the simple pleasure of having two of my passions under the same roof.

  “That flight was a little fumy,” she said, fanning herself. “I’ll just stay out here, get some fresh air.”

  There was something she wasn’t telling me, but she was a woman, so… Mentally, I shrugged. Then I went in, and got us a bike.

  When I came back out, she was surrounded. Five beefy bikers in leather vests, hair either shaved, or long and gray and scraggly, formed a circle around her.

  She saw me heading over, and drew herself up. “Guys, I have no idea what you’re talking about. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  “Oh, there’s no confusion,” the closest one said, tugging a lock of Frances’s hair.

  I pushed my way into the circle to plant myself between them. “Don’t touch her.” Probably not the smartest move I’d ever made; three angry bikers glared at me from the front, and I could feel the glares of the two behind.

  “You really wanna start shit with us?” the curl-tugger asked.

  “You started it. I’m just telling you, don’t touch her.”

  “Hmm. That’ll be hard, with what we have planned.” I held my ground as he got up in my face, trying to intimidate me. We were of a height, but he had me by at least fifty pounds. He smelled of aftershave and mothballs, and gold glinted in his teeth.

  “Hey, now! Not in front of the shop,” one of the Harley-Davidson employees called.

  Mothball ignored him. “You think you can protect her from us?” he asked. “From five of us?”

  His men had edged in closer. The smell of leather and booze was becoming overpowering. It was getting real stuffy on our little stretch of pavement.

  “Not sure,” I said. “But I know I’ll try.”

  Mothball cracked a grin. “You got balls, boy. But we’ll still have the girl.”

  Frances pressed in against my back.

  “No,” I replied.

  Mothball was just starting to draw his fist back when the whoop of a siren made us all jump. Across the curb, a cop had slowed on the street, his eyes on us.

  “Fuck,” Mothball muttered. “Let’s go.”

  His men were already jumping on their bikes. Five Harley engines roared to life, and the little gang peeled out of the parking lot.

  The cop pulled in and stopped alongside us. “You two all right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “I’m fine,” Frances called, her voice muffled by my back. For some reason, she was continuing to hide.

  The cop frowned.

  “She’s shy,” I said, knowing that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “You got business here?” the officer asked.

  “Just renting a bike.”

  The cop’s radio squawked. The dispatcher threw out a few codes, and he keyed his radio to let her know he was responding. “Stay safe,” he said. He turned on lights and sirens, and peeled out of the parking lot much like the bikers had.

  “You can come out now,” I said.

  “So, what kinda bike you get?” Frances asked, smiling brightly.

  I raised a brow.

  She smiled even brighter. “Do they keep them out back?”

  I beckoned. “Follow me. And feel free to tell me why a biker gang wanted you, and you hid your face from a cop.”

  “And I suppose you’d like me to give you a handy after?”

  “That’d be nice.” I led her to our bike.

  She looked it over. “Huh. I didn’t picture you on something so…” She waved her hand to encompass the machine, complete with wide fairing and saddlebags.

  “So bulky? I could’ve gotten a hot-rod, but you would’ve had just a sliver of seat. This was the comfiest for two people. It’s a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide, meant for touring. It even has cruise control.”

  I handed her a helmet. She pulled it on, and when she fiddled cluelessly with the buckles, I fastened it for her. Then I pulled on my own, swung my leg over, and patted the seat behind me.

  She climbed on, at which point I regretted not getting the motorcycle with the sliver of seat. She was more comfortable and safer on this one, sure, but she didn’t have to wrap her arms around my waist. The only contact I got was the gentle nudging of her knees at my hips.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, but gasped when I pushed the bike upright.

  I hit START, and the throaty rumble of the V-twin engine was music to my ears. Easing off the clutch, I gave the beast gas.

  We surged forward. Frances’s laughter was muffled in her helmet, which knocked into mine as she grabbed onto me.

  Even dreading the appointment I was headed to, I had to grin.

  As I checked in at the clinic, my palms were sweating. I filled out their nosy-ass forms, handed them in to the lady at the desk, and then, unoccupied, began to fidget.

  “What’s up with you?” Frances, seated next to me, asked.

  “Nothing.” I grabbed the manliest magazine I could find and started flipping pages. Maybe I was flipping them too quickly.

  “Something’s definitely wrong.”

  I shook my head, then jumped as the door opened—and the nurse called someone else’s name.

  “You’re nervous!” Frances declared, sounding as if that realization delighted her.

  I grimaced, seeing the woman across from us listening.

  “Why are you nervous?” Frances asked.

  I flipped more pages, faster.

  Frances grabbed my magazine, and pried it from my grip. Then she put her hand in my clammy one, and squeezed. “Why are you nervous?”

  My gaze skittered around the waiting room—the lady was still watching—and finally met Frances’s. “I’ve been to the doctor a lot.”

  “Doesn’t that usually make this old hat?”

  “Not for me. I come into a medical office, I get a whiff of that disinfectant smell, and I remember all the broken bones they’ve had to set, the surgeries for my knee. Did you know I’ve had a concussion eight times? And before that, I was a sickly kid. Every time I got a cold, it went to my lungs. They were constantly doing scans, drawing blood, swabbing my throat. I hated it—still hate it.”

  Frances’s thumb rubbed over my knuckles. “Surgery for your knee? Was that the hockey injury?”

  I nodded, trying to calm my racing thoughts. My knee was bouncing, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. “I loved hockey,” I said. “Used to think
skating was the only thing I was good at.”

  “Well, you must’ve been okay at puck handling and fighting, too.”

  “My puck handling was just so-so but I was an amazing fighter.”

  She grinned. “So after you broke your knee, you found art?”

  “I found construction. Did that with Rory for a year or so, and he was probably the only one who would’ve tolerated me gimping around like I did. On the jobsites, when I sat down to give my knee a break, I’d doodle with a construction pencil. The doodles got better, until one day, our client looked over my shoulder and said, ‘I love that. Paint that over my stove.’ And I did, and it became part of the service. We’d build the house, and I’d paint the backsplash, or the accent wall, or whatever they wanted. Doors, garden walls, whatever. After that, I enrolled in some college art classes.”

  “Why, if customers are already paying you for your services?”

  “Two things,” I said. “I wanted to improve, and…” I sighed, looking away. “As you’ve probably gathered, I’m not all that bright.”

  “Hey. Don’t say shit like that about yourself.”

  Across from us, the lady was nodding agreement.

  “But it’s true. I barely graduated high school. And so, partially, I just wanted to prove to myself that I could.”

  Frances was looking at me, her gray eyes soft as rainclouds, and I shifted, uncomfortable with her sympathy.

  “Zack?” the girl in scrubs said from the portal of doom.

  I tried to release Frances’s hand as I jumped to my feet, but she held on and I practically dragged her forward. “I dunno if you should come along,” I said, pausing at the door to hell.

  “Why?”

  “Well,” I said, trying to figure a way to say this delicately, “the doctor might stick a finger up my butt.”

  Frances grinned, then leaned in close. “I might stick a finger up your butt.”

  “Zack?” the nurse asked. She was already twenty feet down the brightly-lit hall.

  With a growl, I dragged Frances forward. She giggled the whole way to the room, then perched on the vinyl exam table while I took the chair. I sat on the edge, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, and tried to ignore the crazy faces Frances was making.